Lawnmower redundant

I turned down lunch. Just take a few moments to contemplate the significance of this statement. I am living on the beautiful south of France, on the edge of Provence amongst the hordes of idle rich ex-pats who live in Valbonne, am a renowned luncher and I had turned down lunch. I was not ill or hung over or suicidal, at least at first, but I was however subject to a three-line whip issued by chief whipper snapper herself that nice lady decorator.

Actually some of the public schoolboys who invited me to lunch are themselves no strangers to a three-line whip but in their little private sordid world it has a very different significance. Thus I did not go out for lunch and did not get drunk with Master bully Mariner Mundell, Peachy Butterfield, the Wingco or the Naked Politician, despite the fact that they had collectively decided that today was my official birthday and wished to celebrate it with me.

The reason for the whip (or the hand brake as the Naked Politician describes it) was of course that I had a number of jobs to do including some vital paperwork for several new customers of Currencies Direct and she (that nice lady decorator) knew full well that if I was let loose with that lot not only would I have had a great time but I would have not only failed in my duties but the chances are I would be somewhat below top form for our trip today up to Limone for a spot of skiing. I have a picture of the type of thing I am hoping to confront tomorrow.

The scene at Greoliere Les Neiges last week

It was important before a soon to become annual trip to the Italian Alps to stay reasonably sober and this was achieved by drinking several bottles of Gigondas, several bottles of Rioja, a bottle of lemoncello and a bottle of Biscotti Baileys (Jude O Sullivan, eat your heart out) by way of preparation for the hard time that will surely confront us in the coming days. Because our guests did not arrive until around 10pm this seemed to me to be a god effort. Thus by the time we retired for the evening at about 2 30 am, this morning, early enough to be fully ready for the trip up to the Italian Alps this morning, we knew we would all be in top form for the big drive.

One of the discussions during the evening revolved around flatulence and Ashley, otherwise known as Mrs Clipbeard who revealed that on a recent visit to a 2 star Michelin chef’s establishment in Wimbledon someone with whom she is intimately acquainted had succumbed in a most gaseous fashion to a seafood dish which involved artichokes.

Vegetables do not usually loom very large in my life and now I know the reason why. They are a menace and I try to avoid them. Regular readers will know that on. The subject of vegetarians, I stand just a little to the right of Jeremy Clarkson who is a little to the right of Attila The Hun. I will claim however to be open-minded about this sordid and dangerous cult. Whatever they do in the privacy of their homes is fine by me.

Ok, that’s a bit of controversy to start the day off. I wonder of there will be any controversy whilst we are away? Perhaps our house and dog sitter will do me the great favour of losing that mangy mutt Banjo whose mot so little deposits are so instantly visible on my snow-covered lawn. At least I am not under pressure to mow it at present.

Chris France