Glass half full? Yes please
The first day back to work in a new year can go either way. The glass half full brigade are full of excitement for what is to come, and some cannot wait to escape the cloying web of family for a welcome chance to get out of the house and away from domesticity, whilst others dread the end of the festivities and, not helped by the interminable wet English winter, and loaded down with New Years Resolutions, to which they know on their hearts they will pay scant attention, struggle to be optimistic.
Curiously, I find myself stuck between these two schools of the thought. I suppose that one could describe it as having two glasses, one half full and one half empty. The half full receptacle comes to mind when I think forward to the number of new clients I am going to save from their banks this year by introducing them to the Currencies Direct method of saving money on their foreign exchange transactions. It could also apply to my battle with the uncooperative bathroom scales. I am determined to win that one.
Then there are my music business interests, the major one of which, my ownership of a rap catalogue Music Of Life, from which I divested myself last year but curiously, because of an ongoing interests, I find myself enthused in a way I have not been for years. Glass half full.
The glass half empty on the other hand, comes to mind whenever I look out of the window in the morning and it is raining. I must have a lot of half full glasses this winter. I think what I should do is collect them all together and have a massive party.
Looks like someone emptied am awful lot of glasses
Talking of parties, I am on the train to London today with that Nice Lady Decorator to celebrate the life of a dear talented friend and glass blower, Karen Lawrence and, as a result will be meeting up with a lot of old friends. When I pass away, I don’t want black worn, I want a huge party, comedians, music, drinking and eating. I will be watching. Oh, no, I have just realised that the Reverend Jeff will be convincing himself that I am considering redemption through religion. Nothing could be further from the truth. There is no redemption unless it is from an insurance policy or a pension, and I don’t believe in the latter either.
So it will be a melancholy day, at least until we get into the pub after the service with some old pals, such as John Otway and Wild Willy Barrett amongst others, where we shall do what a bunch of old gits love to do at our age: reminisce about the good old days. It is all rubbish of course. A romanticised memory of only the good times, when apart from youthful enthusiasm and dreams, we all had nothing and had to work for a living, try to survive and make a way in the world. Anyway, it will be good to see some old faces again.
Just over a week to go and I shall be on my way to some sunshine, unless that pesky jet stream decides to reposition itself over the Canary Islands, in which case I shall empty out all the glasses I can find to try to find solace. Then later in the month, I am faced with the prospect of a major birthday milestone. Becoming 60 this month and entering my 7th decade as a result, is just that; a result. I have been lucky enough to have had an extremely good life but there is no bucking time.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Disaster unfolds on several levels
It was a much better day. The rain was only light and irritating, and the wind had dropped to merely quite strong, so almost like summer. It is at times like these that ones thoughts turn to summer and sunshine, and if you are not going to get sunshine where you live, then you go in search of it. I am packing as we speak for that trip to Tenerife in 10 days time.
I don’t know whether any of you have ever been in the situation where you have your fingers rammed in your ears, your head stuffed under the pillows and you are desperately trying to block out the noise from downstairs? Such was my lot the night before last when That Nice Lady Decorator had a reunion with some of her old schools chums. The cracking and caterwauling went in until after 2am, and worse still, they all decided to switch from white wine, for which I have little time, to red wine, for which I have a healthy respect. Well, OK, perhaps not healthy. What is more is that nowadays, and especially at Xmas, the wine store tends only to contain some fairly decent stuff, so a disaster was unfolding on several fronts.
Not being able to sleep, I first thought about Currencies Direct, and, excited, I had tuned my iPad into Sky Sports for the cricket and so that was the third disaster to befall me, or more specifically the English Cricket Team, who are being systematically and surgically taken apart by a decent, but hardly world-beating Australian side. It is hard to believe that we were the favourites before the hapless tour started and now a 5-0 whitewash has shattered the current English team. There must now be bloodshed in the selection process.
So with disaster all around, the bathroom scales failing to take into account that the day before had been a diet day and as a result not a drop of alcohol touched my lips (no I did not swallow any with the use of the lips for all you cynics out there), and with That Nice Lady Decorator out for a days retail therapy, I was left to my own devices. What bliss! No chores, no barbs about clearing up after me, no looks that suggest I should not be doing or even thinking about doing whatever it was that I was doing, so I was able to spend time preparing for the evenings festivities revolving around the appearance of Screaming Lez and the Mindbenders , or at Arundel Cricket Club last night.
