Religion = war; discuss

There was only one thing for it; the hair of the dog. I tried a walk along the lovely Brague River, featured in today’s picture, I tried coffee, I tried a Resolve, the hangover cure, I tried very hard to shift the post-cognac headache but nothing would work. I blame Peter Blue Water Bennett for my malaise, but I hear he has had the audacity to blame me for the bucket of cognac we both drank.

Waking up yesterday morning utterly disoriented was not helped by a last-minute decision to sleep in the Love Shack, our emergency extra bedroom in a garden chalet. Perhaps it would be better named the Love Shock, but, no, I do not want to go into details. Suffice to say that awaking and not knowing where you are is an experience that I have not had for years, and frankly, if I never experienced it again it would be too soon. We had adjourned to the pav for a night-cap, but no man in his right mind would have considered a night-cap justified in the circumstances. All I can say is I was not in our right mind.

But back to the antidote. A Bloody Mary was considered and then rejected and with the number of opportunities to go to Valbonne Square before our departure back to the UK becoming unceasingly limited, we decided to go to Auberge de Provence for lunch. It was after the second beer and the first glass of wine that I felt normality gradually return.

A simple lunch is what I had in mind, perhaps a pizza, maybe a light salad, but once That Nice Lady Decorator has spotted that the plat du jour was Homard, lobster, it suddenly became a great deal less simple. Me? I just had fish and chips, an entire sea bass and the most wonderful plateful if fries, French, obviously. What I really liked though was the carafe of house red at 7.50 euros (half a litre of reasonably decent wine for £6 at today’s very generous Currencies Direct exchange rates)

Max the dog surveys the River Brague

It says much for my strength of character that, determined not to have a drink last night, I lasted until about 8pm when I found myself with a glass of St Emilion Grand Cru in my hand. Here we go again. I went to the fridge to retrieve the charcuterie, pâté and pâté en croute (pork pie really) and found that the vast stocks had been seriously depleted by Sprog 1 who had found them last night. If you have never had grown up male children, you can have no concept of the amount of food that can go walkabout when locust fever takes hold. Enough to feed a small country can go missing in a matter of minutes when the young male of the species is hungry.

Today, after a quiet evening, it is Sunday and what are Sundays for? Lunch. The Reverend Jeff, a regular reader and sometime contributor to the comments section of this daily missive, may take a different view. A committed Christian, as his epithet suggests, I would suggest that the committed bit might better be applied to being sectioned. It is not that I am against religion, although it is at the root of most wars, it’s just that I don’t give a fu*k. Take whatever prop you need to get you through few short years of life on this planet. If however you are strong enough mentally not to have to believe in a mythical higher being, just enjoy life without guilt. I know I do… Talking of religious guilt, I think we are due to see old pals and Catholics to the core John “800 years of repression” and his wonderfully endowed wife Jude O Sullivan for lunch today. Note to self; get in more Baileys this morning.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News