Look at the sisal that!

Before awaking at the crack of dawn and performing my tasks for Currencies Direct, we set out for our normal speed walk around the Valmasque yesterday morning when I happened to say to that nice lady decorator that she was going down hill rather quickly. It was when she turned to look at me as only she can I realised the enormity of the misunderstanding with which I could have been confronted. Of course I meant that she was walking fast downhill with no intent of a double meaning, however it is clear for a time at least she did not believe me.

Perhaps it is the proximity of yet another birthday, her 37th I am told that is making her touchy. Having had a night off on Monday evening and with a fast developing crescendo of two birthdays colliding in the same week, a very last-minute mid way between birthday party appears to be happening tonight at very short notice and what is more it is seemingly taking place at my house. Peachy Butterfield’s birthday which was last Saturday fell whilst he was shivering and sheltering from a northern gale in the distant far north of England, in Chester where the sun has just appeared above the horizon for the year. He understandably did not want to celebrate it in such inhospitable surroundings and as he is flying back today, tonight was deemed a suitable time for such a prestigious event, especially as we will depart to the bleak north of England on Thursday for that nice lady decorators birthday for a long weekend for much the same punishment that Peachy has been enduring. This will the ensure of course exactly what you want when facing a flight, a massive hangover.

So to break ourselves in gently we elected last night to partake of a couple of beers whilst watching the sun go down in the pav from where I took this picture. The Yucca is about to flower, that or we have a red hot poker tree.

Red hot poker?

Once the sun had gone I opened a bottle of my favourite red wine, a little known Rousillion called Pierre Plats made in Terrats, a little village in the foothills of the Pyrenees. I only opened it after that nice lady decorator had tucked onto a Chablis, thus leaving the far more important wine alone, and ensuring that I enjoyed most of the contents. Suddenly the allure of the Chablis abated and much to my chagrin she turned her attention to the red. I do hate it when good wine is wasted.

This morning I had planned a quick walk, a dash to the supermarket, half an hours frantic work on my music business interests and then a swing in the hammock for a couple of hours in preparation for tonight. It was as I was contemplating the last part that I remembered that in a fit of pique that nice lady decorator had ordered a kind of “hambush”, having one of the trees to which the hammock was attached chopped down on some pretext that it impeded the laying in of our new mains drainage. Personally, given the choice which of course I was not, I would have rather retained the sceptic tank despite it being condemned than lose the hammock, but as they say swings and roundabouts without the swings. Fortunately we still have our share of faeces lurking in the garden, but this time above ground mostly due to the nice lady drain designers horrid hound Banjo.

So tomorrow I shall have packed my winter clothes and will be winging my way to Leeds/Bradford airport in Yorkshire courtesy of Jet2, so named I believe because they only have two jets.

Chris France