Screamin Lez
One of their fans was either having a laugh it suffering from dyslexia as I spotted this T Shirt at the bar. They are a brilliant rock and roll band with a big dose of rockabilly. Eddie Cochran on one end of the scale, Golden Earring on the other. Radar Love done brilliantly has to be on of the great rock tunes, probably the only one not made by the Brits or the Yanks. Lez has in his band a quite brilliant and pretty young guitarist, who Colin The Pirate (who was there with Sandra, his sultry goddess), who had clearly imbibed freely, spent some time telling me that I should take him to a higher musical level, and then began suggesting that should take him to Simon Cowell, with whom I worked in the late 1980’s. He did not seem to understand the irony of what he was saying. Simon is superb at working with pop acts. he does not understand rock and roll or any other artform, except perhaps irritating comedy animal acts. Also, I have not spoken to him for over 20 years, so contact could be a bit problematic.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Sandbags and Gladrags
Agreed, it has been raining cats and dogs for weeks, and agreed that we live 30 metres from a river, and there are currently some exceptionally high tides and the river Arun is very high, but with no Flood Warning in place for our humble abode, why do we suddenly need sandbags? That Nice Lady Sandcastle Builder decided yesterday to go to Travis Perkins in order to satisfy her paranoia about being flooded. “What if all the experts are wrong?” she said as she braved the squalls to fill some bags full of sand, later to be posted by our front and back doors. Of course now they are just another hazard to be negotiated (unsuccessfully) as I discovered last evening when I stumbled and fell across the wretched things whilst trying to gain entrance to our back door. This is not a euphemism for anal sex, but as I dabbed away the blood, I craved something. I think it was revenge.
I had been diligently working away, toiling over the foreign exchange markets and comparing rates to ensure than those offered by Currencies Direct are the keenest, and was exhausted, partly because of the folly of staying up until 4am in the vain hope that England would at last put up some kind of a fight against those irritatingly perky Australians, who are dismantling the English cricket team more and more, day by day. It was time to be allowed back into the house, but I had to negotiate the massive sand dunes that the Lady Captain Paranoia had created in front of the back door. My office (shed) is placed in the garden, the furthest distance from the house that it is possible to be, due to the “total mess you create with your so-called working”. I am however usually allowed back into the house after dark, as long as all work is left behind in the shed office. This is very difficult to achieve when one is working constantly, so I have to pretend that I am not working when I am.
Clymping Beach at high tide yesterday
There is something majestic about extremely bad weather and the near hurricane force tempest in which we found ourselves at Clymping Beach, was certainly the strongest and scariest wind I have ever experienced (and those familiar with the output of my bowels when under pressure from half digesting baked beans will realise that I do not speak lightly here). Almost impossible to stand up, That Nice Lady Decorator was twice nearly blown off her feet but I am made of sterner stuff (or as she would have it “too much stuff”) so was able at least to stay on the ground. There are clearly some advantages to carrying a little more weight, something I have been able to do very successfully over the festering period.
The day did not get better. In the first attempt to make me a little more wind-blown (sic), A diet day was decreed for me. There was another reason for that decree; That Nice Lady Decorator had some old school friends in town coming to visit, and, as they wanted to cackle and drink and reminisce, and they needed a sober driver to pick up from stations etc, I was appointed chauffeur in chief to the raucous rowdy rabble who were once all at school at Ackworth. It was a school to their well-heeled parents, or a bohemian den of iniquity, sex, alcohol, drugs and debauchery (if any of the stories I heard last night are true) to the pupils. As I write, I have had to step out for a sit down to collect my thoughts, and salvage what little I can of my previously naive belief that school days were all about work and exams. As a state school product, it was to me. God, how I wish I had been a boarder.
Chris France
Flood waters rise in Sussex
The sunshine lasted almost as long as it took me to get the roof down on the Merc. I am sometimes in a position when in France in winter to use the convertible in the way it was intended, usually on dry sunny days, but never in England before October, when I returned from the sublime autumn weather in France, to the cold and damp reality that is winter in England, have I ever been bold enough to get the roof down on the car in January. It was not my decision, it was the idea of my house guest, the crusty, ancient and magnificent – in the same manner as a monument – Peter Savin. He seems to have no sense of hot and cold as it was barely 9 degrees Celsius when he suggested that it might be a good idea to endure the elements. It was my duty to accommodate him, so I sat in the driving seat, stoically trying to avoid hypothermia.
It was on the way back from a visit to see the high tide at Bosham, with the sea encroaching so far up the road at the Anchor Bleu that it was impossible to park anywhere except the municipal car park, so high was the tide. The situation had been exacerbated by the ridiculously appalling run of poor weather that abated briefly yesterday, but it appears only for a day, before the storms and tempests resume. Thereafter, we had driven in convoy, still with the top down, through the flooded roads to see how high the tide was at Dell Quay. several times, hige puddles covered the roads, and there was a real danger than some idiot would drive through one of these quickly and flood the car from the top.
Everything had gone according to the plan of my elderly friend, until we reached Chichester. I knew we were in trouble as soon as he caught sight of the rainbow. Yes, it is true, when we set off it was sunny. but the appearance of a rainbow does imply something; rain is around. Luckily, we only got slightly wet, to go with the cold, before the very efficient German engineering was employed to put the roof up, and made us able to look at the other motorists in the same traffic jam on the A27, many of them without the option of convertibility, all looking very happy about their lack of choice. At least they could not make the wrong choice.
High tide at Bosham
But it did not end there. With the girls in the skip. the very smelly 4×4 owned by that Nice Lady Decorator, and hell-bent on some retail therapy at the retail park on Chichester, and with us on our way back to Arundel to collect forgotten items, my dear friend, excited by the fact that it had stopped raining, persuaded me, yet again, to get the roof down on the way to the Mulberry, a gastro pub the other side of Petworth, owned by the ginger entrepreneur and broadcaster Chris Evans. We barely made it before the roof was once again raised, and I dashed into the pub to restart the circulation of my blood.
