Pomegranate grenades

Pomegranates are known in France as Grenadines, which according to my son is close to the word grenade, and that is his excuse for some of his friends at their party last Friday picking some unripe pomegranates and throwing them around. This seems quite reasonable to me, however that nice lady decorator was seething, and as we know, she is not one to bottle up anger. She is known in some circles as Auntie Fizzy. This seems to kill two birds with one stone; It reflects her love of anything dry and sparkling (like me?), but also, we all know what happens when you shake up a champagne bottle. It only takes mild pressure for the whole thing to blow up spectacularly. As a result, I do not expect to see any of my sons friends around here any time soon. I cannot see what the problem is, there are still plenty left as my picture today shows, however this is not an opinion I will endeavour to share. Perhaps she will be more reasonable after her return from London last night.

The grenades that did not get let off....

Today, after 2 very hard days work and hardly a drop to drink, I shall be rewarding myself with lunch. An old music biz pal is in town and wants to see Valbonne, so I have volunteered to be his guide. I suspect that I may be lunching in Valbonne Square, almost certainly at the Cafe des Arcades and the only codicil I have is that I need to be finished at 6 because I have a meeting with my editor, the redoubtable Dawn Howard, who was as astonished as I that my book may actually be available to buy on-line today, the perfect present for someone who has a kindle or an Ipad, or similar device. If you think I shall not be promoting the hell out of this in the coming weeks, you are being impossibly naive, it will be just one more outlet for my creative juices which are currently under-employed writing this column, working on Medina Palms and Currencies Direct in addition to my usual duties as Managing Director of Steve Marriott Licensing Ltd and Music Of Life Ltd.

Mr Clipboard arrives on Thursday, so after collecting some friends from the airport at lunchtime, and after a trip to Cannes to prepare the ground for the Remax-Cannes opening on Friday I shall leave them to relax by the pool whilst myself and fellow mog (mustachioed old git) the wingco take on and thrash whatever ringer Mr Clipboard has found to partner him at the Vignale Tennis Club near Plascassier. Doubtless afterwards there will be some kind of gathering to celebrate our victory, but as yet my instructions from Mr Clipboard have not arrived.

The Cannes Yacht Show has started but I think it will be Saturday before I get there, as with the launch at the party being staged by Pete Bennett from Blue Water Yachting on Friday night and the Remax launch on Friday, where I shall be for much of the day. Then there is talk of camping next weekend, which for some reason reminds me that I have not seen Mr Humphreys for a while, I wonder if he is still free?  Bluebell the camper, resplendent with her new subtle white wall tyres, will I hope be transporting us to Castelaine up in the hills on the Route de Napoleon to take in the views and I expect also to take in (intake?) the produce of the local vineyards. Apparently Confucius did not say “ladies who go camping must not look for evil intent.”

Chris France