Tortoise egg omelette?

So in the end, I was resigned to a quiet night in, with just the whisper of that nice lady decorators flatulence to set against the breeze rustling the trees, the murmurings of the tree frogs and the washboard noise made by the magpies. It would have been two days without a serious social occasion, so I did not think it could last. I managed to avoid having go into Mougins to watch the outdoor performance of Mama Mia, the Mougins School play, but only be feigning heat stroke, but then Melissa Graves threatened to arrived clutching a bottle of rose, but at the last moment she cancelled, so flatulence it was.

Earlier, I had of course recovered sufficiently from the effects of the sun when the call came to play tennis last night but this was followed by another call cancelling, whereupon my heat stroke unaccountably returned, so at least my unbeaten run this year may extend the full six months if I can get away with it again tomorrow evening, when once again I expect the mustachioed old gits (MOGS) to run riot over our considerably younger though far less athletic, and frankly nowhere near as good-looking opponents. One of them, Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villa Rental demands a link to his website whenever he is mentioned in less than flattering terms in this column, but as you know I would not allow even the slightest whiff of bribery and corruption to besmirch the journalistic integrity of this column.

The senior (in age terms only) MOG, the wingco, responds by email to an email I have sent him reminding me that he does not have my email address and therefore cannot possible answer the question I have posed. This is a periodical joke, when he remembers, indeed I know what will happen on Wednesday; he will claim never to have received the mail in the first place, then promptly answer the question I had posed. Such is the nature of my friend and tennis partner, irritating until the last.

This morning we had run out of eggs so I suggested that as we have over twenty tortoise eggs, perhaps a tortoise egg omelette might be in order for breakfast? For some reason that nice lady decorator went off in a huff muttering threats against my person. I was only joking (in retrospect), so my picture today is of the omelette that never happened.

The omelette that never was. Actually if I just turned the incubator up to "cook"...

That nice lady decorator has been, well decorating, readying the house for a summer rental in July. I did offer to help, knowing full well that she has a very low opinion of my decorating skills, a lack of skill carefully honed to avoid any such activity over a number of years. My offer was of course spurned as expected, but after all, when one has a decorator for a wife, what is the point of involving one’s self in decorating? after all,why have a dog and bark yourself?

Talking of dogs, that cantankerous canine Banjo has done his best to lower my opinion of him still further, having now taken to urinating on the garden pots and the wheels of Bluebell, the camper.I know who will be changing the wheel should we ever get a puncture, it will be the owner of that pesky hound.

Once again today, no plug for the wonderful services of Currencies Direct, despite the fact that they can save you over 3% on each foreign exchange transfer you make. No, I will not mention it again today, although tomorrow I shall not be so generous as I have currencies business to do.

Chris France