Whippet surprise?

The weather forecast two days ago was for dry sunny conditions and temperatures in the mid twenties celsius, a prediction which I had greeted with scepticism at the time, and as we headed off to play tennis yesterday, the temperature was sixteen degrees, and it was drizzling, a perfect illustration of the kind of weather forecasting and weather conditions that caused us to move to France in the first place.

After I was forced to endure some “retail therapy” for several hours yesterday morning, as Mr North suddenly but entirely understandably found himself unavailable for golf after his thrashing the day before, I was allowed time off for good behavior and permitted to play tennis with some crusties at Halton Tennis Club. I think it was a reward but cannot be too sure.

Last night to a working meeting at the Five Bells in Weston Turville to meet Paul Kendall aka Ken Poodle to discuss a couple of music projects, as opposed to my day-to-day work with Currencies Direct (which I will not mention as I am on holiday) then on to The Chequers, then on to The Village Gate and then on to oblivion. That is certainly how it seems this morning whilst trying to write this column.

Today we head up to the dreaded north, where Peachy Butterfield and the naked politician await us. I am told that they have gathered together all the food for miles around in order to entertain us, which is very kind of them, but what really concerns me, apart from my fear of tripe, black pudding, pigeon puree and whippet surprise, is the effect on the local animal population, as they will eat anything up there. My picture today gives a taster (yes, that is what I mean) of what might be on the menu. Clearly this picture was taken in the civilised south where animals such as these are kept as pets rather than eaten.

Pet in the south, food in the north

Chester is our destination, unless the train cannot get through, its arrival dependent upon avoiding the hordes of bandits, marauding wild animals, and the steam trains having enough coal and the like. We then face three nights of privations (literally that means outside toilets or “privies” as I think they are known) before escaping back to France on Saturday, back to civilisation in Valbonne and some decent weather, where I can once again contemplate the wearing of shorts.

Last night, that nice lady decorator hatched a plan that frightens me. She wants to come back to the UK for a week in September to do some work in the garden of our house. A whole week in September, the very best month to be in the Cote d’Azur. Frankly it is as bad a plan as she could possibly invent. Removing a massive ivy from the house, clearing great swathes of swampy bog, and chopping down trees seems to me more like a prison sentence with hard labour. My suggestion that perhaps we should get some local oiks to do the work was firmly rebuffed in the traditional laser beam manner, so now I must contemplate feigning injury and remaining in Valbonne whilst she tackles the deforestation. It may be that I will have really to injure myself as she may see through any subterfuge, with disastrous results. The choice between self-harming and lumber-jacking activities in the dank and dismal damp hell that is England in September is a stark choice, both with no upside, although I guess self harm may at least allow me to remain at home in France.

Did I mention I would not be mention Currencies Direct? Oh, yes I did.

Chris France