Up the Cripple Creek?

The plan as it was originally conceived was to go to church at Cafe Latin in Valbonne to worship with the great and the good, some of whom have seen the light and opened an account with Currencies Direct, head off for quiet lunch and then convene for dinner in Opio.  A good plan but what I had not factored into this was that nice lady decorators deliberate destruction of said arrangement by entering the realms of self harm. No tennis for her for a while.

The view from the Vignale tennis club

It was not my fault that she twisted ankle a couple of weeks ago although I got the blame. It was not my fault that as a result she had to sit out skiing with the sprogs in Limone although I got the blame. It was not my fault that the stairs from the parking area in Valbonne are fenced off due to some building works which meant having to scramble down a bank and she tweaked her bad ankle as a result although I got the blame, and guess who was to blame for having to postpone our dinner engagement as a result?

Before that disaster befell her and before the full blame was assessed, distributed and apportioned once again to me we had decided that the weather was too good not to lunch in Valbonne Square where we happened across the Naked Politician and Peachy Butterfield filled with similar intent. I made some notes about the conversation but could not quite understand what I had written but the phrase “champagne belly button boy” was one part that was easily decipherable. Once again I have details of indiscretions that I wished I did not. Clearly I cannot reveal details here especially as it may in some way be connected to the Naked Politician and he must never be linked to anything so questionable.

Another story emanated from lunch about another lunch these two reprobates had once taken at the very swanky Columbe d’Or in St Paul De Vence, a famous establishment packed full of original paintings by the likes of Matisse and Picasso who had paid their keep with their work when struggling young artists. The man mountain was apparently not feeling his best but I feel his expression “I nearly puked on a Picasso” was a little tasteless.

As I sat in the Square a member of the public approached our table in search of a signed copy of my book, which of course I was delighted to sell her. It was in no way staged as was suggested by all and sundry despite doubts raised by me having a spare copy with me, but is a clear illustration of the esteem in which I am now held in our beautiful village. I have always loved the expression “delusions of grandeur” so it was perhaps inevitable that discussions turned to what would happen if this column were ever turned into a film. Clearly Brad Pitt would have to play me although it is fair to sat that he was not a unanimous choice, however we were all agreed to who should play Peachy; Russell Grant of course! Not least because as Peachy said “he’s a little bit fat and a little bit gay”.

Today’s lunch on the beach in Cannes is now in doubt due to my apparently deliberate attempt to cripple that nice lady decorator so I shall continue with my writing brief for Blue Water Yachting and may watch some rugby instead. I need to see some bad weather on the TV to acclimatise for a two days in London in the middle of next week. That is going to be the most expensive Parents evening I have ever attended.

Chris France