Every picture tells a story

The Sunday Times yesterday carried a piece about a dog which seemed to be racist.  It seems that said dog was completely content and relaxed around children and old people but barked at black people and the discussion was about how to modify its behavior.

This got me to thinking about how to improve the attitude and behaviour of my least favorite dog in the world, owned by that nice lady decorator who lives with us against my better judgement (the dog that is, not the decorator).  I am not saying that Banjo is racist but he is nonetheless in need of behaviour modification. Take motor cyclists, as he does. He hates them and enjoys illustrating his enmity by barking at and biting them as they splutter along the lane outside our house. The pizza man on the motor bike will no longer deliver because he has lost several chunks from his leg after the last take away. I will no longer order the bite size pizza from him as I am so embarrassed.

But how to administer behavioural correction?  My first reaction was that a baseball bat might help and that’s when the trouble started. It is a mystery that I will never solve as to why that nice lady decorator is so very protective of the glutinousl gobby doggy.

Yesterday being Sunday, and thus a day of rest so no mention of the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct, we had strolled into Valbonne for the vide grenier (empty your attic) sale which is the same as a car boot sale in England except you look around the market in warm sunshine and shorts rather than a sheepskin coat an umbrella and galoshes.  After an exhausting tour of the biggest pile of rubbish I have ever encountered we had developed enough of a thirst to pop over to the Cafe Des Arcades for a refreshing ale and to read the papers.

A short time later we espied John O Sullivan with the same agenda, and on the basis that a pleasure shared is a pleasure doubled we invited him to join us for an ale and then a couple of pitchers of red wine until we were joined by his other half, the redoubtable Jude O Sullivan, the girl who single-handedly keeps the Baileys factory at full production. She was pleased beyond measure as on the Saturday she had received from the supermarket a voucher entitling her to a discount on her next order of Baileys. I have long been a fan of her cleavage (sorry Lin) so I took this picture of her embonpoint on the pretext of photographing her Baileys voucher. As John O Sullivan says; it is easier to get forgiveness than permission. I expect to get neither.

Baileys voucher delight

Last night then to dinner with Cornish Tsunami Matt Frost from French Mortgage Express and delightful wife Viv, the lady that first suggested that this column could be turned into a book, and is subsequently to blame for the second tome which I am editing as we speak.  Matt was talking about his recent visit to the salt mines of Krakov in Poland which sounded both macabre and fascinating in equal measure but I was able to trump him on both levels as we are set to visit Harrogate and Leeds next weekend, macabre and fascinating on a much higher scale.

Thus I must now cram my working week into three short days so with luck I should be finished by lunchtime. If one works at the intensity that I do, one would never need to work full time. It us a fact that when revealed has never increased my popularity, something that has always mystified me.

Chris France