The wetlands of the Arun
Wednesday is dustbin day in Arundel and the local refuse collection personnel are very efficient. However, we are unlucky enough to have one of the most active rubbish bin emptying entities in the world in our household. Banjo, the awful, gross, cocker spaniel, so beloved by that Nice Lady Decorator loves emptying bins. Three times yesterday he obliged by emptying the kitchen bin all over the kitchen floor. Finally, on the third occasion, he got his arse kicked, something that should have happened a long time ago and far more regularly. I had volunteered, but you know how it is.
That Nice Lady Decorator has, in the past, suggested lining the it with mustard, to act as a deterrent, but I think much more direct action is required. Sadly, I have been over ruled, but I have made some progress; rather than use mustard, I have found a large bottle of a violent looking extra hot sauce, and have arranged it strategically all around the lip and inside the rubbish bin itself. To help ensure that this treatment will be effective, I avoided eating some very succulent chicken last evening and swept these into the bin as bait. I had expected to hear a lot of doggy slobbering and shaking of head last night, but so far he has hidden his distress well, unless he likes hot sauces, which will be a bitter blow.
The final work on The Valbonne Monologues is complete, with the exception of the back cover and credits, which I shall complete today, and then its off to the printers and I can start thinking about Currencies Direct and a holiday. I have decided to have some quotes on the back of the book cover (and jacket of the hard back) and there is still time to make a submission today.
More sunshine this morning promised more than it delivered. By afternoon it was raining again, but the frosty early morning was a delight. With good weather so much less in evidence than when living in France, somehow, when you a get a nice day, well, a nice morning, you enjoy it more. We went to Clymping beach where the local council are undertaking repair of the sea defences, moving gravel from one end of the beach to the other. It looked like a major job, but upon talking to one of the drivers of the massive trucks moving gravel, it seems that this is work that is done each year and takes two months to complete. On the way over, I took this picture of the flooded fields around Arundel.
The wetlands of Arundel
Today we shall be heading to London for Sprog 2’s parent’s evening, an opportunity to be humiliated by her teachers, and to spend the evening having one’s daughters shortcomings explained in minute detail. The good news is that they usually serve a decent Bordeaux and some interesting finger food to ease the pain (the fees are sufficiently exorbitant to be able to absorb the cost without flinching), and then in order to increase said discomfort, we will no doubt be taken to the cleaners the most expensive Indian restaurant so that Sprog 2 can be properly fed.
We will stay in London and dash back on Thursday morning so that nice lady decorator can do what she does best; decorate. My office (read glorified shed) is in need of plaster board and insulation, not just to keep the heat in, but to keep the noise in as well (when things go wrong) to low enough levels not to attract complaints from the neighbours.
Chris France
Sun goes down over lunch
Lunch at The Crown at Chiddingfold with Mr Clipboard was more of the same; me taking the mickey out of his obsessive time-keeping and public schoolboy attitude to everything, looking down his nose at chaps like me, those that have made a decent living by hard graft. As usual it was great fun and I learned another of his many homophobic expressions; “bowling from both ends”.
Obviously Wellington School did not have many people like me amongst their ranks, people for whom having a private school education was not an expected right of passage, but being born with a silver spoon in one’s mouth, as Mr. Clipboard has, clearly had its drawbacks. To paraphrase Hugh Bonneville in Downton Abbey; “if I had to recall every boy that tried to kiss me at Eton…” Hence, I suppose, the colourful expressions.
Lunch was good, with all parties expressing satisfaction, Mr Clipboard was in top form despite his advancing years, which, let’s face it, have not been kind to him. He is still, however, very good at laughing uproariously at his own jokes, so no change there then, but I do not begrudge him his moment in the sun, as long as he made that transfer via Currencies Direct as discussed.
After lunch on the way back to Arundel (actually that is not quite fair, we detoured),we drifted past The Bridge, a pub on the Arun close to Amberley for a slightly disappointing pint of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord (the second best beer in the world in normal circumstances) due to the sudden arrival of some very unexpected sunshine, which although forecast, was still a surprise. From there we were able to gaze out upon the acres of flooded farmland, arriving back in Arundel just as the last rays of the unaccustomed sunshine were leaving the castle as my picture today captures. Moody, huh?
The sun sets over Arundel Castle
The very final read through of the much awaited (by me) new book (by me) The Valbonne Monolouges will be taking place today and tomorrow and I hope to have it delivered to the printers before the end of the week. As we speak I am collecting in quotes from famous people to add to the back cover like real authors. So far, having given the news that there will be another book out shortly to some of the celebrities I pretend to know, I have several quotes from which to choose: “not another one”, “Are you sure? I need to sit down” and “I told him nothing good would come of him thinking he’s a writer”. Stirring stuff but I will not reveal who said what at this stage.
Then Wednesday, it is Parents evening for Sprog 2, so a trip to London and an overnight is required. You know it is going to be a disaster when the excuses begin a week before the event. “She doesn’t like me” is one of the regular refrains used to prepare doting parents when referring to teachers, in an attempt to justify poor marks, grades and attendance. The omens are not good and after the usual shouting match we will no doubt go out for an Indian to commiserate with her. Of course she will choose the most expensive meal on the menu and we will pay. No change there then either.
