Look, no hands

If there was one reason to make one less unhappy about having to leave France in about six weeks time is the news that the recent unseasonable storms have destroyed almost the entire grape crop in the Var over near St Tropez for the next two years. Horizontal hail stones have been blamed and it feels like I may have passed something similar myself after the last few days. So with the prospect of Var rose’s not being available next year and the year after, I shall have to reconsider my antipathy to a return to England. It could have been worse of course, what if a similar catastrophe befell Bordeaux? There would scarcely be any reason for living.

With one’s house guests finally departed I had been feeling rather shabby as a result of the over indulgence they had forced us to endure for the last five days, even to the extent of considering partaking of a restorative pint of Guinness at the Queens Legs, but in the end, the shabbiness won and so, slumped untidily on the sofa in front of the build up for the Queens Jubilee celebrations, the highlight of last evening was a cup of tea.

Comments on this column yesterday revolved unsurprisingly around the stories the day before of a house owned by a friend in Wankdorf. It was hard for the less busy amongst my readership to avoid grasping the staff of hope I had given them to enjoy. The Reverend Jeff suggested that I should guide my flock away from erection and towards resurrection. Of course true resurrection lies only in opening an account with Currencies Direct, stopping banks from shafting (there we go again) the customer.  Pinman researched some other tall fooball stories on the web about being (in) Wankdorf. “How would you feel about playing for the team, Wankdorf?”

And so an evening of quiet contemplation was almost inevitable but the break will be brief, with a dinner invitation tonight and a luncheon invitation aboard a boat on Sunday. It was whilst casting around for a picture for today’s column that I happened upon this one. Recently departed house guest Janie was determined to sample my panna cotta and chose an interesting method. Perhaps they did not have spoons in her house hold when she was growing up, or perhaps she had already eaten all the silver ones.

How to eat a panna cotta

Just one evening of Jubilee overkill and I have already had enough. Perhaps it was just being sprawled on the sofa feeling wretched but I think I shall be avoiding the TV over the coming four or five days. I feel the same about the Olympics, the hype on the TV is already at fever pitch and beginning to irritate me, almost as much as that ridiculous Belgian detective, the man with a live snail for a moustache, Poirot, another waste of TV production facilities on the same level as Midsomer Murders, both series an utter waste of TV time in my humble opinion and both beloved by that nice lady decorator who likes to keep at least 40 hours TV of this nature stored on our Sky planner system.

So off to bed last night with a cocoa and a Resolve, the last-ditch hangover cure, moaning about improbable Belgian detectives and with high hopes that I will feel more sociable in the morning. These were dashed, pebble dashed in fact as was our hallway, pebble dashed by one of the dogs. In my mind there absolutely no doubt as to who is the culprit. Banjo has twice this week broken into the kitchen to steal and eat food. Off with his head.

Chris France