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Gastric Tourettes

May 17, 2013

I claimed it was dribbling but that Nice Lady Decorator had a far less charitable opinion of what was occurring. I like to think of it as salivating. The occasion was after an evening walk in sunshine, which according to the forecasters will be largely absent during our sojourn to the south of France, starting today with an early lunch in the sumptuous surrounds of Gatwick Airport, we decided on a walk to try to ensure that a certain unpleasant dog did not deposit the remains of his dinner in our flowers beds.

With a diet day behind me, and having been denied lunch, or rather the beer laden lunch upon which I had set my heart, I was thirsty and ready for a bit of hearty mastication. A lovely evening stroll along the banks of the Arun with England looking at its very best (albeit a little chilly) and I was ready for a pint at The Bridge at Amberley, from where I took this picture, that the trouble started.

sunny pub

The Bridge at Amberley

It was later, after the chicken in satay sauce with fresh local asparagus that things began ro happen in earnest. That Nice Lady Decorator accused me of suffering what I think might she described as a bout of gastric Tourette’s. At first, I did not quite understand or thought I may have misheard, and that she was on about some kind of garlic sausage, but it seems she had taken exception to the range of wonderful aromas that my body loving creates after famine is followed by feast. She did not appreciate my comments about beauty being in the eyes of the beholder because, as she pointed out rather caustically, it was not the eyes that were the issue (although she said she would come back to that) but the nose.

Now I don’t know about you, but I find the aroma of my own emissions to be sweet-smelling parcels, lovingly created, floating about in the our for everyone to enjoy. I admit to being in the camp which is less appreciative of others output, but my own is exemplary. The Decorating person is in the diametrically opposed position. Anyway, as far as I was concerned it was a wow effect evening rounded off by a very pleasant 2003 Bordeaux which I discovered in my wine rack, and from where I did not know it has come ( well Bordeaux obviously, but I don’t remember buying it).

As I write, the sun is streaming into my bedroom, and I am contemplating packing for the south if France for May. It should be shorts and lightweight shirts, but given advance knowledge of what we may face, a weather, some long trousers and a jacket may be more in order. Global warming? Humbug.

But no matter, that bulldog British spirit for which I am justly unrenowned will be brought to the fore, starting with breakfast at the Caviar House at Gatwick’s northern terminal. Regular readers will know that ordinarily I have a low opinion if anything from up north, and placing a restaurant that offers the best smoked salmon and scrambled egg breakfast anywhere in the world in any establishment containing the word north, is clearly a joke. Perhaps the architect was from up north, that would explain it. An ugly creation built under baleful northern influence and then civilised by chaps from the south. There, I shall meet old pal Mr. Clipboard, who will no doubt be early, as his name may suggest) and his lovely wife Ashley. He is however a Currencies Direct customer so I cannot be too rude about him, at least in this column. I will save that for behind his back.

Chris France


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