Also on Wednesday I need to acquire some new cricket footwear and “protector” in readiness for the Australian cricket odyssey, for which we depart in a little over 10 days time. I do have to express concern at the name of the team whom I shall be representing; the Nidderdale Taverners, which sounds like a reference to a far distant northern outpost, and I suspect will reveal the ethnic roots of many of the players. Perhaps the team is mostly comprised of staff from Ripley Castle, the captain of the team being Sir Thomas Ingilby?
Chris France
Inglenook initiative
Any chance of playing tennis seemed to recede into the distance as I gradually became aware of the noise of rain lashing against my bedroom window at around 8am yesterday morning. Normal people from almost any other country would have accepted the inevitable and cancelled the match immediately but with the stoical British refusal to yield and accept the inevitable, we all met, suitably attired in tennis shoes, overcoats and hats, and in one case, gloves, ready to play at 10am as arranged.
On the way to L.A. (Littlehampton) the nearest place to find a court available, and outside at that, I timidly expressed the notion that, given that the windscreen wipers were on double speed, perhaps the weather may make it impossible to play. However, it was decided to press on and hope the weather had improved by the time we arrived, which in a way it had. The rain had stopped, the puddles on the court appearing to ripple in the breeze, but the true enormity of the storm force wind hit us, quite literally, as we stepped from the car. John the builder’s black trilby hat was the first victim, being snatched from his head and blown 40 metres down the street, coming to rest in a small lake masquerading as a puddle. Still the tennis was not postponed, we actually got out of the car and bent double against the elements, walked to the deserted booth to pay before sense prevailed and a postponement was finally agreed.
Replacement exercise was imperative, as, with a home cooked Sunday lunch looming and a very nice Pomerol, and roast potatoes, in prospect, the first solid carbohydrates for weeks in prospect, I reluctantly dragged the bike out of the shed and set off to cycle to The Black Rabbit. At first it was easy as I bowled along much faster than usual urged on by that wind. However, upon turning back, and wearing almost every item of clothing in my possession, the bike was reduced to a snail pace, as I cycled back directly back into the teeth of a gale.
You have guessed it; a pre lunch pint was vital to begin the return of good humour before, as John the Builder, a guest for lunch and a prospective Currencies Direct client, put it; “hostilities begin”. I have a picture today of some luncheon guests and that Nice Lady Decorator enjoying the recently revealed inglenook fireplace after suitable administration of wine and lunch.
Welcome to the smoking room
Two weeks today, we shall be on our way out of deeply autumnal England on our way to Bangkok for a few days before travelling on to Australia to play cricket. In the meantime, today, we shall pick our way around the fallen trees and flooded roads to the Old Crown at Chiddingfold for a birthday lunch. Old Wellingtonian and pal Mr Clipboard, so-called because of his obsessive time keeping and organising any event in microscopic detail, has a birthday to commiserate. When one reaches our respective ages, one does not celebrate. Although he looks a great deal older than me, it will be a surprise to anyone else there that he is much younger. I have no doubt he will remember his hearing aid, walking stick and defibrillator as he will have a typewritten note in triplicate somewhere about his person to remind him, or perhaps on his clipboard. He is a dear friend and will no doubt be accompanied by his wife and home help the ravishing Ashley who will, as usual, try to stop him dribbling at the table.
Chris France
@Valbonne_News
Black Rabbit for tennis rabbits?
I was told to google “Avalon RNLI” to glean some background on one of my new tennis opponents lined up for today, but the only item I found was about a boat being de-masted and having to be rescued from the English Channel last week, so no clue there, or was there? The brooding presence of James “Desperate Dan” the Landlord, who in some lights resembles “Jaws” from the early James Bond films, albeit with a beard (and without the natty dental work) was unwilling to talk about it last night in the White Hart as the wind-up ahead of my first tennis match with the locals of Arundel this morning got underway.
It had been a long day, with a cycle from The Murrell Arms at Barnham to, well, Barnham (a 6 mile circular route), and a rewarding couple of pints of London Pride afterwards, just to ensure there was no lasting progress on my weight loss programme. After a brief siesta (try three hours) I was recovered enough to pop into the White Hart, just to confirm the tennis details for today you understand. This took from about 7pm until close to midnight. There was clearly a great deal of organising to do.
So this morning, unless it is raining, which it has been on and off every day for the last fortnight, and if it is warm enough, which is very doubtful, the locals will be treated to a rare view of my, bright green matching tennis shorts and shirt, hand-made in Kenya. Many regular readers of this column from the Valbonne area will remember that I employ exactly the same outfit for golf on occasions. It is so versatile it can be used for either, although it would be fair to point out that few agree it is suitable for wearing for any activity. That nice lady decorator has called me the “jolly green giant” in the past when dressed in it, which I think is a little harsh.
