Space for a curry?

This was no ordinary hangover and I blame the Incomprehensible Scotsman. Concentrating on the wonders of Currencies Direct has been very difficult. I could not understand most of his mumblings but when someone late in the afternoon guessed the word “curry” from the torrent of his  guttural, phlegm soaked and spittle encrusted utterances, he became very animated. We gleaned from this that he wanted a curry for supper. Thus it was his fault that after a big lunch on Wednesday, a lot of poor behaviour, the emptying of both of Peachy Butterfield’s 10 litre wine boxes, that we ventured into Valbonne for a curry at The Kashmir, and very good it was too.

There is something mystical about the lure of a curry after a skinful, a magical mystery of Indian proportions. Obviously the Scotsman, being Incomprehensible, could not communicate with the Indian waiter who I am convinced was a fan of Little Britain. Matt Lucas’s Fat Fighter character, who cannot understand a word the Indian woman is saying, was reprised in reverse on Wednesday evening in a hysterical interlude. Perhaps we should not all have kept saying “sorry?”, or “again” every time he spoke. Even the indian waiter joined in. As a result I still do not know, and nor does he, what he ordered. Whatever it was he said it was good, at least I think that is what he said.

He has now left, and not before time, to return to Glasgow where he was pleased to see that the temperature was 12 degrees and it was raining. He could hardly wait. It must be an exciting time when the tundra softens in the old home town enough for the midges to rise in clouds from the semi frozen vegetation. His colour whilst he has been with us for two days had changed from pallid blue/white to raging crimson in the unaccustomed sunshine and he had been worthy bait for every mosquito in the south of France. In fact we have seen very few so far this year, but his magnetic personality attracted almost all of those that were in the vicinity.

Now I mentioned bad behaviour earlier, and it is often a joy to discover that I have taken pictures which I had forgotten. Such an animal is featured today. An animal in a more literal sense in the shape of which man mountain who for some unexplained reason wanted to remove his shirt at some stage. Worried that his nipples may get sunburnt, he asked for volunteers to help cover them up as I think is captured on today’s featured image.

I think it’s a boy

I cannot be certain who was unlucky enough to have been charged with this task but are those decorating hands I see before me? Also, try as I might, I cannot remember any reason for this photo.

Back to the hangover. Even as I write, late in the evening, I am still feeling the effects. Even a late afternoon pizza and pichet in Valbonne Square to see off the Incomprehensible one did not shake it off so I took to me bed early to ensure I am bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning. This is as opposed to having a serious dose of post curry billy browntale this morning, but then that is probably too much information for those of you who like to read this gibberish over breakfast.

A thankfully quiet day is on the cards for today, but already there is a cloud on the horizon of sobriety. Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs has invited us on Saturday afternoon to discuss details of the Australian and Indian trip planned to ward off and slice in two the horrid English winter. I suspect wine may be drunk. Quelle surprise!

Chris France