Wrong shaped logs?

With Christmas over that spirit of goodwill to all men seems to have ended rather abruptly, at least as far as that nice lady decorator is concerned. I should have known as soon as the first nag of the day woke me from my slumber. I think I had failed to iron my dressing gown or shut a drawer or something else equally piddling. Just as I was sensing that this would not be an easy day, the clincher arrived. It was the nag about the wrong shape of log.

During the winter and with a huge supply of wood from the trees we cut and the logs we collect daily on walks around the Valmasque we tend to keep a fire going most of the time using what we call a “night watchman”, a big log at night to try to keep it in overnight. It is the agreed duty of whomsoever it falls to make that all important first cup of tea first thing in the morning to attempt to get the fire up and burning. To this end it is my duty to ensure there are logs in the log basket, but until yesterday, when it fell to that nice lady decorator to prepare the first tea of the day and thus attend to the fire I was unaware that logs had to be a particular shape.

The wrong shape of log, apparently

It transpires that the log she had selected from the basket was the wrong shape (too long I think she said, a phrase I hear far too often). Obviously I had fallen down in my duty and needed a good telling off as the room had filled with smoke and it was all my fault. It came to my lips and I almost blurted out that there are some 500 logs outside, perhaps she could choose one where the tree had produced or rather I had prepared a log that did not displease her. I took this picture of the fire last night. I think these are the right shape but cannot be certain. I googled “correct shaped logs” but nothing definitive came up so I will no doubt be getting more examples of her anger until I can ascertain what shape of log pleases her.

For some unaccountable reason the reference to logs reminds me of a time in my teenage years when I once lived at the house of the Reverend Jeff’s family. His mother was a staunch Baptist and often had the vicar around for tea. The Reverend Jeff had rather unkindly deposited a log of a quite different kind, a sort of semi circular deposit, in the toilet just before the vicars visit, much to the chagrin of his mother who spent some time flushing the loo and beating the offending item with a stick to try to flush it away before the weight of imagined church disapproval descended upon her.

Thanks to all of you who came up with ideas to help the English Theatre Company, who will shortly start rehearsals for their first performance in Valbonne on 14th February. I shall be there and apart from a splendid play, you will be able to buy a copy of my book, now at 129 sales and showing a very clear profit.

Golf today takes an unusual form in that I am playing match play in a singles competition under the auspices of the REGS at Grands Bastide. My opponent is Simon O Neill who is a very good golfer, better than I, but unlike some of my bigger bloused girly male friends, I shall not be relying on the handicap system to gain an advantage. No, but I will be using gamesmanship (not be confused the sportsmanship) to pull off an unlikely win, in which case it will be trumpeted widely in this column. Should my tactics fail then I suspect the pressure of content will preclude any mention tomorrow. Perhaps I should covert him to the wonders of saving money on foreign exchange with Currencies Direct?

Chris France