A post tennis de-brief is expected to commence just after midday today at The Black Rabbit, pictured below, beside the River Arun just outside Arundel. I shall be on the look-out for any de-masted boats… For those new readers unfamiliar with my reporting techniques, the way it works is if I am victorious then expect a fulsome report, should I suffer a reverse then it is unlikely that I shall have sufficient space to cover the match.
A welcoming sight on a dank day
Monday will also be another back-sliding diet day with lunch in celebration of yet another birthday for Mr Clipbeard, who at the very least is catching me up in age terms. I know he already looks considerably older than I, but you will be astounded to know he is in fact younger. Such are the effects of such a dissolute life. I think he should consider a proper job, although I accept it is probably too late. We shall be meeting at The Old Crown at Chiddingfold. As a Currencies Direct client, I shall of course be submitting the bill to my accountant as a perfectly justifiable business expense. I do not expect a happy outcome. The Crown is a wonderful ancient English pub, one of the things I enjoy the most during my exile in England. You cannot beat an establishment like this with great food, great beer and a roaring fire when it is miserable outside, and as is November, it will almost certainly be miserable. Much as I love and miss life in Valbonne, this is something I miss when I am there, and for which there is no substitute.
Chris France
When an old cricketer leaves the crease
“On yer bike” was the battle cry from politician Norman Tebbit during the Thatcher era, when referring to the unemployed work shy, which is a description with which I am uncomfortably familiar. I was on my bike again yesterday cycling near Clymping in the freezing cold, wind-and-shower strewn morning. In between uplifting glimpses of the sun and the sea, I was soaked, frozen, dispirited and still fat. Such are the vagaries of life that befall a semi-retired old git with an unhealthy love of beer, good wine and good food.
Earlier I had been at the chemists waiting for a prescription served by a pharmacist with a very loud voice. The poor lady in front of me was asking very quietly about treatments for nits. I only know this because the pharmacist gave a very loud and complete run down on what was the best treatment, the gist of which I could have picked up from Brighton. A megaphone would have been a little more discreet.
My picture today is of the final resting place of one of England’s most famous cricketers. Colin Cowdray played for and captained England in the 1960’s, but I had no idea he was buried in a tiny off-the-beaten-track graveyard in a tiny hamlet called Poling, or Polling, depending upon which signpost you believe until we stumbled across it last week. I see this as a sign to invoke his spirit when, later this month, I set off for Australia to play cricket in the Golden Oldies Cricket Festival.
The last resting place for the late great Colin The Lord of Cowdray of Tonbridge, C.B.E
As we sat in the Black Rabbit last evening, my having cycled down just before dark as part of my dreaded exercise routine, and to allow me to partake of a couple of pints of Fursty Ferret, -a very passable real ale- the conversation turned, for some reason, to the practice of having a plaque mounted on the wall of houses where someone famous had lived. I said I wished we could have one on our house in Arundel to celebrate my achievements as a writer. Surprisingly that Nice Lady Decorator agreed, but it was, of course, a double-edged sword; she pointed out that these symbols of achievement were invariably placed on the houses after the celebrities death.
I asked her later if she liked my new haircut and she said she did but why did the barber not cut my eyebrows? This alone was a fair comment, however, she added “you look a bit like Joseph Fritzl” (the Austrian lunatic who kept his daughter prisoner and fathered children by her). I do like a woman with an acerbic tongue, which is lucky for me.
Being a Saturday, I can leave my thoughts about the value of moving foreign exchange via Currencies Direct and concentrate on leisure and exercise. It seems to me that Einstein was right. Every action should have a reaction, so, if I am to spend hours cycling and walking this morning, then I should be allowed to spend a similar number of hours over a few pints then lunch. As I write, the day has dawned bright and sunny so there is some hope that this will come to pass.
Should the weather remain clement for Sunday, there is a prospect of playing tennis with James, the landlord of the White Hart, John the Builder, and a fourth in the morning. If it happens it will be the first time I have ventured onto a tennis court locally. I am drawn to it as James has made clear that at 12.00, whatever the score, we adjourn to the Black Rabbit. This is my kind of tennis.
Chris France
Garden sheds on the beach
I was reminded today of the old Commer van, the vehicle of choice for rock and roll bands in the 60’s before the Ford Transit came along. This is because of the proof reading now taking place of my second book The Valbonne Monologues which will be launched (I hope) on Friday 14th December at a ceremony in Valbonne’s penultimate market day before Christmas. Why the Commer Van reference? Well, because my proof readers have added so many comma’s to my work, it would need a van to shift them.
A long walk over the Sussex countryside yesterday almost had a happy ending when Banjo, the disaster dog owned and protected from normal discipline by that Nice Lady Decorator, developed a limp. My thought was that he should be put down immediately and not being a squeamish girlie, I volunteered for the job. Sadly though, he recovered before we got back to the car.
Although still attempting to rid myself of unwanted weight, with a low carb diet, cycling and walking, I am always open to a diversion, so, when it was suggested that we undo all the good work and pop into the Black Horse for a pint of Ringwood, I am ashamed to say I agreed. It never stops at one, and, once on the slippery beer slope (this does not imply that any is spilled), momentum is everything, thus later on and with that Nice Lady Decorator disinclined to cook, we decided to take advantage of the Kings Head’s innovative idea of welcoming you into the pub with your take away. Tell me if a combination of real ale, chicken jalfrezi, popadoms, fried rice and nan bread are low carb? I shall not want to face the scales this morning.
