Rubbish clear out

The cardiac arrest unit at Nice Hospital will be standing by at the Vignale Tennis Club this morning in the full expectation that they will be receiving some customers. This will mark a change in my usual pursuit of customers for Currencies Direct but on this occasion I do hope there are no takers.

Let me set the scene. It was at that lunch earlier in the week, when man mountain Peachy Butterfield, just after he had fastened on to his third bottle of rose having tired of the extra strong mohitos our host had thoughtfully prepared earlier, expressed the hitherto unthinkable interest in getting some into some whites and taking some exercise. By that in normal Peachyland speak the natural thought for anyone that knows him would be that he had some Chablis or Sancerre or some other possibly less well-regarded white wine lurking about his person or perhaps more likely White Lightning, the supercharged super cheap sparkling cider that passes for champagne in his home land up north, as I thought they were the only whites he would understand.

It became clear that he was serious so after I had stopped laughing I focussed on what he meant; Whites for tennis? I know he looks like he was born before Fred Perry, but surely he has seen tennis on the TV? There is every colour on show nowadays except white.

His normal response when any suggestion is made that at his age he should think about some exercise has been to agree then run to the fridge and open another bottle, so it took me some time to recover and to roll up my tongue and stick it back in my mouth.

And so today, at 11.00am sharp the three of us, no, Peachy does not count as two although it’s a fair point, Roly Bufton is coming out of tennis retirement as well and we shall attempt to build up an appetite for lunch afterwards at Auberge St Donat and hope the para-medics and the defibrillators will not be required by playing some tennis. I shall play them both on my own and will be triumphant again. Usual rules, if it goes well then a full report tomorrow, should I face some sort of reverse it will all be glossed over.

My picture today was taken of the back of the car full of garden rubbish. As Banjo, that stinky dribbly hound so beloved by that nice lady decorator is the biggest piece of rubbish I have ever encountered in my garden I though the picture was a stoic acceptance of his place in my affections.

He will have eaten most of it before we get to the tip

You may be aware that I am making the most of it here in France in the coming weeks as by mid July I must face the prospect of being billeted back in the UK for extended periods. It is not a prospect I am considering with much enthusiasm, but on the plus side we have made an offer on a house next door to a pub with direct access from the garden to the pub garden next door so drowning ones sorrows appears to be a very real option. That or drowning in the floods during a drought. That would be the ultimate irony, drowning during a drought in England.

As you may know there is an election campaign in full swing over here in France being contested by the hyper active and hyper ventilating dwarf current president M. Sarkozy and the man who would complete the demise of the Euro, M. Hollande. As the lovely Julie Faux commented yesterday “Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right”…

Chris France