Miss piggy rules

On the way to the airport this morning to go to The France Show at London’s Earls Court and be feted as a successful author, I saw this car sign written with the motive Le Pigier as my picture today shows. This seems to send out some rather unfortunate signals to potential English speaking clients, especially as their services seem to revolve around cosmetic beautification of female eyes, and I am pretty certain, even with my limited knowledge of the various processes women of a certain age seem to love that none of them would want their eyes to look a little piggier.

The first pint of London Pride arrived even earlier that I had hoped, around 4pm when a lawyers meeting ended a little earlier than expected and some old chums showed up in Aylesbury and insisted on diverting us from a direct trip into London to prepare for The France Show.

I say us, but in fact it is only I that was diverted from the France Show preparations, that nice lady was merely diverted from commencing her shopping until at least today. Once in London, I tracked down Paul Thornton Allan, the creator of my fine pull-up poster that he had also designed and produced for today at the Currencies Direct sponsored show so that I could gaze on it ahead of the show opening today at 10 00am. Of course we were forced to met in a pub and, well you know.

Later, once the munchies had set in, that nice lady decorator and I took sustenance at a Thai restaurant near Earls Court station. The Thai Garden it was called and very nice it was too. I love restaurants of this nature but running such a restaurant is so much of a Thai.

Earlier, on the plane, I had encountered an estate agents convention aboard the Easy jet flight in to Gatwick. Can you imagine the scene? Each of them trying to sell houses to each other, there being no real people other than me aboard. We all know they are not real people, but real estate people, so they tell me. They were all warming up to give the hard sell to any poor unfortunate who are considering buying a house in France.

And so it is that I shall be taking an enforced rest from my duties in respect of Medina Palms and the South Of France English Theatre for the next few days as I languish in London as I concentrate on my literary career. The jack of all trades syndrome strikes, the only difference being that I am master of them all. Megalomania said Mr Thornton Allan, but I had those skin lesions looked at and have the all clear (is this getting too obscure for you? It is for me).

Us authors must stick together and one of my occasional tennis partners with the pen name of George Cavendish has written a book called Riviera Terminus. We exchanged copies of our respective works at the Vignale Tennis Club over the festive period and I read his offering today. It really is very good, and I expect no less fulsome praise from him about my work when I next see him. As a banker based in Monaco, it worries me that his writing may be based on his own experiences, as the gripping tale of Yugoslavian war lords, sex, cash, drugs, rape and murder which unfolded in his pages seem so far removed for the down to earth reliable and solid character I thought he was. Maybe hidden depths? Not a charge that can be laid at the feet of the various marauding estate agents I shall encounter today.

Chris France