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Memory stick works!

September 11, 2011

An eerie quiet pervades the house after the departure of sprog senior for college in England. The only sound I can hear is that nice lady decorator whimpering somewhere, worried about sprogs out there in sprogland. Actually she may be whimpering because of the Memory Stick I gave here recently.  She has not forgotten my beer or food once since the first beating.

A partial recovery day from the exhausting wheels of industry in Cannes yesterday was slightly derailed by an invitation to watch England’s first game against Argentina in the  Rugby World Cup with Mr Thornton Allan and Mr Clipboard, once I had discovered that my guests, the high and mighty of Medina Palms were more interested in sunbathing than watching out boys evoke memories of The Falklands.

The airport runs over here can be hell. Twenty minutes of driving along quiet motorways in the fierce sun can be very debilitating, especially in the late afternoon, so as we said goodbye to our Medina Palms friends, it seemed right and proper to repair to one of the beach bars for an enlivening ale on the way back, as my picture today demonstrates.

A short stop on then way back from the airport

This was all that was really required yesterday to re calibrate ones equilibrium before the assault on the culinary senses that is lunch and drinkies with dear friends but committed northerners Peachy Butterfield and impossibly beautiful wife Suzanne at lunchtime today.

This is not the simple social occasion that you may think. These wonderfully warm human beings for all their rustic charm are not very sophisticated, and their lack of refined etiquette (indeed when I mentioned etiquette recently Peachy asked me if that meant he needed a large hammer, I think he may have confused this with croquet), whilst of no real menace is touchingly naive, indeed some may say alluring. Yesterday I speculated in this column about what we might be faced with on the food front, today I am going to be having a look at what viticultural atrocities we can decently expect. Accrington Stanley Asti Spumanti springs to mind as a possible reception offering, a less then crisp Cleethorpes Chardonnay? a Redcar rose? A Rhyl Rioja? a Preston Pinot? Or what about a Skelmersdale Sauvignon? The tastes buds are salivating at the prospect as any offering will no doubt be the freshest possible. I hear that the 2011 vintage in the north of England is, well, the same as it ever was, fresh. At least it will not have a culture, a bit like some Australians, with the obvious exception of Cathie The Culture, my Australian reader you may think?

I was expecting to be joined for lunch at the Butterfields by the Naked Politician whom I bumped into at the Blue Water party on Friday. On this occasion he was mercifully fully clothed, at least for the time I was there and I suggested that his obsession with getting naked may be a deep-rooted cry for help. He too is from up north so it may have something to do with being continually cold whilst living in the frozen and inhospitable northern wastelands as a child, and subconsciously, now that he lives in Monaco, it may be something to do with throwing off the yoke of the north (and by this I do not mean the throwing of eggs), physically encouraging the similar throwing off of clothing, having escaped from that cold dark damp hell. However I have not figured out where the politics piece fits into this yet.

I realised that I did not mention the online publication of my book “Summer In the Cote d’Azur” on Amazon yesterday, a terrible oversight, as is not mentioning Currencies Direct until the last sentence.

Chris France

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