Tears on my pillow?

We arrived at Gatwick yesterday and it was dry. Yes dry, we were not immediately experiencing the tempests that had been promised by that lovely weather presenter on Sky TV who gleefully forecast 2 months rain in the text 72 hours. Cool but dry, it surely cannot last. No space to mention the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct as we were on the way to Lewes, our home for last night staying at the White Fart Hotel, at least that was what it looked like it was called after a bit of the H of Hart had fallen off (or perhaps removed for a bit of fun?) we reveled in our new found fortune, being dry in England! The next thing you know England will be suffering from a drought! Ha ha!.

Anyway we had held out until 11am drinking coffee until that nice lady decorator, who had remained completely teetotal from the day before, elected to break her personal drought with a pint of draft Guinness at the Irish bar in Terminal 1 at Nice airport and I confess that peer pressure here was difficult to resist and I may have joined her in this sad escapade.

It is I think, a fair description to say that after a few drinks I tend to pontificate. And like his papalness himself, I consider at such times, which are more regular than to justify pride, that whatever I say is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me god. What I am saying is that in these circumstances I am always right. There is one exception to this of course, even the Pope has sometimes to bow to a higher authority and so it in a similar way do I.

Who am I to argue? liberated from old pal Lindsey Weskar

Regular readers of this column will have no doubt as to what form in my life that higher authority takes and may well have in their minds, as I do, a surreal image of an angelic nice lady decorator, omnipotent and all powerful, who in her own mind can do no wrong and is therefore always right. That she is married to Mr Right and considers herself Mrs Always Right in no way suggests that I feel any sense of injustice directed towards me. That is the line I wish my lawyers to take.

So before over imbibing at various hostelries in Lewes, some good, some execrable, but all a vital part of thorough research of any area before buying a house to live in we visited Rottingdean near Brighton which seemed to bear no resemblance whatsoever to the pretty photographs we had seen before hand. A reasonably attractive village high street was surrounded by unspeakable concrete carbuncle of gulag proportions, bereft of any sense of style.  I have been unfortunate enough to encounter concrete on a massive scale before but seldom in Provence except at the concrete museum at Mouans Sartoux, you know, the horrid square green building nestling amongst the Provencal village gems that surround it. I could not wait to leave, and indeed I did not wait long.

Today, after a very good Thai meal and a night spent at the rather good Old Fart Hotel in Lewes and having viewed various small abodes masquerading as houses we have a luncheon appointment in Chichester in Sussex, a town that I have never before visited. I do hope St Francis is there to greet me.

Getting there may prove problematic as the heavens have opened this morning and according to local TV flooding is predicted in many places. That must be the reason for the hose pipe ban, one would not want to exacerbate the situation by adding more water to the problem. Very sensible.

Chris France