Relaxed in Valbonne Square

Realistically, After the last two days I needed a long rest rather than to be entertaining 12 to lunch, but such is my lot that this was the case. Of course we could not be certain it was only 12 because That Nice Lady Decorator could not remember who she had invited. As it turned out either people had forgotten they were invited or they had not be invited at all, so the hard core settled down to Bucks Fuzz, snails and nibbles at about 1pm. Not the band, but the drink.

Head sponsor of the launch of The Valbonne Monologues, Peter Bennett from Blue Water Yachting, arrived just before lunch to collect his complimentary copy, only to find that he was immediately invited to lunch with the beautiful and smouldering Julie, who was summoned from their house quite nearby, but a little further out of town than is fashionable. Pete likes to say that he looks down on me from his house, but I had to explain to him that there is a certain cachet and exclusivity in owning a house from which one can walk to Valbonne Village.

Eventually we all sat down to a lunch of roast lamb and assorted vegetables, and copious amounts of wine, to discuss, amongst other things, the value of having an account with Currencies Direct for all your foreign exchange needs. As lunch was being prepared by Peachy and the lovely Suzanne Butterfield, who both emanate from up north, there was a slightly alien (to me) requirement for gravy. I enquired as to whether this gravy was not in fact a cheap copy of the much superior French version and was told that “The French can go fu** with their “jus”, gravy needs bisto” . I think I am safe in attributing this to one to Peachy Butterfield. Today’s picture  is of him basking, whale like, in Valbonne Square.

Peachy Butterfield, in Valbonne Square.

I need not go into detail about what was discussed, but certain moments stick in my mind. There was talk of Lucerne, and whether Ernie, the fastest milkman in the west, a man of clearly loose morals, could be described in Swiss terms as “Loose Urn”. John Buck turned up with his child bride Anthea and was asked once again if used to be a porn star. his response was measured and to the point; “what do you mean, used to be?”

The sweet was provided in form of a desert sponge involving various ingredients that I could not identify, but included strawberries and which was sensational, but it seems that it’s creator, Pat, the red headed beauty who suffers as the wife of Tony “I invented the Internet” Coombs, has a Mrs Cropleyesque tendency as she claimed that her speciality was beetroot and chocolate cake, a concoction that I for one was content to have avoided.

Then late in the afternoon the raven haired beauty that is Melissa Graves blew in, in much the same way as the mistral, clutching a bottle of Veuve Cliquot and shouting “where’s the party?”. She could not fool me, I knew she come to buy a copy of The Valbonne Monologues to see that picture of her with her mouth sealed by Sellotape, an action she had chosen after I had printed some of her revelations in previous columns. She was so determined not to say anything stupid, she had unwisely taken this course of action. I say unwisely because I then captured that picture and it appears in a prime position in the book.

Tennis looks unlikely this morning due to more rain, but I see no reason why that should still lunch at Auberge St Donat, if only to celebrate my interview this morning by Nice Matin, who are fascinated by my book.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News