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Back to the souture

June 12, 2012

To Juan Les Pins for lunch on the beach is a bit of an extravagance on a Monday, but I contend that we are living (at least for the moment) amongst extravagant people and unless we join in we would look out of place. That and you never know where you will meet the next customer who is ready for the benefits of an account at Currencies Direct.

A sharpener in the web was required before we set off for the seaside with Peachy Butterfield, his gorgeous well stacked (sorry Lin but she does not like to be called statuesque) wife, Suzanne and Dougie “Mac the Knife” Mcgeorge, the visiting plastic surgeon. On the way we discussed his epithet in this column and he expressed a liking for it, saying it was better than “Plastic Mac” or “Placcy Maccy” as he is known in some circles. I could discuss this further but have drawn a veil over the subject, which should suit Peachy who has now added selling curtains in the south of France to his list of inactivity.

Once joined on the beach at Le Petite Plage by the Naked Former Politician and his lovely wife Dawn, the suitability of the conversation for inclusion in this column became sufficiently dubious as to be thrown into doubt. I dubbed it a case of back to the suture. A number of doctors jokes and stories, some very funny indeed, unfolded but sadly most will have to be excluded. I would love for instance to have been able to tell you how best to numb nipples.  One facet did occur to me though as we were talking. Although there seems to be very little difference between the spelling of hospitality and being hospitalised, there is clearly a great gulf in the meaning, unless you go private.

The pav this morning with that nice lady DJ’s tools of the trade

It is always a mistake when that nice lady decorator gets her hands on the Ipod and docking station. I try to keep it out of her sight, especially if she has lunched well, had a siesta, and then awoken determined to carry on in the same way as she had before everybody had left. The reasons would be obvious to anyone there in the pav last night. There are parallels with the concept of the perfect storm. Her superb decorating skills are neatly counter balanced by her utter ineptitude with anything remotely technical. Her patience after a few drinks is, at the very least, not noted, and her dissatisfaction with things not going to plan means that those things that choose to offend her can get thrown around. Once I had won the battle for the music system not be thrown into the garden and it was functioning in some measure, I was then treated to her utter certainty that by singing along to classics like “See Emily Play” and “Nights In White Satin” that she was somehow adding to the aural experience. If one is stupid enough (as I was) to throw the slightest doubt about the quality of this enhancement, she increases the volume exponentially until they see or actually hear the light.

Today then, once the ringing in my ears has subsided from shrill to dull pain, I have work to do before the Incomprehensible Scotsman returns this evening from the wedding in central southern France, if he made it, and if he can find his way back. Regular readers will already be aware of his inability to speak English properly, let alone French, and will be familiar with his cartographically challenged nature. A map to him reminds me of another song which was butchered last night “I’m On The Road To Nowhere”.

Chris France

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