Dog walking for cyclists

Ever since I began this column nearly two and a half years ago in an effort to spread the word about the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct, I  have managed to find pictures that have amused or amazed me.

The amusing ones usually come to the fore after a long lunch, a nice dinner or after the massive over indulgence of alcohol in a ski lodge in a blizzard, allegedly.

Today though, whilst I was undertaking the slavish duties that have befallen me after that nice lady decorator be fallen over (olde English or old Buckinghamshire slang) and spraining her ankle on the ice I happened upon this spectacle.  I was on my way to sports shop Decathlon in an abortive attempt to get the family (minus that nice lady decorators) skis waxed in time for a trip to the ski slopes of Limone when I encountered a sportsman of a different kind, riding a bike with his dog on the back. This picture to me is both amazing and amusing.

Dog keeping an eye on owner

I have heard of taking the dog for a walk but never taking one for a cycle. Indeed dog walking is part of my daily exercise and I have often been amused at the chap who parks in the same place each day in the Valmasque where I walk and who stays in his car and smokes cigarettes, listens to his radio and reads his paper whilst his dog remains in the car desperate to get out for a walk. I am certain he goes home after an hour telling his wife he has walked the dog. Anyway, this chap on the bike is also denying his dog a walk, but at least he is getting some exercise himself.

It gave me an idea about how I could take that appalling hound Banjo, the cantankerous cocker owned by that nice lady decorator out for a walk. My idea involves a long lead and my Mercedes with sports mode selected. I could go into details but the RSPCA may read this so I will stop there.

Tonight is the opening night of “Barefoot In The Park” in Valbonne, a West End theatre production that I have had flown in especially for Valentines night and one limping lady very dear to me heart. At least that is what I have told her and she quite reasonably does not believe me. I shall be selling copies of my book and ensuring that anyone with foreign exchange needs knows who to contact.

Before this evening, I face a quiet period of contemplation under the yoke of slavery. I believe the delights of shopping, cooking, washing, cleaning, hoovering and other dark arts await me whilst that nice lady decorator sits on the sofa with her leg up barking demands and orders whilst watching interminable reruns of Midomers Murders.

Then tomorrow I shall arise about an hour before I go to bed to drive up the mountain to Limone again, this time with the two expensive sprogs who have expressed a desire to go skiing. Not skiing with their parents you note, just skiing. Obviously one parent has self harmed herself in order to avoid the humiliation of being out skied by offspring, but no such luck for me, a committed blue run skier who has so far resisted the entreaties from sprog 1, the male of the sprogs to embrace the world of “freestyle”, which to me seems to mean doing more and more stupid things on skis until you injure or kill yourself while wearing ridiculous bright coloured and baggy clothing of the sort that even Mr Humphreys (if he was free), might think twice about wearing.

Chris France