Today’s picture could be a study in low-cost housing in England. Beach huts are a peculiarly English phenomenon, I guess born out of the need to find relief from wind and rain whilst “enjoying” an English beach holiday. It is a close run thing, but sitting in a beach side restaurant beside the sparking Mediterranean with a glass of something fizzy, and a nice piece of fish untroubled by glutinous batter just about shaves it.
The English beach experience
So after a couple of back sliding days, I am determined that today I shall back in the saddle today. Currencies Direct will loom large on my desk diary, listing things that I should have done, packing for the forthcoming Australian trip must be considered, especially the cricket gear that will be required. I had left my cricket shoes in England two years ago but was distressed to discover that their keeper, John “Chuckle Brothers” Surtees had throw them out on account of their smell. I shall also have to buy a new “protector” or cricket box as I knew them, the vital piece of equipment that protects one’s crown jewels from being hit by the hard cricket ball. I had an email from our captain, Sir Thomas Ingilby saying that team protectors were available but I have decided that I do not want to share. In any event they may well turn out to be too small for the job (the jewels, not the protector). This will mean, I think, a trip to London or perhaps Brighton to purchase the required equipment.
Then tomorrow it is the weekend when that horse may well trip up again. I certainly hope so! It can be so boring being righteous, and anyway, those bathroom scales are out to upset me. I think they should be the subject of a polygraph because they are lying to me constantly and nobody believes me when I try to expose them.
Chris France
Spume everywhere
It is fair to expect Halloween to be a horror show and so it was. Sprog 1 arrived home in his car trailing smoke and oil and which was audible from when he set off from Guildford, where he is at college. The vehicle in question, a not very wonderful mid-1980’s Citroen Saxo Mischief, the filthiest car in Christendom, seems to have parted company with its exhaust system, thrown all its toys (read oil) out of the pram (read engine) and decided to misfire, a problem often associated with old cars that have run out of petrol. I have patiently explained to him that if you run the tank of an old car down to empty, you will get the dregs of the tank sucked up into the working parts, and this is no good for anyone. I don’t think the message is getting home (or rather he is not always getting home) unless you get the message whilst simultaneously engaged in playing computer games, whilst texting, watching TV and skypeing.
I suggested that he might like to clean from it the mud that he had collected when the car was dragged out of a brook, to which he had been guided by his quite useless tom-tom satellite navigation, but I suspect it is a badge of honour. He is a scruffy teenage student after all. No fairy liquid allowed. The offending vehicle is now in Arundel Garage being overseen by a plethora of tutting mechanics. That it will cost me money is a given. Exactly how much is a nightmare I have yet to experience. As I say, a nightmare on Halloween.
The art of conversation is in dire danger of being an art lost to the world if the teenage generation has anything to do with it. Thus we determined to take Sprog 1 out to break the cord that binds him to his computer. So after an early evening jaunt to the Black Rabbit and dinner at home, the delights of Halloween in Arundel were at our feet to enjoy.
I was all for staying at the White Hart on account of the rain that was (inevitably) falling. I say falling but when the rain is travelling horizontally, it does not ever get to the ground, each drop merely lodging in one’s clothing and soaking one to the skin. However that Nice Lady Decorator seemed determined to visit the Eagle, until she stepped outside in a lateral shower. Sprog 1 was undaunted however and extracted £20 ffrom me for refreshments and disappeared into the night.
During the morning I had been persuaded to go to L. A. (Littlehampton) to check out the cycling possibilities whilst that Nice Lady Decorator had her nails done. During my enforced tour in a gale, which arrived just as the rain departed, I happened along the beach in the town and was able to take this picture.
The after effects of a storm on the beach at Littlehampton
It was taken on the promenade yesterday morning. The spume from the overnight storm had built up beside a beach groin and a part of me wanted to allude to a very tasteless joke about spume and groins, but upon further consideration I decided that it might tarnish the very high standards of humour and taste that are regularly not upheld by this column. Also, I did not think it was very funny so decided against it, so please ignore these last two sentences.
Just room to say that I have forgotten to weave the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct into today’s missive, so you have a let off.
Chris France
Wittering on about a beach
You have to make the most of the very brief gaps in the poor weather in England, so as the day dawned with blue skies, instead of working on finding more lucky people to open accounts with Currencies Direct as I had planned, I persuaded that nice lady decorator to try out our new bike rack and give West Wittering beach another chance. When we got there I did make one discovery; the beach about which I had been so rude in a previous column was East Wittering, not West, but that East is as bad as I remembered. If was like the bad old days of the Berlin wall. East nasty and grey, the west more civilised and hospitable, and which I picture today. Neither of course hold a candle to Cannes or Juan les Pins but there is a wild charm about the beach that I kind of like.