After warming up, lunch was served and very good it was too. The potatoes in duck fat were not likely to have much positive impact on my waistline reduction programme, to which I had given the nod by ordering sea bass fillets rather than the burger or fish and chips to which my eyes were initially drawn, but they certainly helped equanimity to return. In the pub, I was also drawn to a conversation about foreign exchange but was able to reassure a potential customer that Currencies Direct could help.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Ark time approaches
Having spent the day drinking and socialising with our house guests, the beautiful, blonde bombshell Janie (not Janey as I was rather forcefully reminded – she is a magnificent sight when roused, something that I….I think I will stop there) and her crusty and considerably older husband Peter Savin – a clearer case of the beauty with the beast I have never seen – I retired early and set the alarm for 11.30pm so that I could awake to witness the early stages of the final Ashes Cricket Test Match between Australia band England in Sydney. I had reluctantly risen from a deep sleep, made a cup of tea and settled down in front of the TV and that was when I discovered that it does not start until this evening.
Until that moment it had been a splendid day, despite and partly because of the magnificently inclement weather. We have had a series of spectacularly wet days, culminating in a disgracefully wet and windy monstrosity yesterday. At high tide in Arundel, the water once again escaped the banks at the Waterfront Cafe and the Causeway, which links Arundel with Amberley, was within just a few inches of being covered, the area on both sides of the road flooded as far as the eye can see as my picture today taken on that road shows. It is fascinating in the same way as a plane crash. Awful, but intriguing.
The flooded fields of Sussex around Amberley. ark building should commence immediately
We had thought about going to Bosham and Dell Quay, to show our guests the area, but with flood water threatening to cut us off we settled for a pint at the Bridge at Amberley whilst keeping an eye in the rising water, then escaped back to the George and Dragon at Houghton on the way back to spend a splendidly wasteful afternoon in front of the fire at The White Hart next door.
As I awoke this morning, having finally got to sleep at 2am courtesy of them staring the cricket match a day late, I noticed a strange orange light creeping over the bedspread. Yes, the day has dawned sunny, which is ironic as our house guests leave later this morning. They will have seen nothing of the area as they have spent their time crammed for short periods in That Nice Lady Decorators smelly skip, otherwise known as the 4×4, interspersed with brief rain sodden and wind-blown head-down dashes from car to pub and back.
The world of commerce gradually awakens today after the festive hiatus, so I will have to spend some time working on the benefits to you of opening an account with Currencies Direct, and ensuring the international music industry returns to action, but that should leave time for lunch after my usual bathroom scale defeating walk around the sodden countryside. i think the Mulberry on the way to petworth, Chris Evans pub, is in the frame, but I have not yet been informed for certain.
It was yesterday, during my epic march in atrocious conditions that I had a warming thought. Just 14 days from then, 13 from now, I shall be putting on shorts for the first time since October and sipping a cocktail in warmth and sunshine on a beach in Tenerife. It seemed so utterly incongruous to consider such a treat as I battled through the mud, with the rain blowing sideways, the puddles with the seeping dampness encroaching even through the waterproofs, but it was that thought that sustained me at the worst moments, which lasted the entire hour of the trek.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
A tight decision on New Years Eve
Now I am not an expert about the inner workings of female underwear, but I am pretty sure than when one has laddered ones tights, one does not usually resort to gluing the remains to ones arse. I am not at liberty to say to which highly skilled and charming Decorating Enthusiast to whom this may refer, but guesswork here is everything.
She was preparing to go out for a sumptuous New Years Eve celebration dinner at The Townhouse in Arundel and had elected, quite unusually, to eschew trousers and wear a dress and a very pretty dress at that. It was apparently during final throes of preparation that a catastrophe of the laddered tights occurred, but surely the replacement of the damaged items with an undamaged pair might have been a wiser move? With the offending article now firmly fixed to her posterior, we went to dinner with house guests the gorgeous Janey and her father figure husband Peter Savin. When you see them together it is quite usual for him to be mistaken for her father, but I digress. With a sharpener at The White Hart on board, we arrived to the restaurant to be greeted by champagne and then discussed what would be the result, if and when, inevitably, she had to go to the lavatory. Eventually, half way through the evening that moment arrived, but I cannot tell you exactly what was the result because the boundaries of good taste for which this column (dedicated to the promotion of the excellent foreign exchange services of Currencies Direct) are justly unrenowned. Suffice to say that they were rather damp and will not be worn again.
Earlier in the afternoon, Mr Clipboard popped in for a coffee and a single malt on his way to a Bollywood party being staged at nearby Angmering. He was very keen to show me the hats or rather turbans he was planning to wear. I have a picture of one of them today. I do hope his head gets better soon.
Mr Clipboard, the original slumdog millionaire, doing his best Bollywood impersonation.
Today, being the start of a brand new year, we shall start as we mean to go on, with a pub crawl around Arundel and the surrounding countryside at lunchtime. I was hoping to be allowed a day off from drinking but the announcement that this was not to be the case has just been made. That Nice Lady Hosiery And Decorating Operative wants to show our house guests the delights of our adopted English home town and which I had taken to mean a tour of the very fine retail establishments that festoon it, whilst I sat at home and nursed my hangover, but it appears she means all the pubs within a 10 mile radius.
