Pomegranates and death row

I am untouched by the frenetic activity that is going on around me. That nice lady decorator is working at the speed of a whirling dervish to get the house ready for rental clients arriving Saturday, and I am making my full contribution to her efficiency by staying out of her way, deep in my hammock until choosing the right moment to suggest an evening beer. As you can imagine, this is tricky work; too early and I will be accused of interrupting her tight agenda, too late then the accusation surrounds leaving her to work whilst others loafed. I have a number of years of experience in trying to unravel this conundrum, but I confess I have not yet mastered the timings yet, mainly because the goalposts keep moving.

Such is the stress that our proposed social occasion on the Cap Ferrat with our incomprehensible northern friends, the Caston’s, had to be postponed last night due to pressure of work. I, having successfully completed the myriad of tasks set before me today was entirely ready to go over and eat tripe and pigeon and whippet, or whatever northern delights awaited me, and considered for one moment suggesting that perhaps I should go alone and leave her to catch up on her allotted work, but I confess that I had seen earlier a suggestion that the blue touch-paper was in danger of igniting and thought the better of it.

Magnanimously I took control of the new dinner arrangements, and once I had found the take away pizza menu, offered to take charge of ordering whatever took her fancy on the menu. This has three positive effects; firstly the newly cleaned kitchen and cooker need not be disturbed, secondly no one is forced to try to survive on anything I have cooked, and thirdly, it will give me some sport, in that it seems customary for the catastrophic canine, Banjo, the hopeless hound, to try to bite the pizza delivery boy, but preferably after he has delivered our dinner. Of course I will have to give a false name and disguise the address after last time. But at the last moment, just as I had the menu in my hands, an alternative scenario presented itself  in the form of one of my sons friends said he was going to get some kebabs, and somehow it just seemed right to say yes.

The more astute amongst you will have noticed that I am getting towards the end of my daily missive and I have not once mentioned my activities with Currencies Direct. This is because I am determined not to mention them in every column, in case people suspect that I may have an ulterior motive for expressing my views in this daily column. Indeed, I would like you all to keep watch and make a comment in the section below should I waiver from this well intentioned course of action.

Pomegranates rescued from death row

My picture today is of pomegranates. There is a story here. we have this spindly spiky deciduous tree like shrub in our garden which someone told me was a pomegranate bush. I believed I had been had as all it did is grow bigger and spikier for two years before I resolved that it had to go. I had planned a day in April for its execution, but it rained, then I forgot about it and it developed leaves and got a stay of execution, then suddenly three weeks ago, with no warning and for the first time, it developed pretty red flowers, which are now turning into pomegranates. it must have heard me or had second sense, a pity Banjo does not have the same sensibility.

Chris France