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Garden sheds on the beach

November 2, 2012

I was reminded today of the old Commer van, the vehicle of choice for rock and roll bands in the 60’s before the Ford Transit came along. This is because of the proof reading now taking place of my second book The Valbonne Monologues which will be launched (I hope) on Friday 14th December at a ceremony in Valbonne’s penultimate market day before Christmas.   Why the Commer Van reference? Well, because my proof readers have added so many comma’s to my work, it would need a van to shift them.

A long walk over the Sussex countryside yesterday almost had a happy ending when Banjo, the disaster dog owned and protected from normal discipline by that Nice Lady Decorator, developed a limp. My thought was that he should be put down immediately and not being a squeamish girlie, I volunteered for the job. Sadly though, he recovered before we got back to the car.

Although still attempting to rid myself of unwanted weight, with a low carb diet, cycling and walking, I am always open to a diversion, so, when it was suggested that we undo all the good work and pop into the Black Horse for a pint of Ringwood, I am ashamed to say I agreed. It never stops at one, and, once on the slippery beer slope (this does not imply that any is spilled), momentum is everything, thus later on and with that Nice Lady Decorator disinclined to cook, we decided to take advantage of the Kings Head’s innovative idea of welcoming you into the pub with your take away. Tell me if a combination of real ale, chicken jalfrezi, popadoms, fried rice and nan bread are low carb? I shall not want to face the scales this morning.

Today’s picture could be a study in low-cost housing in England. Beach huts are a peculiarly English phenomenon, I guess born out of the need to find relief from wind and rain whilst “enjoying” an English beach holiday. It is a close run thing, but sitting in a beach side restaurant beside the sparking Mediterranean with a glass of something fizzy, and a nice piece of fish untroubled by glutinous batter just about shaves it.

beach huts

The English beach experience

So after a couple of back sliding days, I am determined that today I shall back in the saddle today. Currencies Direct will loom large on my desk diary, listing things that I should have done, packing for the forthcoming Australian trip must be considered, especially the cricket gear that will be required. I had left my cricket shoes in England two years ago but was distressed to discover that their keeper, John “Chuckle Brothers” Surtees had throw them out on account of their smell. I shall also have to buy a new “protector” or cricket box as I knew them, the vital piece of equipment that protects one’s crown jewels from being hit by the hard cricket ball. I had an email from our captain, Sir Thomas Ingilby saying that team protectors were available but I have decided that I do not want to share. In any event they may well turn out to be too small for the job (the jewels, not the protector). This will mean, I think, a trip to London or perhaps Brighton to purchase the required equipment.

Then tomorrow it is the weekend when that horse may well trip up again. I certainly hope so! It can be so boring being righteous, and anyway, those bathroom scales are out to upset me. I think they should be the subject of a polygraph because they are lying to me constantly and nobody believes me when I try to expose them.

Chris France

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