So before that befalls me, and by the time you are all reading this whilst tucked up in bed or eating your breakfast in the cozy warmth of your homes, I shall be preparing by donning my now well used wet and still damp weather gear and tramping around the sodden countryside for my customary daily 4 miles in the ongoing battle with my bathroom scales. They have become distinctly less cooperative since the arrival of the festive season. I have tried being gentle with them, stepping on slowly and lightly, then, when they do not do the decent thing and give me more of the kind of reading that I want, they get stamped on, but they are stoic and in either case refuse to change their position one iota. The scales of justice, eh?
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Otway The Movie and BAFTA
As I tramped around the Sussex countryside in the continual pursuit of that Adonis like figure for which I am just to renowned in my own mind, I was, as usual cursing the weather in England. Blowing a gale and with rain lashing sideways is never conducive to having a good time, and yesterday morning was worse than most. In order to pass the time, one tries to distract oneself from what is actually happening by thinking. Anything will do, and it often starts with pleasing thoughts about the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct for foreign exchange needs. However, satisfying as that is, the mind tends to wander. Where it goes does not matter. The mere fact that one is distracted from the boring and irksome necessity of exercise is very welcome. An hour spent walking in the rain goes a lot quicker when one is thinking happy thoughts.
The flood plain of Arundel seen from the South Downs
Yesterday for instance, for some reason I cannot fathom, I was thinking about car insurance. I know, I need to get a life. Anyway, whilst considering this aspect of life it occurred to me that I have third party insurance and I want to know how I can make a claim to stop the Liberal Democrats. Three party politics is weak and wishy-washy so we don’t bother to have democracy in our house. That Nice Lady Decorator makes the decisions and we all obey. Anyway, with the walk over, duty done, wet clothes hung up, I began to prepare for a new onslaught, the visit of the legend that is John Otway.
His arrival presaged another assault on the hostelries and restaurants of Arundel. The recent sad loss of his partner of the last 26 years after a two-year battle with cancer has taken its toll on the great man, but he is suddenly back to his old self, full of energy and ideas. It is a given that when he comes to visit, he will want to talk about himself. It is a fact acknowledged by all of his friends and I have been lucky enough to have been one of those for over 40 years. It was the same when I met him when I was 18 and nothing has changed. Luckily, I like nothing more than to spend an evening talking about Otway. Past present and future, it does not matter, all are equally as entertaining to me. It matters not to him either. As long as he is the subject, and none of us go off message for extended periods, a very fine evening can be spent, and so it was last night.
Commencing at the Kings Arms, where we did our best to reduce their stocks of London Pride, we eventually poured out of the pub in search of food. Normal procedure is to find the local curry house and indulge on some of India’s finest, but in a bit of a departure from tradition, we settled instead upon The Bay Tree, which exceeded expectations again with a wonderful meal. I think I enjoyed it all the more because Mr Otway was paying.
Returning home for a nightcap, as is normal, we ticked into some vintage port left over from Christmas, whilst continuing the theme, before I hit the proverbial brick wall sometime after midnight, leaving the Decorator to talk to the pop star. Earlier, we had discussed the slim chance he has of securing a BAFTA nomination for his film Otway The Movie. In case you may not have realised, it is a film about his life, made by him about him, for him, oh, and all his fans, amongst which I count myself. He has searched for some criteria which would allow him to seek a nomination, and it appears that the film is eligible in the documentary section, where competition is a little more sparse, and he estimates that he has a 1 in 5 chance of a nomination. No chance of winning one, the prize is merely getting a nomination. If enthusiasm and self belief were the only attributes required his BAFTA would be a formality.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The wry smile that says it all
There really is no other place than England to be in the world when it is sunny, as long as you exclude anywhere south of the Isle of Wight. It was a beautiful sunny crisp day yesterday, so after the customary walk around the South Downs, the reward was to visit some English pubs and to sample their real ales.
First up was the still disappointing Swan at Fittleworth. It is seldom that The Nice Lady Decorator and I disagree about pubs, but I did not like the decor, the painted beams or the banquette seating in places. She likes the place, probably because she likes anything decorated (maybe even David Golding DFC who we met later on), oh, and bass players. The pint of Doom Bar was decent but I was anxious to try another pub about which we had been told over Xmas.
The flood plains of Arundel
I find it hard to believe that I was not aware of a pub that was within 3 miles of Arundel, so wanted to visit Holly Tree at Walberton, which despite its somewhat alarming decor in places is a proper local pub unlike the unprepossessing Swan. I will be angling to try lunch there soon.
Returning to Arundel to dump the car, I felt overcome by a thirst that required immediate attention and so we popped into the Kings Arms where The Decorator bumped into the Decorated. It could easily have turned onto a lost afternoon but we had been invited to the right side of the river for drinks last evening, so were determined to pace ourselves. This could be Currencies Direct new client territory. Our hosts were the charming unsuspecting chaps who, when we met then in a pub on Christmas Eve, must have had no idea that we were from the left bank.
