The Stig spotted on boat in Cannes?

We are witnessing momentous world events at the moment in Libya, where Colonel Gadaffi is in the process of being deposed. I saw a guy on Sky News wearing one of Gadaffi’s ridiculous scramble egged covered army caps, and it struck me that this would have been the perfect apparel for me for Tuesdays boat trip to see the last firework display of the season at Cannes, this time staged by Italy. I think my natural leadership qualities would have been further enhanced by my wearing of said cap, perhaps embellished with the word “Captain”? Perhaps then I would have been able to put a stop to the antics of owner and real captain John Mundell who was determined to stage his own firework display afterwards.

Once the wingco had arrived, just as we were about to cast adrift, for reasons that escape me he decided to impersonate the Stig for a few minutes, as my picture today shows. There are other more embarrassing pictures in my possession, and unless I receive the usual fiver, then these could see the light of day.

The Stig or the wingco?

With work completed by around midday, I decided that Currencies Direct and Medina Palms would have to survive the afternoon without my constant attention, mainly because it’s too hot to work at the moment.

House guest Lucy Butterfield, one of my daughters friends, daughter of Peachy, which is the main reason I have got to know him claims to have been bonding with catastrophic canine, and unwelcome addition to our family, Banjo. For a second I had and held in my mind a different interpretation of the word bonding, more like binding, or being bound. She claimed that Banjo is slobery and smelly but she still likes him. There is no accounting for female taste, indeed, perhaps that is how she likes her men? If so then most of my sons friends could qualify. She (Lucy) has spent most of the summer staying with us, having spent a few days in the north of England where  she was admitted into hospital for hypothermia, so we took pity on her and invited her back into civilisation for the summer.

Today, I have once again been called into the senior tennis four to raise the standard at 11.00 this morning, and it is part of the requirement that lunch is taken thereafter at Auberge St Donat for the customary tactical dissection of the earlier activity. I am certain that mention will be made of the epic boat trip to see the fireworks in Cannes earlier this week, and the pyrotechnics that were not limited to the display itself. If the wingco is playing or attending the lunch independently, he will be late. This is not a guess, it is a fact.

Dinner is arranged for this evening, but where and with whom I have not yet found out. Clearly on a need to know basis, I am right down the pecking order, somewhere between Banjo and the statue of Buddah I would think, but I intend to save myself for the invitation to Tony I invented the internet” Coombs and long-suffering wife Pat. I shall be attempting to return the favour by drinking him out of house and home in a similar manner as he attempted (and very nearly succeeded) at my house earlier in the summer. Mumbled promises of an invitation to his place once his terrace had been finished were eventually nailed down, when a secret spy in his household, who may or may not know my son, supplied undeniable information concerning this terrace and its near completion, thus allowing me to trap him into the invitation. It will not be wasted, but I may well be

Chris France