A journalist is born

There are days that start badly but then improve to heights undreamed of when wallowing in the slough of discontent. Such a day was yesterday. Let me start with the good news. A poorly educated council house oik (the description of my good self regularly employed by a number of my public schoolboy friends) yesterday added the description “journalist” to the self-composed list of qualities, which include “successful author”.

In England, the leading conservative daily newspaper on a par with The Times is The Daily Telegraph. It is the newspaper of choice for those public schoolboy types. Imagine then my delight that they informed me yesterday that the very first article I had ever submitted to them, or indeed any newspaper had been published. You can see the article by clicking here.

The small recompense that they will pay me is as nothing against the entertainment I shall glean over the coming days as my chums realise the enormity of the public relations coup this represents. I cannot wait to meet Mr Clipbeard this evening to discuss this triumph. I know he will be pleased for me.

I think a celebratory cigar this evening?

It was just the kind of uplifting news to set against the increasingly depressing prospects of returning to England and there was something else that was depressing me. I have a hunch that it had something to do with tennis but, no, its gone, but no matter, a new career in journalism, starting with one of the most prestigious publications in England, even the world is sufficient to erase any disappointments that may or may not have occurred yesterday.

Even the prospect of the day ahead today being littered with a string of tasks I have been set my that nice lady decorator, most of which seem to involve me in furious manual labour in the heat of the day is not enough to remove a smirk from my face, a smirk that will become a chuckle when I meet up with some of my better educated peers this evening.

Obviously I must make the most of any time available to me in between to complete my work with Currencies Direct as there are still any number of lost souls out there seemingly oblivious to the fact that their banks are fleecing them each time they make a foreign exchange transfer. There is a better way, a brighter way, a cheaper way to do this, click here for details and to apply.

So two more days and it is the end of my life as I know it. I know we shall be back for a week at the end of August, but then there is the rest of the year when I shall be based in Arundel, albeit interspacd  with trips to Ireland, Italy, India, Australia before Christmas (one must get used to this exile gradually breaking up those long expanses of boredom, cold, wet weather and expensive wine by taking regular breaks to deal with the monotony). I shall take some solace in English real ale, but it will only partly offset the sense of desolation that is about to wash over me. Who knows, if the tax situation in France can be clarified, I will be able to return in exaltation sometime next year. I live in hope.

Valbonne Square then this evening, although not at its best because of the influx of tourists, which of course ironically will now be all the more pronounced due to the publication of my article in the Daily Telegraph, but I shall sit with a cigar later and contemplate what I am leaving behind.

Chris France