A beach I have been Wittering on about
Tonight is Halloween but already I have been irked by Christmas advertising. Obviously it should be banned until after Bonfire Night on pain of death but my letter to the Prime Minister has still not been answered. Thus I still do not know whether he agrees with me and whether he also believes, as I do, that perpetrators should be garotted, or perhaps more aptly, burned at the Bonfire Night stake.
Not many know that Christmas was banned by Parliament in 1647, (perhaps that was why Guy Fawkes tried to blow it up?) and I suggested to Mr Cameron that he invoke the powers taken by Parliament then, but I am prepared to overlook that as long as there is no mention of it until November 6th. Don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas, except for all that unnecessary religious mumbo-jumbo which crowds in to try to make people feel guilty about having a good time. They just can’t bear people to enjoy themselves without some kind of payback (into the church collection so the vicar can buy some presents?).
I came across some Christmas advertising today. Worn out by a long walk (the bike remained stubbornly on the bike rack until we got home) in fitful sunshine and a little warm due to the number of clothes it is normally necessary to wear in England in October, I persuaded that nice lady decorator to undertake a cycle down to the Black Rabbit for a late afternoon pint. This is a perfectly balanced dietary exercise. I estimate that cycling to the Rabbit in calorie terms is roughly equivalent to a pint of real ale, so, although we are not gaining anything, cycling there and back and drinking two pints is roughly equivalent in terms of calorie burning and intake on the dietary stakes. Yes, we still embarked on a seemingly hopeless attempt to lose some weight.
Anyway, back to Christmas advertising. It is in every pub, offering Christmas menus or venues for Christmas parties, every shop, every garage, I even saw an advert outside a church for Christmas services, although I was not certain what kind of services to which they were referring; massage perhaps, maybe with happy endings? Those church sorts are always looking so happy, there must be some kind of pleasure of the flesh involved? In Valbonne the church offers free mulled wine after the Carol service. Maybe Carol is the name of the masseuse?
We shall be in England for Christmas this year, our first in Arundel and I am looking forward to it. I shall be ready for some more cold frosty weather by then as Thailand and Australia beckon in the interim.
Chris France
Cafe exclusive
The age of ageism is upon us. On a trip yesterday to LA (that is local speak for the rather run-down seaside town for codgers called Littlehampton) I was struck by the probably illegal favoritism being shown to chaps of a certain age, as my picture today reveals. An over-50’s Cafe seems to me to be an exclusive club, entry to which I wish I was not entitled. To paraphrase the late Groucho Marx “I would not want to belong to any club that would have me as a member”. That nice lady decorator has told me that she will forever be excluded from such a cafe as she will never reach 50, indeed she doubts she will ever get past 37, certainly she has not for several years. Another thought has crossed my mind; what if I were in my late 40’s and in desperate need of coffee (or more likely, a toilet)? Would I have to produce ID or proof of age to be allowed entry? Surely this must contravene some EU regulation about discrimination in terms of age? As Homer Simpson once said; “if there was a law it would be against it”.
Have you any ID?
I have never seen such a lot of red lines in my life. Proof reading of my forthcoming and eagerly awaited (by me) book the Valbonne Monologues has caused some consternation to Lin Wolff from the English Book
Centre in Valbonne and the redoubtable Viv Frost, the girl responsible for persuading me to turn this daily column into a book in the first place, both of whom volunteered for proof reading duties. I think there may be a shortage of red ink if their combined onslaught on my grammar and spelling continues. I would like to think that they were under lining the bits they thought were funny, but….
So after a trip to LA, it was back home to work. My Currencies Direct duties are less onerous in Arundel than when I am in Valbonne for the simple reason that few in England have regular need of foreign currency, even if it can be purchased at a cheaper rate than your bank. Thus much of my time was spent trying to think of something to write about to keep you all amused.
I mentioned yesterday the proposed film about Jimmy Savile starring George Clooney. On the same tack I hear that Viagra are about to release a new variant of of their product bearing the 007 logo. Apparently it doesn’t make things harder it just makes you Roger Moore.
As this looks like the only decent weather day this week, the plan is to take the bikes and the dogs to a beach, perhaps West Wittering, which I hated when I saw last year but have recently seen pictures and may have been mistaken. It was such a massive disappointment when I first saw it, just after the start of our enforced English exile, compared with the beaches we had recently left to their own devices in the south of France, and was not helped by horizontal drizzle and the tide being right in, thus covering the sand. Stand by tomorrow for my new considered opinion. I expect comparisons with Juan les Pins to remain less than favourable.
Then tomorrow is also Halloween. I am wondering whether I am daring enough to ask that nice lady decorator “trick or treat”. In the past I have asked but never been sure which is which. It has been suggested (I like to think there is a ghost of a chance) that we break our hermit like temperance in celebration of all things ghoulish. Dinner has been mentioned and I have pointed out that there are at least three decent looking restaurants in Arundel that we have not yet tried, so fingers crossed
Chris France
Squire and Orson Wells
The return from the one day of sunshine on Saturday to the usual grim cold and damp weather that epitomises England was immediately in evidence the moment I awoke from my slumbers just before mid day. Thus there was nothing for it but to go in search of an English pub with a roaring log fire serving proper English beer. The first stop, The Squire and Horse on the way to Amberley, which had been recommended, turned out to be a restaurant with no interest in serving beer properly and with the fires un-lit we cast the net a little wider and visited The Swan at Fittleworth which was serving London Pride, and the fires were lit.
