“Mildred” in wig shock

The first inkling that I had ballsed up my diary came with Peter Lynn’s comment yesterday complaining that the social occasion in his diary, which involved him coming to my house yesterday morning for coffee, was not mentioned, indeed I was bemoaning the fact in yesterdays column that I had no social engagements for the day. That I had this particular meeting wrongly in my diary for Friday rather than Thursday was revealed at the last moment by his timely comment. He brought with him a curious and entirely ridiculous substance called decaffeinated coffee, assuming correctly that I would not give such an obviously useless concept space in my house. Decaffeinated coffee seems like an oxymoron to me. What is the point of coffee unless it is for a decent shot of caffeine? No sober man could ever like the taste of coffee without the proper amount of poison included.  What does he put in it? unsweetened sugar? I only wish I had some Quiche to test him more fully as everybody knows real men don’t eat Quiche (unless it is served up by that nice lady decorator, in which case an obvious exception needs to be made). It follows that if he was a real man he would use Currencies Direct for his next foreign exchange transfer as he even has an account opened but has so far been marked down as failed as far as using it is concerned.

I receive a sweet note from what I had thought was a lady, who I suspected was  one of the Wingco’s groupies and whom featured with a very alluring dark wig in yesterdays missive, but which turns out to be ” Mildred” (Misty) Milsted, tennis foe and brilliant ad lib rapper and singer. Sadly this talent, and indeed the need to wear a wig, only reveals itself when circumstances are right; firstly he must be full of strong drink and secondly his beautiful wife Ingeborg must be nowhere to be seen. Happily (presumably)  from his point of view, but sadly from the point of view of most males present, certainly with regard to the latter, these two circumstantial forces combined last Sunday and led to a series of events which contributed towards yesterday’s picture. He was apparently asked by his wife where our house was, perhaps so she could have come over and joined in with the impromptu post rugby party, but claims he told her that he could not remember how to get there or how to get home or indeed how he got home.  I have another rather sorry picture of the same event to feature today.

Either "Mildred" is gently rubbing the Wingco's forehead, or is covering his eyes to protect him from the spectacle that is occurring, or perhaps she or he is hand outstretched asking for another drink?

Today, the steering committee of the Valbonne Literary Association will meet again over lunch in the Auberge Provencal in Valbonne Square, scene of a certain sold out book launch on 7th November. This gathering will take place to test the acoustics of the upstairs dining area to assess whether or not a public address system will be required. Obviously, one cannot going trooping into a restaurant at lunchtime and not sit down to lunch as well, so that is my afternoon taken care of.

Then, gloriously, it is the weekend and I can take my metaphorical foot off the throttle of commerce and contemplate some relaxation. I have heard the word gardening mentioned, but I am in too good a mood to allow that word to impinge on my sense of well-being and inner contentment.

Chris France