Modern art; A commentary

The first full day of drudgery, life in England, which was a parting gift to me from the hyperactive vertically challenged former President of France, Mr Sarkozy, ended for me at 9 30pm when I could take no more and went to bed.

It started with opening the post to find that I was to be prosecuted for allegedly speeding in a the white van I had hired in July to collect all our stuff from storage. Just the mention of a white van had my middle finger flexing. It continued with a visit to the charming offices of Arun District Council to sort out a parking permit, and being given the wrong one, so I was lucky enough to be able to drive into Littlehampton twice in order to sort it out.

The internet printer will not work, the internet keeps crashing, it rained again whilst I was unloading all the goodies we had brought from France, Banjo has returned from prison no worse for wear and I am on the wagon, but after three months of non stop partying I really didn’t fancy a drink. I must be going soft in my old age.

There were upsides; I booked the flights back to Nice in order to attend the Bistro Rally on 24th September, I paid for the Golden Oldies Cricket Festival in Adelaide in late November, and I found the flights and hotel confirmation for a trip to the Galway Bay Oyster Festival later this month. In order to face the horror of an English winter I shall need breaks from time to time. A 6 month break would be preferable but fate (and by that I mean that nice lady decorator) will not allow it.

To rub it in I saw a procession of photographs from Peachy Butterfield on Facebook, who is looking after our house in Valbonne, enjoying himself in the sunshine, but instead of using one of those shots I have one today of him enjoying himself in a slightly different way. He obviously shares my views about modern art.

The stature needs a bit of tweaking

So what does the week ahead hold? A great deal of work on the music clearances for a documentary project for a 60’s legend (sorry Paul if you are reading this, I will get this done today or tomorrow), the constant search for new clients for Currencies Direct and of course the continuation of my second book. All rather sedentary pursuits which will be interspersed with some cycling and walking. Even the walking will be spoiled by the presence of that dog.

That nice lady decorator has commenced what she does best, decorating. This means noise and mess so no change there. We shall be taking the sledgehammer to a modern brick fireplace which we suspect covers an old inglenook fireplace so it should be quiet. Luckily I have a garden shed known as the office where I can apply ear plugs and hope the internet holds together long enough to allow we to get some work done.

There is one social occasion on the nearer horizon, a visit to see Mr Panto (real name) and Mr Clip beard (not real name) some time next week. I am promised the chance to play tennis and have lunch. Clive Panto is always good value. He is an entertainer with whom you are forced either to laugh with or laugh at. A diminutive man with a haircut reminiscent of another of his ilk, Coko the clown, his rudeness is legendary, his wit sabre like, his tennis remarkably good for a man so palpably unfit and he is a public schoolboy and Oxbridge man (ie was at either Oxford or Cambridge but I deliberately refuse to remember which because it bugs him so much) who, like most of his sort, abhor the ideal of a chap like me, a grammar school boy, writing a book and pretending to be a serious author. I am really looking forward to it.

Chris France