Whilst we were out, lunch was cooking itself. Roast pheasant wrapped in bacon was something of a daring departure for that nice lady decorator but was cooked sublimely and was a great success. The roasted vegetables however were, well, well roasted. She refused to believe I like them like that. Black brussel sprouts are one of my new favourites, but it is fair to say that rather too much cooking had occurred whilst we supped. I took this picture of a saying by Orson Wells when in the Black Rabbit recently, I think it sums things up nicely.
My sentiments entirely
Plans for the launch of the Valbonne Monologues are beginning to take shape. Clear you diaries for market day on Friday 14th December in Valbonne. I shall hope to have all the details confirmed shortly. In the meantime it is possible to pre-order a copy or many copies of either the hardback or paperback. Such orders will be signed by the author and identified as pre-orders, thereby making them an even more desirable Christmas Present and quite clearly an appreciating and appreciated asset. Do you know how much a first edition of Harry Potter fetches? No, nor do I, and nor is there any relevance to that question.
As I write, my self-appointed Sales Manager, Master Mariner Mundell is doubtless burning the midnight oil as he considers the logistics that must be settled in advance, and if he is not then he should be. Currencies Direct and French Mortgage Xpress will once again sponsor the event or I will want to know the reason why and I am happy to consider other sponsors and in this regard I expect to hear from Paul Howard amongst others shortly.
Whilst we were at home in Arundel with freshly plucked pheasant, a gathering was taking place at our house in Valbonne currently under the guardianship of Peachy Butterfield, or more likely his adorable wife Suzanne. As one of the guests was to be Simon Howes, whose house win is Chateau Gloria, I felt it necessary to telephone and ensure that at least one bottle of this nectar be saved for the landlord (me). I was told that not only were three bottles of Gloria to hand, there were also bottles of a grand Cru St Estephe but that Peachy was delighted to have acquired a 10 litre box of St Croix to which he was hoping to pay massive respect yesterday afternoon. I telephoned again at about 8pm but answer came there none. It must have been a good lunch.
Halloween on this coming Wednesday is now the next time I am being allowed out of my hutch. Until then I will once again be marooned on a largely carbohydrate free wilderness not of my own making. I do not yet know what we shall be doing to celebrate but doubtless word will soon be handed down.
Chris France
Elephant makes trunk call
Whatever I may have said that was critical of England in October I take back. With the first sunshine for about 30 years in evidence yesterday we took the opportunity to undertake a 6 mile march around the South Downs via the Monarchs Way in cold but sunny weather. The views across the Downs down to the distant sea were as good as it gets. In a totally pre-planned sort of manner we happened upon the George and Dragon at Houghton, a pub that has been an ale house since 1276. It was such a nice surprise to find it that we had booked for lunch a table some hours before.
I have to say that a 6 mile walk, entirely up hill, for hour after hour was the perfect pre requisite for a fantastic lunch although I did a bit of a double take when I saw on the menu “roast partridge, no shot”, but the “h” was slightly misformed. I was glad to find neither shot nor snot on the plate and although it went down really well, the trick with the green bean did not go down quite so well with that nice lady decorator, but it amused me.
There really is no place better in the world on a sunny day than England, or so I thought until I took the call from Peachy Butterfield who was sitting in his Vilbriquin shorts in the web, my private bar in our house in Valbonne with a cold glass of rose. For a moment I reconsidered as I sat with my walking boots, overcoat and gloves on to keep out the cold, but a couple of pints of real ale and a nice lunch in a wonderful quintessentially English pub made in honours even. There is a great deal of merit in both.
On the mantelpiece of this wonderful old hostelry, which had the original machinery for a roasting spit still in place over the log fire, I came across this picture. It seems that in 1906 a travelling circus came to the area and the elephants were taken to the river at nearby Amberley to drink, the circus owners being unaware that being tidal the water was salty, so they went in search of fresh water and, although I am not sure how it came about, one Indian elephant found a bucket of it in an upstairs room. I took a picture of that picture.
Elephant at The George and Dragon, Houghton 1906
Returning from lunch we found the White Hart buzzing so stopped in for one. Just one we thought but before I knew it, darkness had descended in more ways than one and the rest of the evening was a write off, and by that I do not mean I was working on my book.
With the Indian summer over and rain and wind set to return today, as I write it is not clear what will transpire today or indeed this week. Clearly I shall need to continue my work on The Valbonne Monologues and Currencies Direct but at the moment the rest is am empty canvas. Perhaps I shall go somewhere warm? I have been told to go to hell often enough, perhaps I should go somewhere towards it?
