Inflated view of work

The weather forecast yesterday was for possible storms so I eschewed the chance to go and play golf with the Landlubbers at the Grande Bastide, despite having a number of happy Currencies Direct clients in attendance as I had previously given my wet weather golf gear to charity in the full knowledge that having moved to France I would never need them again.

That full knowledge was not quite as full as I had assumed. With the new capital gains tax rules savaging my plans to live in France, it seems that I may have need of them in the UK unless I give up golf completely, but that is still an option.

The combination of living in England for any length of time and advancing years will, I am certain, force me to seek solace in travel so in preparation I have begun to consider the places I need to visit before the metaphorical trap door opens and my soul falls into the fiery abyss. The film Bucket List which stared Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson was about things one needs to do before one kicks the bucket. I was discussing my bucket list with Peachy Butterfield over a few after dinner drinks in the web after Thursday’s epic tennis victory but he, being younger than me said he had a fuckit list, presumably describing a list of girls (or boys? or both?) with whom he would like to become intimate before his demise. I was thinking of countries I would like to visit he was thinking of can’t bring myself to say it.

Earlier, after lunch at Auberge St Donat the lovely Leslie Bufton produced a plastic container and proceeded to spoon the remnants of her uneaten veal and rice main course into her own personal doggy bag. She said she always carried it with her when eating out but I do hope she draws the line at doing the same at private dinner parties or aboard their yacht that is about to be delivered. As I had some of the same dish surplus to my requirements I offered it to her but the offer was politely declined. This lead that nice lady decorator to exclaim that Leslie had publicly refused to allow me to put my meat in her lunch box. I can still hear her cackling as I write.

So with golf off the agenda prepared a load of cement for that nice lady garden designer to ensure she was busy and then took a little stroll into Valbonne to Cafe Latin to meet a fellow golfer Paul Howard, a nice chap but culturally challenged because he hails from up north. He who also could not play due to injury and was accompanied by his beautiful dusky maiden, Lisa soon to be his wife who it transpires is a direct descendant of Sir Stanley Matthews. When I returned home expecting the place to be a hive of garden design activity this is the picture that greeted me.

That nice lady garden designer resting with her two inflatable friends

It is of course that nice lady garden designer sunbathing whilst being watched over by the two inflatable facsimiles of her dogs the lovely Max and diabolical Banjo. Clearly I had not prepared enough cement.

Today is Sunday so lunch beckons, this time in nearby Mougins. That Chateau Gloria will be drunk and Montechristo Number 2’s will be smoked is a racing certainty as we are guests of the man who single-handedly keeps this great vineyard going, having 100 cases at a time delivered from their cellars into his. I of course have recently been to Cuba and have managed to restock the humidor so the cigars will be on me.