Clint Eastwood with a paunch?

I need to report on the kids party on Friday night. Our darling children (that nice lady decorators term, not mine) are both due to fly the nest and go to colleges in the UK shortly (praise the lord) and so it was decided, but not by me, that they should be allowed a leaving party. That the venue should be my home was the first shock, but that we were paying for it, although not such a shock was just as unwelcome.  We had thus provided some 500 euros worth of drink and food (in that order) for the locusts (by that I mean my children’s friends) to consume. We ourselves had escaped to neighbours the Thornton -Allan’s to avoid witnessing the worst excesses, returning home at 12 30 to make our presence felt. It is truly cathartic, and it has to be said, enormously rewarding, to enjoy the effect that parents arriving back at the height of a teenage party can have. I thought it would best to draw myself up to my full height, adopt a challenging broody distasteful expression and walk slowly amongst the gathered party throng, just to ensure they all knew the parents were back and looking out for misdemeanours.  The fact that all the guests were consistently charming, thoughtful and engaging was of no matter,  I was a returning vengeful parent and was determined to enjoy every minute of my Clint Eastwood style presence. Unfortunately where Clint is good with a poncho, I am only good with a paunch so the effect may have been slightly different. I too was chewing on a cigar and trying to look menacing, but suspect in retrospect (which means when I woke up sober yesterday morning) I may have looked slightly cross-eyed and trepidatious. I am not even sure I can use that word, but what else would one be when in a  state of trepidation?

So with at least a dozen of the little blighters hanging around this morning eating me out of house and home, I set that nice lady decorator on them and in a very short time mops  buckets and scourers were being fully employed and  rubbish collection teams were organised and several hours later the place began to look more normal and less like down town Tripoli.

I had steeled myself in case I was to witness any inappropriate teenage “love scenarios” but in fact over the past 24 hours the nearest I have come to witnessing anything remotely erotic was when I was disturbed from my siesta yesterday afternoon by the sound of tortoises mating, and so with sleep destroyed, I wandered down to take this picture.

Tortoises engage in some leap-frog type exercise, there has to be a joke there somewhere

My regular readers will now be braced for some tortoise jokes, with allusions as to their relationship just being a shell of what it was,  life in the fast lane, being cold-blooded etc, but I have decided to rise above that temptation and instead consider the best way of presenting my missionary message about the value of opening an account with Currencies Direct.

The walk did not work, the fried egg sandwich did not work, so it was time for the last resort, a bloody mary with the enduring hope the kids had not managed to find the vodka and water it down, as had happened last winter.  So after the application of that most wonderful of restorative, the evening took on a rosier hue, and yes I did men rose.

I am delighted to report that nothing of import occurred last night, save for a test for one of those Rioja’s we bought in the summer. The results were inconclusive so I feel a re-test coming on.

Chris France