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The dog has no nose

May 15, 2012

So the writing of the second book has begun. I have all the pages numbered so that’s a good start. The cover is underway courtesy of Marina Kulik’s painting classes and should be ready for my choice by the end of June so there is just the small matter of a bit of content.

Mondays are not often very productive due to the ravages of the ex pat lifestyle but today was an exception. Several new clients were secured for Currencies Direct and with no social occasion booked for today and with no spontaneous outbreak of revelry on offer, a bit of a departure, I have had time to do some real work on my music interests, write a little and to remember some of the hitherto unreported events of the last week or so.

Dinner with the Wingco for instance went unreported as did his impromptu appearance at the wine bar in Valbonne, an appearance with his guitar which is rumoured to be repeated tonight, and if it is then I will be there. The Wingo was distressed to hear that I have begun work on my second book, indeed wanted it recorded that he maintains his opinion of this column as “ghastly”, despite claiming never to read it. This is a bit if a dichotomy. How can he contend that it is ghastly if he does not read it? Come clean Wingco, admit it, you are a secret reader and love it really. I shall email him the text this morning, but will probably receive an email back saying he cannot respond because he does not have my email address, a ploy he has used in the past.

Golf last Saturday with the Landlubbers turned up a couple of new (to me) or forgotten golfing expressions. A “Yasser Arafat” otherwise known as ugly and in the sand brightened my day and I was reminded of the Abdul Hamza, hooked and out of sight. The gathering also threw up a couple of golfers who had not had a chance to buy my book. Actually that is not quite true, they had managed in the past to avoid the chance of buying it. That all changed for this lucky pair who I know left the golf course clutching signed copies, knowing they had been trapped into making what I consider to be a wise purchase and they may consider Christmas presents for people they don’t like. These sales take the total to 180 making me even more successful as an author, in fact I may now start referring to myself as a novelist, a novel idea some may think. Anyway, I took this picture from the Grande Bastide Golf Course, the venue for the golf.

Looking up at Opio

The lurking horror of a hastily organised trip to England in the rain later this week is exacerbated by the fact that it is not just England, it is up north, to Harrogate and Leeds respectively. The land of tundra and tempest has but one saving grace, Timothy Taylor Landlord bitter. This beer is the only good thing to come out of Yorkshire except the M1. That it is the second best beer in the world, second only to Fullers London Pride is not a fact that is acknowledged by that nice lady decorator who is of the opinion that the Taylors offering is superior, but as she once lived amongst the savages the roam north of Coventry, her mind has clearly been tainted. I shall be on the look out for the archetypal northerner, a high forehead, eyes too close together, extra digits on hands or feet or both are the tell tale signs.

Being away for a couple of days means casting around to find a minder for the house who must have a strong stomach and non sense of smell as part of the duties involve tending to Banjo, the smelliest dog in France. Surprisingly we have reengaged someone known as “The Lucifer Child” who has performed this task in the past and has agreed to return. Perhaps she has no nose? There is an old joke here but even I cannot bear to print it

Chris France

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