Lunch in St Tropez

Call me a tart if you like, but when the opportunity to spend the planned 70 or so Euros on a round of golf with the Landlubbers was set against the late offer of revisiting Tahiti Beach at St Tropez aboard a private yacht, what can one do? It will still cost me 70 euros for lunch, but that will be after a cruise down the coast of the Mediterranean, a nice lunch, a shed full of rose, dancing with girls a third of ones age, drinking a great deal of, well, everything and the floating back.

The alternative was to be baked on a golf course, spend a great deal of time looking for golf balls in deep forest, finding every bunker that Adolf Hitler ever invented and discussing the fact that trees are 90% water.  It took a great deal of consideration but in the end I erred on the side of debauchery, and I don’t mean the golf.

It all started when Master Mariner Mundell tacked into our garden just after lunch demanding beers and rose, and who am I to be contrary? He was after some pictures from our trip to the same place last Sunday, and had popped in on the off-chance, having previously ensured we would be in.  These public schoolboys don’t like to leave anything to chance. When the Ipad was a tad uncooperative on the photograph front, there seemed no alternative but to do it all again today. The invitation was issued and immediately accepted by that nice lady decorator and hence golf today was postponed.

Tahiti Beach last weekend

Mr Clipbeard received a warning (in triplicate) that we would not now be in Valbonne at the appointed hour this evening (bad show, on report no doubt) and this morning I must venture to local supermarket, Super U, now open on a Sunday for the next two months (hurrah!), to secure supplies for the intended voyage to St Tropez.

Almost as the Master departed, Le Grande Peche and delectable slim line Madame Peche hoved into view, demanding similar treatment. Yet more rose and some prosecco were pushed into service to accommodate said needs, brought about by their tenancy ending for summer and needing to store stuff in our garage for summer.

The lovely Suzanne raised the temperature a little by guiding me through some of the gardening tasks she had been required to undertake this week. She has an innocent look about her that can be deceptive. This is best illustrated by her pronouncement that she has a gardening bikini. Better than that, it seems it is a micro bikini, and is fuschia pink. Frankly, by the time I had considered the options it could have been rancid polecat pink and I would still not had enough room in my mouth for my tongue, but old age does that to you. Peachy refers to her as “the old coote” which coming from a fat northern git is a bit hard to take. I remonstrated with him that his description was a little harsh but he said that as a coote was water foul (not his spelling) such a description was like water off a ducks back. No, I do not understand either.

So rather delightfully, plans have been altered and St Tropez now beckons. As it is the weekend, I need not feel guilty about doing little for Currencies Direct, but then one never knows who else will be aboard L’Exocet, perhaps there will be a potential customer? Certainly when it comes to submitting the standard outrageous bill for lunch to my accountant, I do hope so.

Chris France