Arundel at night

Whilst there are undeniable advantages for a chap who hates shopping buying his Christmas presents on-line, no one seems to have worked out what a waste if time it can be. A whole day wasted. Delivery was scheduled for either on Monday or Tuesday between 8 and 6. That means that one is forced to stay in the house waiting for the courier that never comes. It is the same today. Another courier delivery, another morning stuck in the house.

One may be forgiven for assuming that as Sprog 2 is home, she could be detailed to remain on duty to sign for the wretched things, but that is a fantasy entertained by those with no knowledge of teenage student sleep patterns, and their resultant incapability of discharging the simplest of tasks before 2pm. This means that the initial triumph of selecting and purchasing the gift from the comfort of one’s armchair is often the start of a three-day vigil waiting for the courier, as bad as waiting for your man to an addict.

The good news is that it is finished. The Valbonne Monologues has been sent for final formatting and printing. Hurrah! Within a few days I will be able to project forward to a launch date, once I have certainty of delivery, again inevitably, by courier.

So, stir crazy and in a celebratory mood, we went to the Red Lion in Arundel for a pint of London Pride and in search of a part-time Xmas bar job for Sprog 2. With that Nice Lady Decorator still plagued by jet lag after our recent return from Australia, we returned swiftly to the White Hart so as to be close to home when she wanted to crash out, but contrarily she woke up and demanded food. Arundel is very festively decorated at night at this time of year as I hope today’s picture captures.

Arundel in Christmas mood

A Somebody has written a book. Called “The Autobiography Of A Somebody”, it was written by a chap whose name I cannot reveal but he lives near my beloved Valbonne, and as a hint, he has had some influence over my sartorial style over the past few years. Whilst he is often free, his book is not. It is a fascinating exercise, not putting his name to it, and as a result has already sold over 500 copies. This fact has led me to some soul searching. As regular readers cannot fail to be aware, I have taken the traditional route with my first and shortly my second books, naming myself as the author, but have archived less than half the sales that he has achieved. This is a mystery. So far I can come only to very unsatisfactory conclusions about the relative merits of our respective books. I need to find out more about his marketing tactics as there must be a trick I have missed. I would have liked to argue that I have targeted a more highbrow audience, but I can almost hear the Wingco guffawing at such a concept. I must find out more.

Once couriers have wasted my morning I have a busy schedule of events lined up. Lunch with an old friend whom I have not seen for more than decade is in the diary. Butlers, the charming restaurant in Tarrant Street in Arundel is the venue. Barry King is head honcho for a number of magazines, primary amongst these is Dolls House World. Yes, I know, what kind if job is that for a grown man. What sort of person is he likely to come into contact in a daily basis? Old crusties with nothing else to do but waste their time with their obsessive little hobbies. In the context of my daily obsession of producing this column aimed primarily at people with foreign exchange needs and my age, perhaps there clue in his desire to see me.

Chris France

@Valbonne_News