After a siesta, and a good deal of scrubbing and preening, we ventured across the river to mix with local gentry. I met a charming lady who has a house called Rats Castle. She told me that when Arundel was a working port in the 18th century, the riverside was a typically squalid port area, that her house had been one of ill repute, and this was when I made my first mistake. It was meant to be a joke, but I can see now in the cold light of day that suggesting that it might still be a house of similar repute was a mistake. For some reason she abruptly finished the conversation and I was left to find someone else to annoy.
That would have been easy but I reined myself in and resolved to try not to upset anyone else, but fear I failed due to a surfeit of red wine, port and even a cigar. It was billed as drinks from 5-7 but I do not recall returning home until the early hours. I do recall sitting with our hosts, the saintly and beautiful Anne and rather less saintly Clive, clearly outstaying our welcome, until midnight at least, drinking wine and port and generally making a nuisance of myself.
It had not started well. I thought I had chosen well to take a bottle of 2005 Chateau Musar, a Lebanese wine of some repute, but our hosts son is a sommelier (well, obviously living in the right side of the river one simply must have a sommelier on hand). When I handed it to him, I thought I detected a wry smile, the sort of smile that I reserve for any house guests that might turn up with, say, Lambrusco or Liebfraumilch. However it was when he said that I should keep an eye out for the 2003, I knew I had somehow made an error of judgement.
Eventually, close to midnight and after a lot of yawning and the appearance of pyjamas, we took the hint and left, with promises to get together again very soon. I suspect they will now change their number and be unavailable for the foreseeable future.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
The annual M25 car park game
The M25 was the most choked car park in Europe yesterday. The combination of floods, wind (a natural side effect of the excesses of the food and drink) and weekend drivers put paid to any thoughts of getting back from the wilds of northern Buckinghamshire into civilisation as early as we had hoped. The winter weather is partly to blame, but those people who only drive twice a year, are often female (did I say that out loud?) and cause accidents, combined to make it one of the most unpleasant days on the road of the year. It meant that we had to bypass that giant car park and shimmy around London on all the A roads, rather than the stagnant motorways. Thus it took nearly 4 hours before we were sufficiently far away from the inhospitable north to be able to unlock the doors and windows and have a reasonable expectation of travelling at more than 10 miles an hour and avoid being car jacked.
Tired and hungry due to the privations of provisions up north, and being in a car for four hours and further with Sprog 1 due to depart today to “enjoy” (?) New Years Eve in Guildford, it was decided that a curry at the Kings Arms was the way forward. As I have said before, it is an enlightened policy of the pub that does not serve food itself, that they invite the customers to buy and have take-away meals delivered to the pub. I cannot understand why this is not prevalent throughout England, but I know of no other pub that offers to supply plates, napkins and serviettes to hungry customers in need of a curry.
They get the obvious result that we all have to have several drinks whilst it is cooked and delivered, but only a cynic would dare to suggest that the landlord, Charlie Pistorius Malcolmson, pictured today in rather a gay hat, may have an arrangement with the Indian takeaway in Littlehampton not to deliver for at least an hour after receiving the order. I know I have a cynical attitude and that my bar bill (as we were 5 with Sprogs and Sprog boyfriend, and for some reason it was expected that I should pay) somehow exceeded the food bill, but nothing here should be construed as my having anything but the highest praise for the pub to have such an enlightened financial policy, even at enormous personal cost to myself. The wheels of commerce must continue to grind their weary path through life as I know to my own cost, keeping as I do, both the music industry and the foreign exchange business (in the form of securing new customers for Currencies Direct) operating at all times, even at Christmas.
Festive but slightly gay hat?
With That Nice Lady Decorator having peaked a little early, it was not a late night, but I made it so by staying up until 3am watching play in the England versus Australia Ashes cricket test match in Melbourne. Satisfied with England’s dominance at lunch, I gave in to slumber and then awoke this morning to find the dreams of a first win in the series in tatters as England’s batting collapsed again without my continued support. It is such a burden being an English cricket fan.
Unless there is something about which I have not been told, I believe there is nothing in the social diary for today, and believe it or not, that is a relief. I have not attempted to commune with the bathroom scales, but I dreamed of them coming to life last night and shrieking out loud when I stood on them.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Chocolate flavoured mealworms not as popular as expected
We had some fun yesterday with a selection of bush tucker horrors. Perhaps the highlight was the chocolate covered ants, although the Christmas Pudding flavour mealworms were nearly as unpopular.
We had traveled into the wilds of the south Midlands where the sun does not shine, and marauding locals lurk at every corner. I have some very unfortunate relatives, two brothers and their families, who are bizarre enough to enjoy living on the outer fringes of civilisation. Knowingly the peculiar tastes of those who flirt with mortal danger every day, where food is scarce and road kill can be the difference between life and death (well, death for the unfortunate victims) I felt compelled to fill the car up with provisions to ease their burden.
