There is nothing like an old thong

Not a drop had passed my lips until just after lunchtime. I was saving myself for a tennis match in the evening at the Vignale with Dancing Greg Harris and his friend Paul Sinclair, whom the MOGS (the mustachioed old gits, comprising my good self and Josef Stalin lookalike the Wingco) had summarily despatched into tennis oblivion the week before. Dancing Greg had been allowed out for the evening, doubtless securing an exeat from Matrons bath night, in order once again to suffer the ritual humiliation of being beaten by his superiors, a position, I fancy, he has had to adopt many times in the past.

This was the initial theme for discussions over dinner at Auberge St Donat, open for the evenings for just a few more weeks before the summer season is deemed to be over. The very alluring Maid Marion, his willowy and impossibly beautiful wife, was by this time also in attendance, ready to salve the metaphorical bruises which necessarily accompany a crushing defeat on the tennis court, a defeat which would have been all the more definitive had his partner arrived less than an hour and a half late.

Eventually, after a long period of American doubles, he turned up, and suffered intense ribbing for the whole evening following a swift drubbing on the court.

Caves at Tourettes Sur Loup. No, you are right, it has nothing to do with today’s column.

Over dinner after the thrashing, Dancing Greg Harris revealed in clouded circumstances (and I still have no context here) that at some stage in the 1970’s he wore a thong. For how long was also not revealed and by the side ways look he received from Maid Marion – the sort of look one might adopt when having a secret fart, or eating a dodgy prawn – I formed the impression that thongs may still have a big part to play in his wardrobe even today. Perhaps that may be at the root of his terrible tennis?

Later, developments took a considerable turn for the worse with the incomprehensible decision to return to Currencies Direct customer, the Wingco’s, house for a night-cap. Various conversations ensued, almost all of which I cannot recall, but I do remember his telling me in that loud public schoolboy manner that becomes so more accentuated after the application of wine, that I was not sophisticated. My answer, that I was not indeed ever involved on fist fights (so fist icated – do please try to keep up) was exactly the response to raise his ire about grammar school oiks, and the same tired tirade cascaded from his mouth. It is nonetheless very amusing and I am certain that I shall hear the whole sorry monologue again very soon.

Today, rather than yesterday is the afternoon of culture with Cathie The Culture before a last supper with the Sprogs. They have done a brilliant job of fleecing me all summer but that is about to end. Sprog 2 will a accompany us to England on Wednesday, going to the Reading Festival before taking up her university place to study film production at Ravensbourne, whilst Sprog 1 will soon be looking for that job as an engineer on a yacht. There will be a very rude financial awakening for them both in the coming weeks.

So tomorrow, it will be back to the UK to enjoy the Arundel festival for a few days, the highlight for me will be the performance of Screaming Les and the Mindbenders on the Jubilee Stage on Friday evening. Although the weather looks OK for much of the time, it looks like long trousers will be required for the first time since he end of June. How depressing.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News