I have at last heard a Jimmy Savile joke that I can repeat courtesy of old friend Julie “Faux-Pas”. She tells me that she has heard that there is a new film in the offing and George Clooney has been lined up to play the part of the late Sir Jimmy. It seems the working title is “Oh, She’s Eleven”
Chris France
Skyfall’s the limit
So then to the gay capital of the south, Brighton, to catch up on cinematic current events. I hear from old pal Cam Findlay about a meeting he once had with the leader of Brighton Council. Cam was suited and booted, dressed in pinstripes and Church shoes, the leader of the council though was in lime green mohair with matching accessories, sandals and painted toe nails. I do believe my style guru, Mr Humphreys (if he were free) would love to spend some time there. I spent some time there last night to see Skyfall, the new James Bond movie before stepping out into the gay new world to see if I could find a pint of beer or a more likely creme de menthe frappe, but we nearly didn’t make it at all. The Trainline website gave wrong departure information, the ticket office was closed and the automatic ticket machine could not dispense tickets because it had a period, I’m sorry, a printer problem and then with 5 minutes to go the train was cancelled. It was if god wanted us not to see it and in retrospect, and it is hard for me to admit it, but god was right. We had to take the car and brave the Friday evening school run and rush hour in order to be slightly underwhelmed by the film which has had rave reviews.
To me Mr Bond is looking old, hid grey stubble not helping, the plot a bit weak, the villain slightly unbelievable (a gay boy with dyed hair and bad teeth) and although the effects and stunts are stunning they have been caught up and surpassed by the likes of The Bourne Trilogy whose projection of futuristic technology is more effective and believable. OK, so that’s me finished as a cinema critic, but surprisingly the family James Bond expert, that nice lady decorator agreed.
Afterwards we slipped into the White Rabbit for a pint of Spitfire and then across the road to a nice Thai restaurant, which was very good until I discovered it did not have a licence to sell alcohol, then it became less good. Help was at hand as I managed to find a nice bottle of Wolf Blass Shiraz from a nearby off licence to ward off temperance with the help of The Brighton Belles, Anne and Gill, two school friends of that nice lady decorator with whom we met and dined. One is now destined to become a client of Currencies Direct which made dinner an entirely justifiable business expense.
Pig of a table
My picture above today is of a table and which I captured when up north recently. In the south we tend to avoid stuffing animals and then nailing a bit of wood to their backs and calling them tables, but up north they are different.They seem to like to do that sort of thing. Personally it is not my style and anyone who claims differently is telling porky pies.
Just as exotic is the celebration of Diwali that is happening in Sophia Antipolis in considerably better weather near Valbonne. I would love to have gone but it would be too much of a long trip to return, so long that I would be unable to dilly dawahli on the way.
With the promise at last of bright if cold weather today we plan to walk part of the South Downs Way and The Monarchs Trail and be in the pub for lunch by midday. The pub may well be the George and Dragon at Houghton but one cannot be sure because I am subject to changes of plan at short notice being handed down our dear leader.
Chris France
Brighton or Dullton?
It got to about 4pm when she finally gave in. We had been walking around Swanbourne Lake, (pictured today in the greyness that is England and has been for as long as I can remember) part of the Duke Of Norfolk’s Arundel estate which we reached by bicycle. Then I suggested we cycle down as far as The Black Rabbit and that is where she crumbled. “I’m thirsty” I said after a bike ride of more than 1 mile, as was quite reasonable, “Do you think they might sell us a glass of water” I said disingenuously and by the look in that nice lady decorators eyes I could tell that I had struck gold. Therefore later on, after several pints of Fursty Ferret I was able to blame our down fall on her lack of resistance. The fact that she told me later than she fancied a pint but was unwilling to make the first move only came to light after a couple there and an afternoon cap next door at The White Hart. However, I do not want you running off with the idea that the visit next door was for anything other than business purposes. Wild Willy Barrett has a gap in his diary on 10th November and will be in the area and thus it was my duty to see if I could find him a venue at which to showcase Wild Willy Barrett’s French Connection, recently featured on French TV.
Swanbourne Late in Arundel. Note the grey water.
This afternoon I shall be in the gay capital of south of England, Brighton, in readiness this evening for the premiere (for me) showing of the new James Bond film Skyfall. I will be checking the work of my friendly helicopter pilot friend and contented Currencies Direct client Marc Wolff’s work on the film and suspect I would be a tad less critical had I received tickets for the premiere in the Royal Albert Hall earlier in the week. I have been carefully losing regularly to him at chess on line in order to underline my deserving case for tickets but, as the postman failed to arrive with the hoped for good news, ie a trip to London to rub shoulders with the great and good, the metaphorical gloves are now off and there will be no more sympathy. I could say I am going to huff him for not taking me but I think that is a different game, and talking of different games, rather obliquely, brings me back (against the wall) to Brighton, which, given the recent grey and damp weather, should perhaps be renamed Dullton.
I believe that it is one of the favourite places in England for my style guru Mr Humphreys (when he is free) and in deference to him and the whole uphill gardening fraternity, I shall be more careful than usual in deciding what to wear. I like the idea of my Ralph Lauren green outfit but that nice lady decorator leans more towards salmon pink. Decisions, decisions. As we may then decide to find out a little more about the allure and reputation of Brighton as a Mecca for all things camp, that decision could have a bearing on where we end up (can I say that?). I would want to be careful about not ending up a back alley.
