The Isle of Wight beckons

With the sun out it was perhaps inevitable that we would end up in the sunny garden of the White Hart in Arundel. Tied to the house due to the preparations required for the forthcoming rental season, with That Nice Lady Decorator having actually risen from her bed before dawn to continue her travail. I would have loved to have helped her but man flu prevailed, mocking my efforts to drag myself from my pit and be useful. It is something I find difficult to achieve when I am well, so no chance of contributing anything meaningful.

With departure from the house scheduled for today, it was time yesterday morning to get one’s music business ducks in a row (what a stupid expression!, who ever heard of a duck rowing?), finalise vital contracts and chase up errant publishers and late paying record companies, whilst keeping an eye in the Currencies Direct exchange rates. Even when ill, the motivation to collect my customary 20% is strong enough to drive me from my flu bed.

By midday, the affairs of the international music business had received my full attention for some hours and I was drained and ready for lunch. Mercifully, those pesky 5:2 diet days have been postponed, mainly I like to think, because that sylph like figure for which I am justly unrenowned has been honed to perfection by a mixture of said diet, exercise and the ravages of the evil man flu. I reckon that the effort of my coughing alone could account to the full 2600 calories recommended daily intake. Even the bathroom scales concur, at least they have over the last couple of days, but if truth be told most of the weight loss I have suffered can be attributed to the weight of snot I have managed to jettison over Sussex and Cyprus in the last week.

The garden of The White Hart bathed in unaccustomed sunshine

Thus I was allowed to treat That Nice Lady Decorator to lunch next door. The tapas menu is excellent and we availed ourselves of such delicacies as anchovies, delicate spring rolls, salt and pepper squid and chicken gougons in satay sauce, plus of course a couple of pints of Harvey’s Best, or Guinness and wine in the case of the Decorating one. One of the few beers she does not like is this Sussex brew and so far, James “”Desperate Dan” the Landlord has refused to countenance her request for something more to her taste, i.e. the best beer in the world, Fullers London Pride.

Sun bathing ensued as the pub garden is a sun trap, and once I had imbibed a surfeit of Harvey’s, I took to the house Rioja, and the fate of the afternoon was sealed. As I write I can hear the blissful snoring of That Nice Lady Decorator on the sofa in my office, our bed for the night.

It can be delayed no longer. The Isle Of Wight beckons and we shall take the plunge (not literally one hopes as that implies that the ferry from Portsmouth may sink) and be in the bosom of the island by nightfall. The idea of going to the old age retirement capital of England is fascinating in the manner of a plane crash. It is probably appalling and a terrible spectacle but you know you have to look.  I already have to wear reading glasses for failing sight, perhaps a few days amongst an island of crusties will add to my decrepitude? Actually I have seen some very smart hearing aids recently, and have begun to wonder how a zimmer frame operates…

Chris France
@Valbonne_News