Excited faces great the mealworms
We had taken the evil-smelling skip, otherwise known as That Nice Lady Decorators 4×4, rather than the sweet-smelling Merc for a number of reasons; it can hold enough fuel for the journey there and back this morning, an important consideration as fuel is never plentiful in the north. It can hold more provisions for distribution to the northern needy, and one is less distressed if the vehicle is attacked by wild animals or thieves, both of which are alarmingly omnipresent this near the Arctic Circle. It smells so much worse that the “wet dog” which is how the Decorating operative describes it; somewhere between rancid polecat and rotting Norwegian beaver cheese (a little one for all you Monty a Python fans). It was therefore a laughable reason why the Sprogs were denied tobacco on the journey up. Anything, even tobacco smoke , would have smelled better than that to which my nostrils will never adapt. Anyway, I digress. We endured two and a half hours of nasal torture whilst heading north towards the land of the wet and dark.
It is always rewarding to see their delighted smiling and awe-struck faces when food and drink is unveiled and do it was yesterday as the goodies were unloaded. However, later, after they had fallen like a pack of wolves upon and devoured much of what we had brought, they discovers those little delicacies to which I have alluded above. It is fair to say that they did not seem as pleased with some of the special festive treats I had secured for them at some expense. Salt and vinegar flavoured crickets for instance. The only insects they get to see this far north are midges (in those few days in summer when the tundra softens and they take to the skies in massive swathes, biting all and sundry), and grubs, the latter of which I know they covert. The chocolate ants were also not as big a hit as I had expected. There is so little gratitude left in the world.
Duty done and family provisioned for another year, we she be heading back towards the civilised south today, unless the next ferocious storm which is forecast today, interferes. Already rain-sodden and flooded, more typical English winter weather looks like making today another unpleasant experience to be endured. The worst part is that it seems unlikely that we shall be able to open the windows to allow that smell to escape and will be subjected to more sceptic septum debilitation in the return journey assuming we make it. Luckily, the equally evil-smelling family dog Banjo also has no nose, and The Reverend Jeff, whose favourite joke this was in our younger days will know the answer to this joke.
In case we don’t make it, I will have one last attempt to to get you all too sign up to Currencies Direct. You know it makes sense.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Cathedral caused local traffic chaos
After the early morning present opening, it was time for the morning constitutional during a brief break in this, the most unpleasant spell of English weather that I can recall. How I hanker for the sublime calm winter conditions in Provence. We took the car up to Arundel castle for a trot around this fine estate. On our way up the hill in mid morning it was like rush hour, with loads of cars double parked and parking badly, which prompted me to say to That Nice Lady Decorator that there must be something going on that we did not know about. She turned to me and said acidly “do you think it might have something to do with the cathedral and it being Christmas?”.
She had a point. There are a great number of lost souls who need to rely on religion or a belief in something not real to sustain themselves in life, a higher being upon whom they can rely as a crutch when things go wrong, or they cannot cope with the vagaries of life. Luckily I am not so afflicted and am able to decide my fate without reliance on the equivalent of witchcraft in order to enjoy my existence. Enjoy is the operative word here. Do any of you know anyone who is not religious who is consumed by the same guilt to which those god bothers submit? I prefer to believe that we are here for an average of 70 odd years and, as long as you are strong minded enough not to have to rely on the belief that something or someone holds away over your life, you can enjoy it without feeling you should repent.
A festive hat spotted in the Kings Arms
It was with that thought firmly in my mind that yesterday, Christmas Day, I tucked into a wonderful 1985 St Emilion Grand Cru Classe (courtesy of Debs Frost who discovered a hoard that her ex husband had stored in the garage and forgotten about). Earlier we had begun proceedings at The White Hart, open only from 11 until 1, forcing us to adjourn to the packed Kings Arms I order to build up an appetite for lunch. It is the perfect English pub at Christmas, a fact reflected by the attendance. It was packed but I am proud to say that we were the last to leave.
As to those presents; well, I did get some socks as I predicted. However even I could not have predicted the number of pairs. It will take me some time to work my way through 17 of them, especially as I like to wear them for at least a week before changing them. In fact by my calculations, they should last me the whole year before any of them need to be washed.
Roast duck, rather than boring turkey was the decision for lunch, taken at about 5pm, and with the 4th Ashes Test Match in Melbourne commencing close to midnight local time, cricket fans amongst you will not be surprised to know that I decided on a late siesta, rising in time for the start. What they may be more surprised to know is that I dreamed of securing more customers for Currencies Direct during my slumber. Perhaps that should not be that startled. Christmas is of course a time if great joy and what could be more joyful that making a foreign exchange translation where you have not been fleeced by your bank? I suppose, upon reflection, I could think of a few things, but I was happy in my dream, and convinced that only good can come from opening an account.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
No Frankinsense in it?
Firstly, may I wish my reader a very happy Christmas and a prosperous new year. The latter will be easier once you have opened an account with Currencies Direct for your foreign exchange needs.
150,000 people without power, 55 flood warnings, fallen trees devastating the railway timetables; airports flooded and without electricity. Welcome to Christmas in England. My own personal Christmas Eve started slowly with a wet walk around the Arundel Castle estate, and it was some time before the old Christmas spirit really got going. It is hard to feel festive whilst dressed from head to toe in wet weather gear, and being buffetted by the wind and rain.
