Atrocity beside a butchers

The decision was how many jumpers should I wear for the trip to Gatwick, and how many pairs of shorts should I pack for France. We left Arundel under scudding skies and with spots of rain hinting that a trip to France would be quite timely. We arrived in Nice at 7pm to 27 degrees and unbroken evening sunshine. I felt my shoulders, hunched against the rain and wind of England, relax as we walked to the car.

The Wingco had kindly agreed to pick us up from the airport to meet up with that nice lady decorators brother and wife, the lovely Stephanie, who are guests for the week. I had forgotten to forewarn them about the Wingco, and before I could intercept them to avoid the dangerous carnage that would result, they had invited him to stay for a drink. I knew the folly of such an invitation due to his regularly exhibited prodigious appetite for red wine and I knew at that moment that I would have to tap the supplies stored in the garage.

Our guests, having arrived ahead of us had generously been to the supermarket and taken on sufficient supplies for the 4 of us, including a magnum of a very good St Emilion, could not have known that adding The Wingco to the equation made the logistics fail to add up. Disasterously, they had laid a table for 5, and even the Wingco can count as high as that and worked out that he was also invited to dine with us. Thus the lamb which our guests had lined up for lunch today, and which they offered to barbecue for the Wingco (an offer they had expected him to refuse – he did not), and once on his way we knew it was too late. We used some prosecco to stem the tide but it was no good, the garage key had to be found and several bottles of a nice little Italian were fed into the food and drink disposal unit we affectionately know as the Wingco.

My picture today was taken in Arundel at the weekend. It seems a little cruel of the organisers of the festival to place the Lancing Silver Band so close to the butchers. I do hope that this decision to no way reflects their feelings about the quality of the bands output.

How could anyone think this fine band could ever butcher a song?

Blue skies and sunshine have awoken me from my slumbers this morning and already the wheels of the  social whirl that epitomises Valbonne have begun to move. There is talk of a day out on the sailing boat belonging to the Master Mariner Mundell, a lunch on Thursday at Auberge de le Source but looming larger in every way is the expected arrival of the giant Peachy Butterfield this evening. On my shopping list will be the largest possible boxes of red and rose wine in readiness for the onslaught. The man mountain has been languishing in the cold and wet of the frozen north for a couple of months and is in dire need of some sunshine.

Friday will give me an opportunity to go to church at Cafe Latin for the first time in months to see some of my Currencies Direct clients. I am also anxious to see if my style guru, Mr Humphreys (if he is free) will pass judgement and give his seal of approval to some rather dashing green trousers I have recently purchased. Given his eye for colour, I have high hopes, unless the green eye of jealousy gets the better of him.

Chris France