Cured or pickled?

The beach at Elmer Sands, pictured today, is very much like where we were last week on the beaches of Barbados, if you ignore the scuzzy seaweed, block out the clouds, colour in some sunshine, add a few palm trees and imagine the water is turquoise and that the temperature is 20 degrees Celsius warmer. In other words, nothing like it.

We went down to the that beach on Sunday and it was brisk and invigorating, in order to work up a thirst for a lunchtime pint. Frankly I was for ready for the first one before I had walked ten paces, but I held out for a mile or more before we headed to the Holly Tree to find solace. I am mentioning this because it was at the root of why I felt so lousy yesterday. After an early cycle up to the Black Rabbit and then two hours of cricket nets with the Suffolk Seniors, I thought I would have been cured, but actually by early afternoon I felt like I had in fact been pickled.

It had been a splendid weekend with Simon “who ate all the pies” Barrett and his far too gorgeous (especially for him) wife Debbie, although I do think there may be times which I do not fully recall. For instance I did see references on Facebook yesterday and today about my allegedly spilling several glasses of wine in different pubs over the weekend. I recall one or two, but I put that down to natural wear and tear, and was probably not to blame. Perhaps there was a series of small, almost imperceptible, earthquakes which coincided with these unfortunate breakages? Nah, I am just a clumsy oaf.

Elmer Sands in March

A month from today we shall be back in the bosom of the most wonderful town in France, Valbonne, for a couple of months. The only down side is that this will preclude me from being available for selection for the Sussex Over 60’s cricket teams until July, but on the other hand, the weather, the wine and the scenery plus the pav, and the web (our outside bar, so-called because once you are in it is very tricky to get out), currently in than hands of our house guest, the Naked Forker herself, the beautiful and willowy Debs Frost, will be hard to resist. She is sensibly moving close by so that she retain links with both. I shall then be able to resume my tennis career and lunch once again at the Auberge St Donat. What bliss!

On Wednesday, there is a certain anniversary that I hope you will find it in your heart to embrace. It will be the publication (as long as I don’t foul up before hand) of the 1460th episode of this column, dedicated, as it is, to extolling the virtues of having an account with Currencies Direct for all your foreign exchange needs. What is the significance of this? By my calculations, it will be four years to the day when this column was born. Actually, there was a leap year in 2012 (?) so it may be on Thursday instead. I don’t exactly know why but I am reminded of the immortal words of old pal Paul Kendall (aka Ken Poodle) who, when reviewing a local Aylesbury band who had a 4 week residency at The Bell Hotel, back in the 1970’s, paid a back-handed tribute to them by saying something along the lines that it said much for the band and their music that their audience was as big, if not bigger, on the first night of their residency as it was on the last. I don’t know why that popped into my mind, but some of my in-house limericists may have a take on that…

Chris France