Monotonous or Monologues?

Sideways drizzle, my favourite UK weather, not, did nothing to relieve the gloom that epitomises living in England. A too brief, tantalising reminder of life amongst the idle rich in France over the previous extended weekend has only made me more keen to get back there as soon as the French tax authorities allow.

Don’t get me wrong, Arundel is a fab place to live, when you are forced to live in England, and we took in a couple of its pubs and one of its Indian take away emporiums last night on our day off between starvation and, err…starvation.

The White Hart was the first part of the seduction, the foreplay so to speak, the Red Lion the disappointing interruption to a nice evening (cleaning the pipes that deliver London Pride, the best beer in the world), but passion quickly returning at the nearby Swan Hotel, and then the glorious climax, the curry in front of a roaring log fire, especially welcoming after staggering back home, hungry for love and curry in early evening sleet.

It is supposed to be spring but no one seems to have made that clear to whomever is delivering such diabolical weather. I blame the Reverend Jeff. His boss is to blame, and as the Reverend is the only person I know who has a hot line number for that great call centre in the sky, the point of contact for he who is supposed to be in charge, I blame him. Doubtless we will be treated to any number of reasons for this crap weather; god wants us to suffer for whatever reason, like some of us have failed to go to church for years (except for weddings, funerals and a piss up during and after the Christmas carol concerts), otherwise, clearly , if he is all-seeing and all-powerful, as I am sure the good Reverend will try to argue, he has run out of compassion for the Brits suffering this weather.

So my picture today is of more joyous times in a more joyous country, at least weather wise. The entrance to Cafe Latin is adorned here with an excellent pull-up poster produced by Slash and Burn Thornton Allan from The Big Picture, ready for that explosive launch if The Valbonne Monologues last weekend.

The launch of that book

On our travels last night, with a few pit stops to dry off and warm up, we came across a play being performed at the Victoria Institute, a lovely Victorian building in need if some loving care and attention. They are presenting a play called Parlour Song billed as “deceit, paranoia and murderous desire in leafy suburbia”. This sounds exactly like Arundel, and I want to go and see the last night tonight. Cynics may suggest that the only reason I would want to go would be that a diet day (which was scheduled for today) could not clash with an outing for culture, because culture of this sort is entwined with going for the pub on the way there and the way back. Those cynics have a point.

Thus it seems likely that we are embarked on a double dose of real culture tonight and tomorrow night at Arundel’s Priory Theatre, where I am told there is a slightly higher chance of meeting some people with foreign exchange needs, and therefore the tender mercies of the services of Currencies Direct.

Finally, news has reached me if a charity concert being staged in Arundel shortly. It is in aid of those people who cannot reach orgasm. If you can come, can you let the organisers know? (Thanks to Lin from The English Book Centre in Valbonne for posting this joke on Facebook just as I was searching for a few lines to finish off today’s column. Done now).

Chris France
@Valbonne_News