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The source of yellow snow

January 21, 2013

More light snow yesterday morning persuaded us to go not to the coast, but to Houghton woods to see how bad were the roads, but disappointingly they were clear although the snow was settling elsewhere in the countryside. Not having to leave the house for a commuter trip to my office on  daily basis as it is in my garden, I love the chaos that snow causes and love nothing more than bombing around the deserted snow-covered Lido car park at the back in the 4×4 doing hand brake turns, although it is fair to say that this does not impress that Nice Lady Decorator.

It is fairly simple to exercise the dogs  as they are content to race after snow balls which are if course impossible to find. It seems that they must employ their sense of smell for these elusive balls,  and by way of illustration of this search technique I  took this picture of events as the search for yellow snow got underway. It reminds me of the old joke “how does a dog smell with no nose?”. I think the Reverend Jeff has the answer.

dogs sniffing in thr snow

The search for the source of the yellow snow goes on

It was important to build up a thirst and an appetite for lunch with the Wyatt Earp of Arundel, who was apparently having a day off from running men out of Arundel. She denies ever having described herself as thus  but it is not something I would have invented.  Colt 45’s  at midday to settle it? I might have suggested had I been that brave.

As our route to her house took us past the Kings Arms, it seemed churlish not to drop in for a pint, especially as the landlord Charley ” Pistorius” Malcomson and his wife the willowy and beautiful “Bowling” Ally were fellow lunchers. A couple of pints of London Pride before being lassooed for lunch seemed the perfect start. Talking of lassooing, perhaps that us the only thing that might have prevented what happened later on. Lunch had extended way into the evening and sufficient wine had been consumed, at least by that Nice Lady Decorator, for her to be dancing on the dinner table. I think the dinner things had been cleared away but am not certain.

What happened next was, I suppose , inevitable. Almost in slow motion, during a particularly vigorous dance movement which could have been the hallmark of Michael Jackson, the reverse somersault went slightly awry and she disappeared over the back of the table into the floor. “I’m all right”  she said as she surfaced from beneath the table, and indeed she was and I am sure that the lump the size if an egg on the back of her head will have gone down this morning.

It seemed to me to be a sign that the evening was drawing to its natural conclusion, but that view was not shared by that Nice Lady Decorator, although she seemed to decide of her own accord not to reattempt the triple  salko. Eventually I managed to extract her from proceedings and we stumbled home in the by now crunchy snow.

Monday is work day and that means Currencies Direct. It also means preparations for MIDEM in Cannes this coming weekend. A joyous return to France on Friday to meet and no doubt dine with the elder statesmen if the fast swindling old school music business. I shall also be taking the opportunity to hook by with old pals and take lunch at Auberge St Donat, hopefully sometime next week. Until Friday then, not a drop will touch my lips, honest.
Chris France

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