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Crab and card Bordeaux alert

August 13, 2013

Another copy of my book was sold last night to, according to Dancing Greg Harris from Côte d’Azur Villa Rentals, a soon to be dissatisfied customer. We were in Valbonne Square at La Terra Rossa for dinner after an exhausting three set triumph over him and his visiting film producer pal called Paul Sinclair, now the happy owner of said book, happy at least according to Dancing Greg until he has read it. However, I did form the impression that reading was not his strong suit so maybe he will never be as dissatisfied as Dancing Greg believes.

I say sold, but Greg, who handled the negotiations over how to split the bill, inflated by some late cognac and calvados, asked for me to contribute 100 euros (some £85 at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates) for myself and That Nice Lady Decorator. When I sought payment from him for said book, already autographed to Paul, I was told that he had discounted my share of the bill, which I never saw, by the 15 euros cost to its settlement. His charge for villa rental is 20% and I suspect he applied the same principle to the bill. Any suggestion that I ever work for less than 20% on my music interests is entirely irrelevant, although true. Suffice to say that I am awaiting a detailed accounting breakdown for my accountants to analyse.

So to the tennis. Played at La Bastide de Valbonne as Paul the Film was staying there, the Mustachiod Old Gits were able to beat our opponents and the conditions. The tennis court, clearly designed by a non tennis playing architect, meant serving into the sun, and with badly designed walls for ever sending balls back into play, and on clay so soft it became a dust ball, only the MOGS had the fortitude to overcome all obstacles and emerge victorious. I shall never complain about the Vignale tennis club ever again.

Today , joy of joys, I have no social occasion in the diary and I am delighted. The last time I did not have a drink was a few days before we left England for France in late June and I think my liver deserves a day off. Of course, it may not get what it deserves in this maelstrom of hedonism that epitomises the south of France in summer. An impromptu invitation might still stir That Nice Lady Party Animal into life, but as I write, a day lurking by the pool doing absolutely nothing seems very appealing.

sunny poolside

Peachy Butterfield “helps” some local beauties to enjoy the pool.

For instance, my picture today captures just the sort of thing I need to avoid. Peachy Butterfield, fuelled by the usual surfeit of card Bordeaux, at the weekend at a very fine party, in the sunshine, was captured here disturbing some girlies minding their own rosé in the pool. I know that my readers in England will understand why I have had enough of this kind of thing, at least for today. You may think that his shorts have some nasty little stains on them at regular periods, a mistake I made when first encountering them, but it seems they are tiny crabs on his Villebrequin shorts. I do hope they don’t spread, as I am sure he would get his wife, the saintly Suzanne to administer the ointment, and that is just too horrendous a concept to be explored any more deeply than that by this column.

Returning home late last night, we remembered that it was supposed to be the best night for seeing shooting stars as there was a meteorite shower. The problem is that they go so fast you think you have seen then but cannot be sure, so, after about 10 minutes lingering over a nightcap in loungers down on the lawn, I became aware of loud snoring and some dampness, which were not connected and decided the shooting stars would have to wait, I needed my bed.

Chris France

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