Garden forking

Garden forking. That is the new theme for today following on from naked spooning and naked forking, which have featured rather too much over the past few days. I would have loved to do some garden forking, but the bad back that I predicted yesterday when faced with the dire possibility of doing some digging arrived with a vengeance, just as I had planned, suspected. That nice lady decorator decided she wanted to fatten up one of our hedges by adding a few (try 25) Laurier roses to it. The mere thought of digging in the hard stone infested soil in the summer heat was enough for my back to start playing up the day before and luckily my son wanted to go out last night and was desperate for money, so the perfect storm, he did the digging and that nice lady decorator paid. At first I naively thought that he just wanted to help out his dear old dad, but I quickly realised that he has that finely honed France mercenary streak, and was thus only in it for the money. I do like to see that he is a chip off the old block.

Of course with my work for Currencies Direct, I am only in it for the money, actually that’s not true, now I think of it I am only in it for the money.

The night before last I took this picture post sunset from my bedroom window. It reminded me of the sunsets we experienced when we were up north last week, the only differences being that there it was twenty degrees colder, sleeting and cloudy so you could not see the suns rays. so almost the same then.

Note the colour of the sky, also note the colour that nice lady decorator has chosen for our bedroom

Last night, well yesterday afternoon, I once again resisted the temptation to allow more than a beer-a- clock cold one to touch my lips, at least until 4pm, and then it did not touch my lips, I glugged it down. The reason?,a visit from our friendly neighbourhood naked forker Debs Frost. No seriously, a quiet week was the decision made, and after the full on party lifestyle of the past few weeks, it seemed a sensible one but it is so difficult not to open the fridge and blow the froth off a couple of beers when faced with a visit from the naked forker herself and a beautiful sunset in Provence.

The weekend is approaching, and as of this moment I know of only one social occasion, a barbecue on Sunday and I am perturbed. It is high summer and usually there is a full on social diary, or perhaps I have not yet been told? Perhaps the presence of the circus in Valbonne makes everyone nervous of leaving home for fear of being robbed, but they rob you enough if you actually go, as they are charging some 35 Euros a ticket, nearly £30 at today’s exchange rates and for that they take up all the parking in the village.

I hear from John O Sullivan, chuntering on about that fine Englishman Manu Tuilagi being picked for the English rugby team against Wales this weekend. He seems to imply that Manu is something less than a died in the wool Englishman, which is clearly preposterous as I am certain one of his ancestors must have some connection somewhere with England. John is clearly chagrined that Ireland have never won a world cup at either rugby, football or cricket as of course England have. I also had the good fortune to be able to tell him recently that the much vaunted Irish writer James Joyce held an English passport for his entire life and actually refused the offer of an Irish one.

Chris France