Cricket boules?

I was told, at the outset, that it was going to be a quiet pre Wimbledon lunch. Of course it was a last-minute call, my finding out for certain that we had a luncheon engagement with Suzie and Norman Philpot barely an hour before lunch was convened at Auberge de la Source at Sophia Antipolis.

Quiet was the inoperative word, otherwise how could the quiet lunch have ended with us going back to theirs, that nice lady decorator finding herself fully clothed in the swimming pool whilst I donned cricket pads and bat and faced a bowling machine set at 80 miles per hour? I have a picture of this as today’s feature in support of my position. Surely every right thinking ex-pat should have a bowling machine for use on a boules court?

Boys with toys

The exact sequence of events is still a little hazy, and as I write I have no idea who won the ladies version of Wimbledon, or indeed if it actually took place.  Norman and Suzie Philpot are dangerous and beautiful respectively. She was no less beautiful when laid on their hall floor “sleeping” in the early evening after boules, cricket and copious amounts of wine, and at which point departure seemed the best course of action. He is dangerous, full stop.

Earlier, we had partaken of the usual power march around the local forests, where we have found a plum tree producing the best fruit in the world, and from which we took strength in order to deal with the privations of lunch. As I write, that nice lady decorator, who had a girly dinner planned for this evening, sadly now cancelled, at least as far as she is concerned, is snoring blissfully in a way she will utterly deny tomorrow. Sensibly, I have made a video recording of her snoring. You can never know when such evidence might come in useful in the defence of crimes I have not yet committed.

So last evening did not really start at all. Awaking from a late siesta at around 9pm was a privilege to which I alone was privy. That nice lady decorator was, in boxing parlance “out for the count” and thus I was forced to feed myself. It is a fact that most men have no idea how the cooker works, and only a rudimentary understanding of something called a microwave, so an Indian take away from Valbonne’s Le Kashmir seemed the best course of action.

Being summer, and with the Indian besieged by tourists, I was informed that my order would take some 45 minutes to be prepared. Luckily, La Kavanou, the wine bar in Valbonne is close by so I ventured in for a short while. I know that I am not very welcome there after an unfortunate incident after my book launch, for which I was not to blame, when Master Mariner Mundell and his arm wrestling antics pushed us down the list of desirable customers. So low down the list that we have been forced to avoid it since. Anyway, I was welcomed with open wallet and spent an interesting half hour talking to a wonderful chap about the meaning of life and everything, and the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct. Customers are often found in the most unlikely of places, and if all goes to plan, the exorbitant cost of the take away may yet still be justified.

You may think that as it is Sunday today, that life will become a little more reserved, contemplative and quiet. If you do think that then I suggest therapy. I have no idea what may transpire. Perhaps we will just get the Sunday Times and then spend a quiet day drinking tea, bit somehow I do not believe that.

Chris France