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Wave of emotion

October 13, 2012

I found a pub with a TV. It was about 12 inches across, the TV not the pub, and it was in black and white but it was a TV, the sort that my mother watched the Coronation in the 1950’s. This a real sign of progress for these warm-hearted northerners who had dragged themselves,  steaming and damp from foraging for coal or whatever they do for entertainment up here and enabled me, with several hundreds of others to see some of the football World Cup qualifier between England and St Marino last night.

There was one amongst the great unwashed throng who thought a San Marino was a type of sheep, and frankly his eyes were shining at the prospect, but I was able to persuade him that it was a very poor car made by British Leyland in the 1970’s. They were all called Morris. At least I think I persuaded him, in truth the accent was so thick and his eyes rather too close together for me to be certain that he absorbed the information, and that slobbering reminded me of Banjo, that cretinous canine owned by that nice lady decorator. I also suggested to him a lifestyle improvement whereby if he held his arms up a little he would not drag his knuckles across the floor as he walked but again, the lights were on but nobody appeared to be home.

So I watched Sir Stanley Matthews (at least that is what it looked like) in moody black and white amongst the salt of the earth, the hardy population of the north of England until the electricity gave out. Luckily there was beer of a sort, warm and unappetising but beer nonetheless and beggars cannot be choosers and boy, last night was I a beggar.

Regular readers will have spotted that the narrative today is flowing so much more easily than normal and this is because I have once again spent the day writing as befits a successful author. Talking of flowing I took this picture of a local tsunami.


Chester tsunami

I was thus in need of some diversion myself having spent another full 9 hours working on that Christmas present I know you are going to love, my second book “The Valbonne Monologues”. I was telling one of the locals about it in the bar afterwards but he said he preferred bi-focals, and his mate said he also preferred two wheels. It was not a successful meeting of the minds, north and south. It seldom is, but I won’t have a word said against them.

So they all slunk off to their caves and mud huts with their clay pipes and their cauldrons of, well, whatever it is they cook up in them, probably roadkill and pigeons and the like. I did have a chance during the day when I popped out for what I thought might be some fresh air, to ensure that the officially designated pigeon feeding areas were still designated. This was the rewarding revelation for Peachy Butterfield, whose home town this is, when I made this discovery when I was last here about two years ago. I know he will be pleased. It was during what passed for a summer up north, although I was wearing every garment in my suit case and had borrowed a duffel coat and woollen mittens as the sleet bit into my very soul. It was August and they were having a barbecue, so at least there was something by which to huddle.

Now you may think that the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct might be a concept too far for these lovely simple people, and you would be right, I gave out some of by business cards but when they began to play ‘snap” with them I came to the conclusion that some fell on stony ground.

So today, with the back broken of that monumental task, and only a little further honing required, I may be able to engineer some proper free time to take in the environment during the few hours of twilight in the middle of the day.

Chris France

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