Political incorrectness gets just desserts

After the full on shenanigans of lunch with Uncle Fester on Sunday, I was happy to know that no socialising was on the cards for yesterday. His politically incorrect, albeit hysterically funny, antics could well have ended with the police being called and a scene not unlike this one, a reenactment of the Mods versus rockers confrontations in the 1960’s staged at the Goodwood Revival Festival at the weekend.

Police move in on trouble makers

My day yesterday was far less interesting consisting, as it did, of not one but two trips to our delightful local tip (or recycling station as they now call them) in a continuing attempt to lift the shadow cast by the mountain of debris that has emerged from our house in pursuit of an old inglenook fireplace. Dr Who’s tardis comes to mind. How can the rubble from an old fireplace fill up a large yard (or cottage garden as that nice lady likes to refer to it) to the height of nearly 100 feet? You may be surprised given my well documented avoidance of physical hard work that I volunteered to help speed up the clearance. Something had to be done, it was in danger of obstructing the side gate into the pub. Never let it be said that when there is an emergency my shoulder was not to the wheel.

Real work, and editing my next book was a tad difficult in the circumstances. Wheelbarrows full of cement being propelled across the lounge carpet, dust from the belt sander, dust from the debris, dust from brick work all conspired to interfere with this tremendously rewarding task. By 10pm, all was settled and still until the late screening of the recording of Downtown Abbey was underway, then there was a whole lot more confusion and fuss.

Today I believe I shall also have the pleasure of more trips to the tip and another day without alcoholic sustenance. I guess some penance needs to be made for the months of excess that preceded our taking up full-time residence in Arundel. However help is on the horizon. Tomorrow, weather permitting (a sad reality now that I am out of the warm bosom of Valbonne) I shall play tennis for the first time since returning to England. This must of course be followed by lunch and I am so desperate I an even looking forward to Mr Clive “Oh No It’s Not” Panto’s cooking. I have used the word cooking but incinerating may be more accurate. If it is to be a barbecue then I shall also stock the car up with the charcoal to which much of the food will be reduced. I believe he has an industrial strength garden barbecue cooking set up which he customarily sets to “pulverize”.

Before he is allowed to stamp his carbon footprint into the heart of South East England, we are set to play some doubles with Currencies Direct client Mr Clipbeard and a friend of Mr Panto (weird concept I know but stay with me here). Clive is a very funny man but in terms of disarming rudeness, he is right up there with Norman “Uncle Fester” Philpot about whom I wrote yesterday. His knowledge of obscure rules of tennis is unsurpassed and are inevitably biased to suit him. His hatred of my slow lobbing tennis technique does not endear me to him, nor does my status as a successful author. From his educational crows nest, my schooling also leaves a very great deal to be desired and this is a theme that will no doubt be taken up by Mr Clipbeard (so named if you recall for his removal by force of my lovely beard in a restaurant “accident” late last year, his previous epithet Mr Clipboard, a reference to his overbearing nick picking and entirely unspontaneous organisation of the minutiae of his daily life). But I have run out of space so more tomorrow.

Chris France