Master Cutter

So then to a perfect lunch at the Auberge St Donat. It was the sort of lunch that I will so miss in England. A dozen people showed up, wine was drunk, good solid food was consumed and laughter was the theme until we were the last to leave at about 4pm.

Some of the girls were slightly less than enamored with the second starter (5 courses, no choice 15.50 euros including wine is the format) but I love a bit of tongue and lentils. In fact I am happy to receive tongue in almost any circumstances, with or without lentils. The Wingco was at his best when he suggested that if the girls amongst us were unhappy with that course they should consider eating elsewhere but I digress.

A much better turnout lightened a motley Monday,  the weather only beginning to improve during lunch, but that improvement was sufficient to allow us to adjourn afterwards to the Wingco’s terrace nearby, drink more wine and enjoy Blind Lemon Milsted’s vocal ad libbing to the strident blues riffs supplied by the Wingco.

Lunch was enlivened by an uncompromising sales pitch by Master Mariner Mundell to persuade the lovely Pippa, the French boss of those wise currency exchange experts Currencies Direct, to sponsor a range of sailing attire for the crew of his boat for the Bistro Rally, scheduled for 24th of September. This annual race, open to all owners of sailing yachts, has been won by the Master for five years in succession. In fact he has never lost, although he seems to have lost some sailing friends along the way. Personally I have no problem with proclaiming victory when I have won (and sulking, no, refusing to believe it possible if I have lost) but one, well this council house boy at least, would have expected the Master, being a public school educated and properly brought up sort of chap, as he is constantly reminding me, to have a little more decorum and modesty. Playing Queens “We Are The Champions” and cranking up the stereo up to maximum as soon as he has passed the finishing line seems not to have endeared him to his fellow sailors, nor to the entire population of Mandelieu who were the unlucky recipients to this monstrous cacophony when he arrived back from this victory last year.

It is this malevolent side to his character which I have nearly captured on my picture today. Undoubtedly, he is jealous of my luxuriant moustache and the attention to which I am subjected by almost the entire female population and although he tries to hide it (actually now I come to think of it, he does not try to hide it) I believe that he wishes my moustache physical harm. Please note his grasp on the garden loppers in today’s picture. He was heading towards my moustache at the time.

A cut above the rest?

My house guardian, man mountain Peachy Butterfield, was comparatively muted for him but the same cannot be said for the nice lady decorator who, seemingly, after I had retired hurt from the pav in the early evening, insisted on proving rather graphically to all and sundry that she had not had breast implants or any work done. As I was undergoing treatment at the time, I have only her word for what happened. More details will doubtless emerge today as I speak to those who had remained awake and are able to remember in the entirety events that took place after I had removed myself from proceedings. Perhaps after all, this is in fact a good time to be leaving France for the time being.

Chris France