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Humping; a Mountfield?

September 14, 2011

After my piece about Peachy Butterfield humping his mower a few days ago, the Reverend Jeff wonders if it was a Mountfield? My feeling is that it may have been a Hayter, after all I would hate having to hump a mower, seems more like some kind of northern pastime.

That nice lady decorator has been the source of a number of unsettling rumblings recently, and I don’t just mean physically, she has begun to talk in terms of the cement mixer. She has started to say things like “how much sand do we have?” and “how many bags of cement do we have?” and other worrying indications that I may be pressed into doing some physical hard work. I thought Manual Labour was a Mexican golf professional, but it seems I am shortly to be disavowed of this opinion.

Old friend Kate Robbins says on her Facebook page that she has put some Wild Bird Fat Balls in her garden. I have known some wild birds in my time, some of whom may have been a bit porky, but as far as I remember none had balls. By the sound of her the garden is the best place to keep her.

Into Cannes again for the daily commuter grind. By daily I mean at least once a month, sometimes twice. I suppose later this month or more likely in October I will begin looking out for an occasional long sleeve shirt, although shorts will remain normal daily wear until the end of October at the earliest. Anyway I went to work in shorts and short-sleeved shirt as usual, and after a very successful meeting about the value of opening an account with Currencies Direct, I returned to Valbonne exhausted but just in time for lunch.

On the way back from Cannes I took this picture from the train, after my working days end and on my way back home for a working lunch, well it was working for me.

Looking a bit autumnal to me

Today, after the exertions of yesterday, I shall be spending time in my office promoting my new book Summer In The Cote d’Azur a must for every right thinking man or woman and what a great Christmas or birthday present? I have even put it on my Dreembox.

Tomorrow evening tennis is on the cards with no doubt more triumphalism from my good self in the event of the almost certain win and I was sitting last evening with a beer considering tennis the future and everything when I saw Banjo, the barbarous and brutal beastly hound chewing a tennis ball. Not much wrong with that you may think, but the tennis ball looked as if it had recently been in quite decent condition. Banjo, is his usual lovable demonstrative way was chewing the green cover off the ball, and as the sun went down on another perfect day in the south of France I mused to myself about where he may have found this tennis ball. It was at that moment I realised that I had left the boot open on the car after fetching the shopping (at the behest of that nice lady decorator), and that is where I keep my new tennis balls, note the name, tennis balls, in order to play tennis. Yes, the monstrous meandrous mongrel had stolen several brand new tennis balls from my car and was enjoying chewing them up in front of me. For some incomprehensible reason, that nice lady decorator found this vastly amusing until I took the tennis racket out of the car and let him have a few first serves. The whimpering afterwards was just about worth it, and after I had finished whimpering I opened a bottle of Rioja.

Chris France

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