No stools at the bar?

You can have no real idea how satisfying it can be to beat a cheating, lying, handicap-dodging fridge-magnet-selling ex-butcher at golf. So good is the feeling that even I do not have the words. Mr North, an old pal and highly regarded in fridge magnet selling circles in Weston Turville, which as I am sure most of my readers will understand is quite a limited circle, finally succumbed to the superior golfing technique encompassed by the author of this column. Even the adherence to a girls handicap failed to save him as he suffered a massive defeat.

Last night we were “treated” to a barbecue with our hosts the Norths, where Mr North insisted on cooking a steak that was at least four weeks after its use by date, and as an ex-butcher claimed that the meat would a little “high” (for this read maggott infested) and that as a result it would taste delicious. When I said that personally I would never touch meat of this nature, but he went on to describe in graphic details how one should hang game, and one would know when it was ready because the maggots fell out of its anus. Now I am not sure about others, but this was enough for me to commence an immediate and stringent diet.

Perhaps he wanted to describe this practice as a thoughtful gesture to prepare me for the sorts of food I will be offered when we venture into the wildernesses up north around Chester tomorrow, but given his generally malevolent attitude, I very much doubt it. More likely he had under catered for his guests and was trying (successfully) to put people off eating.

Just one more day in the south is left before we take public transport into the frozen slag heap infested Victorian north, where electricity is scarce and those decent hardy northern folk eat out a living by eating what they can catch. Peachy Butterfield is our host and judging from the size of his physique, he has been particularly successful in catching and eating significant numbers of rodents, ferrets and pigeons. I shall be going with an open heart and trepidation in equal measure, at least I realise that given the impecunious nature of the inhabitants, many of whom have never ventured further than a few miles from the caves and hamlets they inhabit, there will be little scope to mention Currencies Direct (which in any event I am committed not to do as I am on vacation). I suspect they will think it is some kind of curry.

My picture today was taken at a pub up north when I last ventured to that desolate region.

A rather graphic instruction, clearly motivated by the Health and Safety authorities

I have no idea why those lovely folk up north might consider defecating on the bar, except perhaps that if it is very cold outside, the outside lavatory, another quaint northern custom, is cut off by snow.

So today, I have been invited to play some mixed doubles tennis, which I have accepted, mainly because it gets me away from working on our house in the UK which is in dire need of some tlc. Having lived in France for seven years now, I am intrigued by all the stuff we left behind in our barn, being hoarded by that nice lady decorator. My suggestion that we hire a skip and clear it all out has been firmly rejected and accompanied by that renowned laser beam stare, although what we can possibly need from items stored for seven years plus is  something of a mystery.

Chris France