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Peachy Butterfield and egg and chips

August 9, 2013

That Nice Lady Decorator would go to the opening of an envelope if I letter. So it was with a sense of resigned realism that when she mentioned the book signing by Kim Defforge at The English Book Centre in Valbonne this afternoon between 4 and 7, that she would want to go. I will fight anyone who says the only reason she wants to be there is because it is open house with free booze, as I am certain she is attending mostly to see how few copies of my book, The Valbonne Monologues, have been sold by Valbonne’s finest literary emporium. I know, and am expecting to hear that cackling laugh when the lovely owner, the diminutive and beautiful Lin Wolff, has to break the news to me that she has not sold one. I may even buy one myself just to break the duck. When I was in the store a few days ago, I looked for some copies on the shelves and was encouraged not to find one as there was certainly a good stock earlier in the year, but as that Nice Cynical Lady Decorator pointed out, it is an old building with uneven floors, and books, particularly mine in her opinion, are perfect for propping up wobbly tables and the like.

Thereafter we are invited to dinner with man mountain Peachy Butterfield and the hardworking and sensual Suzanne. Normally when thus invited and Peachy is cooking then it is wise to lock up your pets, but at least any road kill locally gets tidied up, until, that is, it appears on your plate, but tonight apparently, it will be different. Peachy has decided to venture well above his usual mark on the culinary ladder and will instead be cooking another northern delicacy, egg and chips. Yes, we have been invited to eggs and chip night, which I imagine will be on a par with Christmas Dinner for these lovely decent but unsophisticated paupers from the frozen north, who have kindly opened their doors to us. His generosity when it comes to Card Bordeaux (another delicacy in his mind) is also unsurpassed, so I know we will be able to have as many eggs and chips as we like.

dog walking

A walk in the park

Last evening, after a long drawn out recovery process from the epic Blues Kings gig, we were tempted into an early evening walk and a swift sharpener before dinner. With Auberge de la Source closed on weekday evenings (well you would when its summer, there is a lovely garden area and a stream, but you have to be French to be that anti entrepreneurial), so we went instead to the Victoria Golf Club for a couple of Leffe beers. I was sufficiently mellow to not take offence at the the fact that no dinner had been prepared. It was irrelevant (she said) as seemingly the heat suppresses appetite.

Three new customers for the very fine foreign exchange services of Currencies Direct yesterday, all directly attributable to this column, is a true testament to this column’s power. Another is the fact that I coined a phrase yesterday which is so good but which I have been forbidden to use as it is too close to the knuckle (the lovely Viv Frost will know the phrase). Maybe one day.

But, not for the first time, I digress. There is a meteor shower promised between August 10th and 13th and it has been suggested that taking Bluebell up the hills and finding a spot for a night time picnic next week and to watch the stars might be a good idea. I mentioned to That Nice Lady Decorator in what I thought was a romantically suggestive way that I could make her see stars whilst lying on a blanket on the ground, but she just laughed. It seems that this shower is something of an annual event, but it would be dangerous to make any sort of joke here.

Chris France

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