Peachy takes the blame

After catching up on some work for Currencies Direct I was on my way to the Auberge St Donat, with a slight hang-dog disposition having not found favour with the secretary of the Friday morning gathering for tennis. Second reserve is my normal position for the elite Friday tennis group and with at least 3 stalwarts bottling out, I had thought that my chances of getting a game were quite high, however the wholesale cancellation of the tennis may have been down to the fact that I was available.

If that was not enough to puncture the confidence of a poor council house boy floundering amongst his supposed superiors, my boys luncheon dates, arranged at short notice in the face of a girls lunch gradually disappeared on me, to the extent that I was forced to seek luncheon solace elsewhere. Three phone calls or texts received en route to the Auberge St Donat, all canceling is a tough one to take on the chin.

But was I down hearted? Well, yes, so I stole up to the Cafe Des Arcades in Valbonne Square just to ensure that the girls lunch was progressing smoothly, but when I was espied by that nice lady decorator and she asked me brusquely “what are you doing here?” I knew it was a mistake.

Ridiculously and without any forethought or planning I decided attack was the best form of defence, I said “I am meeting Peachy for lunch, what are you doing here?”. That withering look I know so well was employed and so I had no choice but to call him and say “where are you?”

Well of course he was at home nursing a hangover diligently created the night before with the naked politician. What is more he had just stuffed into his mouth a huge carbohydrate laden baguette in a desperate attempt to make himself feel better. He had made a pact with himself that he was having a recovery day, but after no more than 5 seconds prevarication and mumbled excuses as to why he could not rescue a friend in need he crumbled and agreed to be picked up and brought out to the Cafe Des Arcades to be fawned over by the girlies at lunch. At least that was what I told him was going to happen.

Luckily he is from the north so with skin thick enough to repel bullets he thought he was welcome and so I projected the blame for invading a strictly female only gathering on him. You might think, had he any inkling of the situation that he might have sat quietly at the end of the table and dealt only in platitudes but that is not the man’s style and good on him. My original faux pas of turning up like Billy No Mates was forgotten and all blame was directed at him. It reminded me that I took this photo in Cap Trois Mille.

Peach up? or down

I think it started after the second pichet of rose when  Peachy announced that his plastic surgeon friend coming to stay in the next week or so. That statement attracted some attention. Ladies of a certain age seem irresistibly drawn to a man who can, so to speak. However his next comment that his suggested penis reduction was a huge success, meaning he can wear shorts again was not received with quite the same enthusiasm.

With thunder clouds looming after a hot sunny morning and with the lovely Mrs Peach, Suzanne talking of making a chilli, we somehow found ourselves in the pav in the evening in a thunderstorm.

Chris France