All aboard for the fireworks

What sort of chap reneges on post tennis dinner on the spurious pretext that his wife expects him back for dinner? Could it be the same kind of chap that decides, amid another thrashing, that he does not like the surface upon which we are playing and whines to such an extent that we switch the match from clay to a hard court after he has lost the first set? I cannot reveal who was responsible for both these misdemeanours but I will say that Mr Clipbeard is a cad and a bounder.

It is a long-held tradition that, unless apologies are received in writing in advance, anyone selected to play tennis on a Wednesday evening is expected to partake of a post tennis pizza. Simply dipping out of this arrangement without warning is an example of impossibly bad manners which, if I am honest, is a fitting description of the general behaviour of a former Wellingtonian public schoolboy whom I shall not mention, but he knows to whom this refers.

It is bad enough that our leader, Dancing Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villas pleaded that he had a migraine or it was his period or something and had made his excuses (and had the received the white feather for cowardice) not to play, but at least he did not let us down at the last moment. Thus myself, the Wingco and Nick “Trousers Down” Davies took Pizza at the Auberge St Donat, newly open for the evening in summer.

It appears that all three of us, together with respective spouses, plus even a certain backslider, whom I have mentioned above but not named, are invited aboard Master Mariner Mundell’s boat (the subject of my picture today) for the Bastille Day fireworks in Cannes this coming Saturday evening. I am reasonably confident that the three of us who did adhere to last evenings dinner arrangement will show up, but am less confident about the manners and reliability of the fourth.

Fireworks aboard on Saturday

The Master can take only 12 aboard L’Exocet, but has come up with a cunning wheeze to increase the numbers. By taking a Rib, a kind of dinghy with us, which seats 11, we can tie it up to the boat and bingo, we can have 23 aboard at anchor. The Wingco is bringing his guitar and Blind Lemon Milsted is expected back from the States where he has gone to see a man about a job, I feel an evening of ad-libbing musical firework nonsense may not be far away.

That nice lady decorator flew back to London yesterday to help the unremittingly untidy sprog 2 clean out her room at her digs in Kensington. She has taken with her the largest and most durable rubber gloves (called Marigold), some industrial strength detergent and a paint scraper to see if she can return the room to a state in which we have some hope of retrieving the deposit, so last night, there was no one at home to nag look after me, thus I had in mind a quiet night cap in the pav whilst I contemplated all the work I have not done for Currencies Direct.

Stupidly, I had forgotten that sprog 1 was at home looking after my beers and wine and he had thoughtfully invited about twenty thirsty teenagers to help in that effort. I know I should have retired to my bed and not spent at least an hour regaling them with stories about my career in the music industry, but I just know when I am being funny. At least I think they were laughing with me not at me.

Chris France