Whilst walking my mind often wanders (you have to do something to reduce the tedium) and it occurred to me, if you were one to take seriously that great work of fiction, the bible, that you may believe that the three kings were at this very moment some 2000+ years ago, collecting up their gold and myrrh for the young pretender, but what did they mean by bringing that monster with a bolt through his neck? I cannot see any Frankinsense it it. Perhaps there is a pagan Christmas analogy here somewhere? If there is then I can’t fathom it. Could it be something to do with being welcomed into the world by a man with a bolt, and then dispatched in a “cross” sort of a way with nails through the hands? As I say, religion leaves me cold and disinterested. I was going to say thinking about it feels like I am hanging on to life by the palms of my hands but I think the Reverend Jeff may have been a bit upset.
In keeping with the Christmas spirit, the Sprogs decided to buy some seasonal Father Christmas hats. You know the sort of thing; long red hats with with a white fur surround and a white tip. I have a picture of them in operation today. I wore mine to the Co Op as a gesture that I was as one with the festive spirit. However, upon returning from my mercy mission to collect some fizz for Christmas morning, when That Nice Lady Decorator caught sight of me, she made a very derogatory comment along the lines of me looking a bit like a giant boil. A writer with less taste than myself might suggest that his whole Christmas thing is coming to a head, but obviously that sort of dreadful joke is beneath me.
Sprog 1 helps the Nice Lady Decorator enjoy her Christmas hat
Last night was the typical raucous Christmas Eve celebration, starting at The White Hart, where James Desperate Dan the Landlord had already lost his voice, then on to the Kings Arms where we encountered the injured Charlie Pistorius Malcolmson. He had fallen down some steps a few days earlier but had been fine when we saw him at a drinks party with Colin the Pirate, but apparently he went downhill (!) after that. He was not serving and did not take kindly to my suggestion that he was malingering and avoiding bar duty over Xmas.
Then the Eagle to buy drinks for those Sprogs and then it all gets a bit hazy. We had a plan to go to the Red Lion as there was a band playing but I think That Nice Lady Decorator had peaked a little early, as I saw her drinking water (and we all know what WC Fields said about drinking water) may have returned to the White Hart, but then again we may not have. So I feel that there may have to be an early application of a Bloody Mary before the opening of presents. I am looking forward to receiving some more socks.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Bush tucker Christmas trial
Perhaps I should not have bought the chocolate covered ants for Christmas. When one is under pressure to find that extra special gift, and being rained on and subjected to gale force winds whilst undertaking that most irksome of tasks, shopping, one has to make decisions. Inevitably, from time to time and with the luxury of hindsight, some of these decisions may be open to question. Obviously I have left this purchase a little late to be able to get it to Father Christmas in time for them to appear in Sprog 1 and 2’s Christmas Stocking, but as we all know, Father Christmas is special and magic so he will find a magic way.
Two magic landlords, Fearless Feckless Fricker on the left and Charlie Pistorius Malcolmson with the orange hat, cunningly disguising his lack of hair, at the No Parsley Christmas lunch
We all know how the Catholic religious fatherhood has entered (sic) into fulsome and exciting (for them) relationships with young children, and Father Christmas has carried on that long tradition, bouncing young children on his knee and promising presents if they are good. That he is a magical and revered character in the world of children is undeniable and so it is with my Sprogs, at least it was until more than a decade ago when they were certain that he existed. The fact that they were awoken by That Nice Lady Decorator,who had imbibed well earlier in the evening, and who was undertaking Santa duty, did not notice that they had stirred, coupled with the fact that she was being rather more attentive than should have been expected with my good self, only came to light last year. It seems that someone was rumbled at that stage when the “Santa Clause” figure had cackled in a way reminiscent of the Decorator, and that had led the Sprogs to question whether Santa Clause actually existed. They were in their late teens at the time.
I also thought the turkey flavoured crickets had to be purchased, in case we run short of provisions on Christmas Day. That seems a tad unlikely I accept, given that fridge and larder have now overflowed into a plastic box outside containing the Christmas vegetables. It seems that all the food I have been denied over the past few months whilst on this diet has been hoarded for the festive season.
I was in Worthing being blown about and rained on in the most spectacular fashion, getting some last-minute presents, in keeping with most of Sussex when I came across the shop selling these exotic items. The weather was truly abominable yesterday and is a set to be the same for the next few days. It is like living in the north of England. Yes, that bad for those of you sunning themselves in the south of France.
The Prodigal Sprog, Sprog 1, managed to defy the hurricane force winds and fly into Gatwick from Nice last night. It was by all accounts a very bumpy flight and he claims to still have finger nail marks in his forearm from a Polish woman sitting beside him who was so frightened by the bucking and heaving of the plane. The worst bit was the landing with the plane landing almost diagonal to the runway as the wind and rain howled about them. It seems there was that spontaneous applause, usually born out of relief, when the plane finally hit land and began to slow. The trains were similarly affected and so he was home 3 hours later than expected, and, very understandably, ready for a drink. His favourite pub in Arundel is the Eagle, so in deference to him we went there to discuss the advantages of having an account with Currencies Direct. Honest!
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Santa Claustrophobia
So we were in the Kings Arms yesterday lunchtime with 91-year-old Flight Lieutenant David Golding, DFC, AE, FCII, AMBII, RAF VT (retired) who on this occasion had eschewed his normal tipple of gin and tonic in favour of a now festive mulled wine. We spent some time discussing his many achievements both as a navigator and then in the world of insurance, which he inhabited after the war. Both careers were fraught with danger.
