On the Source

It is customary for our dogs to be removed from our garden as soon as possible in the mornings in order for them to become bear-like, that is to shit in the woods.

For the proper dog, Max, this involves taking him somewhere remote, where he will politely find a place off the beaten track to complete his ablutions. For the heinous hound, the catastrophic cocker, Banjo, the dog owned by that nice lady decorator, being polite is an alien concept. For him, defecating in the middle of a path, or ideally, at his most determined and malevolent, saving it up in order to defecate on my lawn is a favoured option.

His output yesterday morning was remarkable. His deposits were, well, what can I say, a little less drought ridden than is desirable. Of course a responsible owner will understand that it is their responsibility to clear up any mess.

It has thus come to my notice that the nice lady Banjo owner has taken to using some tools when undertaking the clearing up process when out walking. It appears that she has a traveling trowel for the crappy dog. Frankly a noose would achieve a better result.

It is fair to say that after a big day on the beach in the sunshine on Monday (UK readers, stay with me) followed by a fairly large evening in the pav that neither of us were at our best yesterday morning after a rather desultory walk. I had just finished my days work at 11am when a jaded but still nice lady decorator suggested lunch at the Auberge De La Source, a venue which we had previously agreed to put under the microscope today. When I reminded the decorating person of that and pointed out that we would be lunching in the same place two days running, she said it was worth a recce.

The newly revamped Auberge De La Source

Whilst enjoying a very good value lunch in the sunshine as my picture today suggests, somehow the conversation tracked towards actors and lookalikes. I ventured the opinion that in my younger days I looked a bit like Russell Brand. To my surprise that nice lady decorator agreed but then came the sting in the tail, she said that when I was young I acted like him as well. Becoming animated, she said that was why she had finished with me all those years ago, because she was worried about STD. STD? I said, and she retorted that she did not mean Subscriber Trunk Dialling (you have to be of a certain age to understand this). It dawned on me that she was alluding to Sexually Transmitted Diseases, or communicative diseases. I suppose writing this daily blog is some kind of communicative disease.

Of course, much of the time at the moment I am preoccupied with my enforced forthcoming move back to the UK.  That is the reason why I am trying to cram as much south of France living into the next month. Apart from finding untapped masses that have yet to have the benefits of Currencies Direct unveiled to them, I have begun to consider my wardrobe for summer in the UK. Arundel will be very different to Valbonne. I said that I was worried about the bright colours I like to wear down here. That nice lady decorator suggested that as Arundel is not far from Brighton, the unofficial gay capital of England, and that I would fit in well, but that I should be more worried about my enormous porno moustache. It seems she thinks I may attract attention of a different kind.

So today we will return to the Auberge De La Source near Valbonne with a larger party to undertake an ex-pat stress test. This is where we collect together a bunch of hard drinking noisy Brits in the sunshine and try to ascertain if the restaurant can handle the consequences. A full report tomorrow?

Chris France