Confusion rains in Essex on sea.

I considered inventing a torn fetlock to avoid having to walk almost to Caleta for that Nice Lady Decorator to have one last long lingering look at the naked Spanish hippy, but as it turned out, we did not have enough time for the hellish trip, thank the lord, or the Reverend Jeff if you prefer.

It was our last day in Tenerife and thus the last day of sunshine for some considerable time and the most had to be made of the opportunity to hone ones tan in order to show off to ones friend upon one’s return. I had been told in no uncertain terms, that as soon as we returned to the womb of Arundel, that we were to have a complete week of no social occasions and no drinking before venturing back to France next Friday. However, it now seems that we have house husband yeah-yeah-yeah Jackson and his mightily intellectually superior wife Rowena, whom we met in Adelaide, visiting from up north this evening. I suppose we may expect a gift of some Scunthorpe Chardonnay. Snow will be involved, so there is a chance they will not make it, but then there is now a dinner on Saturday (I know not where) and lunch with the Wyatt Earp of Arundel, the lovely Kathryn on Sunday, so I would say that the planned period of abstinence is in tatters. Stupid plan anyway. For all that is sacred (this again for the Reverend Jeff) we will on Friday be entering Peachyland, the most dangerous place on the planet for non drinkers, so I would contend that we have some training to do. easing up now could be disastrous.

Anyway, we left Essex on sea last evening with some regret as the weather has been great for a whole week. Temperatures in the early to mid 20’s sunshine and a lovely coastline has repaired my good humour and I feel I  can now face the damp and drizzle (or snow if the forecast is to be believed) of jolly old England. Also there will be no naked hippy to blight my little world, or if there is then he will be freezing his little brass monkeys off. It has not been a successful week for my endeavours with Currencies Direct, but I had that sinking feeling in my heart from the moment we left Gatwick. Clearly there is no longer anyone left in Essex who is sufficiently affluent to be able to afford a house abroad and therefore benefit from their services.

Little Miss Princess with her red shell suit, muffin top, horrible bright red lipstick, loud Essex accent and cheap silver boots was sadly lacking on the return flight, but there was enough of the spirit of Essex aboard in order to provide some entertainment. Once again announcements informing the travellers that the drinking of their own alcohol on the plane were ringing out with the regularity of a heartbeat. It was suggested that any illicit consumption would entail the confiscation of said alcohol, but that would have required a stomach pump. I wonder what the more geographically challenged inhabitants of that fair county would have made of this signpost. As you can see, there is no sign for Basildon.

No sign of Romford?

Whereas I hate rain and greyness, snow is a very different matter, if indeed it does decide to snow properly. With a commute to work of around 10 metres to my shed, I feel sure I shall be able to battle  through, but my bet is on wet snow and slush by this afternoon.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News