Downhill from lunch

After a wind propelled walk around the Valmasque forest yesterday morning (courtesy of Croatian beans and Brussel Sprouts at Valbonne literary HQ on Sunday evening), I was looking forward to a quiet recovery day that is often the norm on a Monday. That this did not come to pass was the result of a fallible memory brought on by age and alcohol abuse. It seems that whilst out at St Tropez on D5, the wonderful boat owned by the naked politician (and available to charter for a mere €5000 a day) on Saturday, I had instigated a “gentleman’s lunch” at the Auberge St Donat for mid day yesterday.

It seemed such a good idea to introduce the naked politician and Peachy Butterfield to the wingco and fellow boating person John Mundell and (to keep feet firmly on the ground) Alistair the Air, my new BA long haul pilot friend, who became my friend as soon as he agreed to come to my book launch on Monday 7th November at the Auberge Provencal in Valbonne. It seems that this was all arranged by my unconscious mind working entirely independently of my conscious mind and revolved around a much-loved and cheap restaurant, the antithesis of Cinquante Cinq, the Auberge St Donat at Plascassier, which, it transpires, is a mutual favourite of both Peachy and the wingco.

A cursory look at my texts at 11.45 yesterday morning uncovered the unconscious minds hitherto hidden agenda and thus my planned work for Currencies Direct had suddenly be subject to an unspecified delay. An unscheduled lunch was suddenly on the agenda.

It is a long-held tradition in winter (and with the temperature dipping dangerously into the low 20’s yesterday, the arrival of winter was confirmed) to adjourn after lunch at this particular venue to the wingco’s house located conveniently nearby to sit on his terrace, drink brandy and listen to loud music. Being a traditionalist at heart, I felt it was my duty to respond positively to this post lunch invitation, which I had issued and there ends the case for the defence.

When we arrived (by this time without Alistair the Air who had, quite sensibly as it were,  bailed out – can I say that about a BA pilot?) the gentleman’s lunch party encountered the opposite sex for the first time in the shape of that nice lady decorator and the lovely Maryse, or Mrs wingco as she has come to be known who were enjoying a quiet glass if wine on the terrace. Thus the naked politician once again came face to face (or is there a more apt and less savoury description?) with that nice lady decorator enabling me to grasp the feeblest of excuses and publish this picture, another taken on “that” boat trip on Saturday.

Oh dear Oh dear Oh dear

It seems that the “handbrake” as the naked politician refers to his stoic and beautiful wife Dawn had been applied fully after the trip, as she somehow got the impression that the nice lady decorator might in some way been offended by the now commonplace removal of his clothes, at the drop of a hat as it were. Of course, those that know her well, as indeed I do, will know that she will need a much larger reason to be offended than…..actually I don’t know where I am going with this.

So today will have to become recovery day by default. I shall need my rest because tomorrow I have to get up well before bedtime to travel over to the Var. St Endreol is the venue for one of Mike Lorimer’s very useful financial seminars and I shall be there to help and advise the congregation on the value of using Currencies Direct for all foreign exchange movements.

Chris France