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One seaside much like another?

February 1, 2013

I am a broken man and I blame, for the most part, Peachy Butterfield. It was always going to be a cold turkey kind of day and indeed I think it was a turkey in last nights stir fry. Post MIDEM depression is an annual event and seeing as I have suffered it for 32 years in succession I should not have been surprised. Bad times follow good, that Is life.

From the beaches of the Cote d’Azur to the beaches of Sussex represented a similar difference in the quality of life. On Wednesday we enjoyed a lazy drink on the beach in shirtsleeves before going to the airport and donning all the clothes in our suitcases. By way of utter contrast, yesterday we went to the beaches of Rustington and Clymping. Although there was a rare glimpse of English sun, the wind was close to gale force, I was wearing 6 layers of clothing, woolly hat and Wellington boots and I did not get a nice glass of champagne whilst sitting in my shirtsleeves in the sun. Had I tried that then hypothermia would have been a certainty and the bubbles would have been strewn Across the county.

Not that it was not exciting. The wind had whipped up large waves and with a spring tide there was even more damage to the sea defences. In the south of France the only damage inflicted by a walk at the sea-side would have been to one’s Gucci loafers on a stroll in the soft golden sand.

Clymping beach picture

Sea defences get a battering

Back to work with a vengeance and with that Nice Lady Decorator determined to spend a couple of days without a drink which, by enforced association, is a position I am expected I have had to adopt. There was not even any solace to be had in a glass of crushed fruit, as Peachy likes to refer to red wine. Horlicks she said, as I had my face glued to a computer checking out the latest Currencies Direct exchange rates, and for a few milli-seconds as I had not heard here clearly , my face lit up, but she meant what she had said: Horlicks, nothing whatever to do with any licking of any sort by anyone and no association with loose women.

Today will be slightly better, well it had better be better having had a night off, and in any event it is the last day before Saturday, when Slash and Burn Thornton Allan arrives. To start with he will be in the thrall of those steely eyes owned by his wife and trained on him in much the way of a machine gun tower. However, we both know that after a couple of glasses of prosecco she becomes a pussy cat, full of sweetness and light (OK, we are pushing at the boundaries of belief here) and he can then relax, take string drunk (strong drink) smoke cigars with me.

So last night, after I could take no more Midsomers Murders, and in the absence of anything to dull that particular pain, I immersed myself in yet more work. I need to research where we will go for Easter, that Nice Lady Decorator having generously told the Sprogs that she would take then somewhere warm to celebrate the death of Jesus. I thought it was supposed to be hell where it was hot? Gas ovens are warm but regular readers will know that I am on dangerous ground here, given Sprog 1’s unfortunate “dwarf in the oven Project X” debacle. Anyway, in regard to the intended holiday, I am hoping that if I can come up with a good deal then she will take me too.

Chris France

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