Peachyfied

Peachied. It’s a new verb which describes perfectly what happens to any poor souls who are invited to dine chez Peachy Butterfield and glorious wife Suzanne.

It is a gargantuan evening on just about every level, the man mountain himself is the centre of attention due to what he is wearing, what he is saying, what he is doing what he is eating and not least what he is drinking. To call Peachy quite big would be like calling the total eurozone bail out quite big. Once Greece defaults and leaves the euro which in my opinion is inevitable, Currencies Direct will be there with me to help people exchange lots of the old currencies as well. Welcome back the drachma, the Portuguese escudo, maybe the Italian lire and maybe even whatever it was the Spanish used for money, but I digress.

It is a gigantic problem, and so is Peachy. The first problem is the starting time of 5pm. 5pm for dinner? I know it gets dark early on the frozen north where he was born but for Christ’s sake (its Sunday so that is just to rile the Reverend Jeff) it’s still light at 6pm. So why so early? Probably am attempt to extend the drinking time? In order to give him more time in which to take on board supplies? Perhaps it was in deference to his house guests, The Ratcliffe’s of whom I have the highest regard now they have bought a copy of my book, who are also from the tundra strewn north of England where they call having dinner “having us tea”. All I know is that it was too early but I made sure we were on time at tea time. I did not want to miss out.

Talking of big funny and tasteless, I found a hotel with a sign which seems to capture these three traits. It was in the ski resort of Limone where I took today’s photograph, what were they thinking?

A hotel for fat bottomed girls or Peachy from behind?

Luckily today will be a recovery day, some airport runs to deposit sprogs to enable them to return to their studies (hurrah!), a quick walk into Valbonne to grab a Sunday Times just so we have enough newspaper to light the fire of an evening. I am not going to have a drink today and that’s final. Not unless someone suggests a Bloody Mary at lunchtime.

Those lovely chaps at Blue Square told me in the Queens Legs the other night that they had sold a copy of my book. Apparently one of the estate agents owners mothers was thumbing through it then dropped tea all over it, so he felt compelled to buy it. I don’t mind how the sales come. 151 now and rising.

This Thursday, the third Thursday of the month sees my talk at La Pomme Rouge for girl networking group Premier Mardi which I have explained earlier meets religiously on the first Tuesday of each month. I have been asked to talk about how to write a successful blog and why I started it. Although I know precious little about it, and I await confirmation of that in the comments section below, let me explain.  My ego could not resist the invitation from the co-founder of this group the beautiful Karen Hockney, a far more accomplished journalist than I shall ever be.

Imagine my predicament. An ageing Lothario with a massive and mostly misplaced self belief who spends much of his time imagining that all girls find him fatally attractive being asked by a beautiful girl to speak to a gathering of other attractive girls, to the exclusion of men. What was I to do? I considered the offer for a nano second and accepted immediately after managing to get my tongue back in my mouth.

Chris France