He was regaling the attendant masses with stories of his war-time heroics and his cricketing prowess, even producing some cricket averages (in which he headed the bowling averages and was second in the batting averages) from 1955. It was during this time that I asked if he had a card, so that I could acquaint him with this column, knowing that he would enjoy it just as much as the hundred of thousands of other readers. It was then that a chap called Rick said that it would have to be a very long card in order to accommodate all the letters after his name. His list of awards make him a walking scrabble set.
After doing some damage to the offering of cheese, cocktail sausages, pate and crackers lurking on the bar, a selection of which I felt able to test fully given my earlier 4 mile walk in atrocious conditions, together with some reasonably cooperative bathroom scales, we considered and then rejected the opportunity to pop into the White Hart for an afternoon cap.
Seagull spotted on the way to the pub
Had we in fact not listened to reason and dropped in we may have encountered the Mighty Omega who is the proud owner of a vicious rabbit. We had been at lunch at hers a couple of weeks ago and I had forgotten about a meeting between two of the most dangerous claw welding creatures I have ever come across; That Nice Lady Decorator and the Mighty One’s giant pet rabbit. Suffice to say that one of them (and I am unable to confirm which) is booked in for a tetanus jab following their spat. I mention this because the incident was discussed in the pub the night before where she had intoned seriously that “he was not a happy bunny”.
Anyway she rabbited on about what to do with Claws as he has subsequently become known, at least to me. Releasing him into the wild was discussed but dismissed as too dangerous. Not to Claws you understand, and not just the rabbit population of Sussex, but to foxes, badgers and even wolves, lions and hyenas should he run into any. So much for a rabbit’s foot supposedly being a good luck charm. If you go Claws foot up your backside you would know about it.
So Christmas is nearly upon us but there are some Scrooge like souls who do not enjoy this time of year. In fact I have heard TV comedian Tim Vine describe that dislike as Santa Claustrophobia. Personally I love this time of year, once you strip out all that religious mumbo jumbo. In fact the only thing I have against it is that the offices of Currencies Direct are closed for two days, but thankfully most sensible far-sighted people, far-sighted enough to read this daily missive, with foreign exchange needs will have opened an account prior to this unfortunate closure.
With Sprog 2 arriving home from France this evening for a week long raid on my larder, pocket and wine cellar, we shall have a full family compliment over the festive season. Crash helmets and goggles on.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Scratching around for jokes about lice
Now few of the limerick writers who have taken up residence on the comments section of this daily column are often kind about me, but yesterday one went a bit too far and compared my intellect unfavourably with that of a head lice. Further to my piece yesterday nicked from The Times about drinkers tending to be more intelligent, I do hope that the head lice in question was not teetotal because that would be very irritating, as irritating I imagine as, well, head lice.
It has happened. The weather was so disgustingly English in nature yesterday, with hanging grey skies and driving rain for almost every hour of lightness, incidentally ruining the Arundel Farmers Market held on the third Saturday of each month, that I found myself looking once again at holidays in Tenerife in January. This time it was worse than looking, one more final glance out of the window with the enough for me to press the “buy” button this time, so we are off to the Canary Islands in mid January. I just needed to have some sunshine in my diary.
A couple of Muscovy Ducks search each other for lice
It has already seemed a very long winter, and, much like we have come to the conclusion that high summer is not the place to be in the south of France, unless you are escaping an English summer, we have decided that winter is not the place to linger in England. I enjoy escaping from the tempest and finding a cozy pub, having a bite to eat, a few pints and some banter with the locals, but when you are tempted to do the same thing day after day to try to close out the weather debacle, you realise that it is not the place to be for any extended period. Two weeks should be enough as a build up to Christmas, and maybe a week after, then it has to be skiing or somewhere warm.
As I have said, it was raining so we found a pub, the Red Lion in Arundel and after a disappointing pint of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord Bitter, we adjourned to dry off in the White Hart. That was the bit where we enter into some banter with the locals, and who better than the stunningly beautiful Mighty Omega (Meg to her friends) and the substantially less beautiful James “Desperate Dan” the Landlord, who is her preferred bit of rough. I believe I can see the attraction in a kind of caveman calling way, in the same style of that French rugby player Sebastien Chabel, who reputedly a large percentage of girls in France dreamed of being dragged by him into a cave and ravished. In other words it is not pretty but there is a kind of magnificent primeval brooding charm about him.
Anyway we did manage to settle one important Christmas arrangement; namely the pub opening hours on Christmas Day. The White Hart will open from 11 until 1, thus giving Desperate and the staff time to pop into the Kings Arms afterwards as they will open from 12 until 2. This is vital information required when planning ones festive days social schedule.
Just as important is for one to ensure one does not take ones foot of the accelerator of foreign exchange news whilst celebrating a pagan feast (forget all that stuff in the bible, this is all pagan). It is vital to be aware that those sterling chaps (did you see what I did there?) at Currencies Direct are working until the last possible moment for all your foreign exchange needs, so I have called them in to work on Christmas Eve. Thus there is still time to have that account set up before the holiday commences.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
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