Roadkill and tantric sex

An old friend noting my problems with wasting time waiting for a plumber describes this as like tantric sex. You stay in all day but nobody comes. In the end, we were on the point of accepting the kind offer from James “Desperate Dan” the Landlord of the White Hart, to use the pubs guest room showers, when we had a visitation from the other side. I think it was an offer that had a double benefit; we could still go to the pub and we won’t smell as bad.

A day spent organising opticians, haircuts, aunts and Xmas presents was undertaken in relays so that someone could be at home in case the plumber arrived back on earth, so very unsatisfactory and irritating, and no exercise, so it was not all bad. Then later, after nearly giving up and figuring that as we had originally met the plumber in the pub, he would probably have the brass neck to walk in and greet us as long-lost friends, he arrived on the door step, smiling. However much I am unhappy about him, I would have counselled him not to try joviality with that Nice Lady Decorator, otherwise I would have gambled that he would be likely to have his facial features rearranged in the most spectacular fashion. But, amazingly, it worked. He smiled, he is easy on the eye (reputedly) and he made the shower hot, so calm serenity returned to the France household.

The Valbonne Monologues is finished and sent to the printers…who closed down at lunchtime yesterday until Jan 2nd. Great timing. I think they are so excited at the prospect of being the printers of a worldwide smash hit, they decided to take a holiday before getting to work.

Last night to the Kings Arms to avail ourselves of their very sensible policy of welcoming the consumption of takeaways in the pub. The game aunt was up for it, but did not order a vindaloo which she had threatened, mainly because we decided on Chinese instead. This reminded me of a book I picked up in Australia recently which I picture today.

Roadkill recipes from down under

When I found this book, I wanted to surprise Peachy Butterfield for Xmas, but as we are not now going to get down to Valbonne until later in January, I have decided to let the surprise out of the bag now. Peachy, being from up north, will, I am sure, take a great deal from this book, a sort of Northern version of a nod towards the celebrity chef cult.

I don’t know why I decided to use this photo after eating a Chinese takeaway, perhaps it was because some of the dishes resembled some of those prepared  by Mr Butterfield at some of his barbecues in the south of France, although the Chinese tend to remove the horns and trotters, which according to him, are the best bits.

With rain of the most tempestuous nature forecast for every day before Christmas Day, plans need to be made to ease the horror. I usually take solace in the form of lunch. The Black Rabbit for Sunday lunch is a given, but there is today to fill, and my suggestion that we go to the George and Dragon at Houghton has so far fallen on stony ground. Personally, I blame M. Sarkozy and his crazy tax laws for my plight, otherwise lunch would have been taken at the Auberge St Donat near Valbonne in the sunshine, where I could have discussed with my friends the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct for all their foreign exchange needs. I know they would have been pleased.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News