There is a bleak desert ahead of me next week on the social horizon, so I must make the most of the weekend starting with today. I know this is rather a late start for a weekend which, in the south of France starts around Thursday lunchtime and extends to about Tuesday night, but that is England for you and one must make the most of the few opportunities to enjoy one’s self.
Chris France
Sunshine approaches
We are told to prepare for sunshine tomorrow, albeit with temperatures hovering just above freezing. I am not certain how best to do this. Having not seen the sun in living memory I do not want my eyes to be frazzled by the first rays. As the song says, The Future’s So Bright I Gotta Wear Shades. I have an old picture of when we last had sunshine in Arundel.
Not a grey day
Actually that is one of the best song titles ever, I think my top 3 would be the above, plus “Beware Of The Flowers ‘Cause I’m Sure They’re Gonna Get You, Yeah” (the 7th best lyric of the last Millennium. According to the BBC poll which was allegedly fixed but for which I categorically deny involvement) by John Otway and “There’s A Guy Works Down The Chip Shop swears He’s Elvis” by the late Kirsty MaCall.
So last night I was allowed to break my carbohydrate fast, which I did spectacularly by consuming all those carbs that I had missed earlier the week and more. More because I fear I shall be reigned in tomorrow and needed to stock up in the face of a carbohydrate famine for the rest of the week. The bathroom scales are still being unnecessarily negative, or rather, positive in a negative sort of way if you get my drift, and it does not take a clairvoyant to predict carb denial for me for the foreseeable future.
It has taken longer than I had expected for the normal round of tasteless jokes to circulate but they have begun. I would dearly like to be able to impart details of the one I heard yesterday concerning the late Sir Jimmy Savile but it is too gross, so I will leave you with the catch phrase and you can try to imagine the start; “how’s about that then?”. I am sure there will now be a torrent of similarly tasteless offerings in the days to come.
Talking of days to come, the weekend approaches and I will be able to ease my foot off the metaphorical accelerator in respect of my work for Currencies Direct. Three new customers this week should earn me a gold star and save three lucky individuals from being ripped off by their banks when transferring money abroad. At the same time I must continue preparations for the completion of my second book The Valbonne Monologues. By that I mean I shall have to monitor the proof reading which I have cleverly delegated to the lovely Lin Wolff from the English Book Centre in Valbonne because she offered to do it for nothing. It does not look good at the moment with just three chapters out of a hundred or so completed. The editor of my first offering, Dawn Howard, may expect a panicky call shortly.
I have been receiving guidance on search engine optimisation and the use of Facebook and Twitter to get ones message across. It is a completely baffling world for this tired old author. I now have several twitter feeds, so I can tweet, (which until recently would have suggested to me something to do with pigeon food) plus a Facebook page for my new book. I am told that I must tweet and post every day for the full effect to be noticed. I gave it a week before I tire of this irksome self-imposed work load. What happened to lunch three times a week in the sunshine and tennis outside? The answer is that it is all still going on down in Valbonne except without me. How can it be that I am camped in a world of great and damp, working, especially at my age? It is because I am thinking of you dear reader and your requirement for that very special original Christmas present, a book signed by the author himself. As you can see it is self-imposed selflessness.
Chris France
How many shades of grey?
We have all heard of the semi-pornographic series of books bearing the word Grey, and I think the writer must have spent time in Arundel, or England at least, in order fully to appreciate the number of shades that exist. I would say that we have witnessed several hundred variations of grey in the past week. I cannot remember a spell of more grey weather and I don’t see how anyone would want to wear shades when it is so dank and dreary. However, there is a song in my heart and a smile around my lips as tonight I am going to be allowed out to play. I believe it involves a pub and some dinner and at last, some carbohydrates. Without a serious infusion I may shortly become so thin I will disappear up my own backside, a sort of black hole….where am I going with this? nowhere pleasant it would seem.
Yesterday though was gruesome, or should I be saying greysome? We woke up it was grey, we went to the beach for a long walk, it was grey, I went cycling, it was grey, I was tempted for a moment to look down whilst standing in the shower, but decided not to risk it. If Larry Grayson were still alive he would be saying “What a grey day”. I have a picture today to sum it all up.
- Was it Ultravox who recorded “Fade To Grey”?
But nothing will wipe that emerging smirk from my lips. It is now less than a month before we set of for Bangkok and then Australia as part of the Golden Oldies Cricket Festival in Adelaide. I have discovered that the captain of our team is the owner of Ripley Castle. Sir Thomas Ingilby will be our leader during the tour, and any suggestion that he is merely a tour guide will be dealt with harshly. Our team is to be called the Nidderdale Warriors and they are so serious they are talking about having nets (that is practice to you non cricketing sorts) prior to the off, however they will be held in Yorkshire which is a tad to far to go for an evening. Also amongst the luminaries who are in our team is one Fraser Hines. Fraser, who will no doubt try once again to sell me one of his books, as I will now be able to do to him, is an actor who has appeared in major TV series such as Emmerdale Farm and holds the record as the longest companion for Dr Who. I wonder if he is a little late does one call him a little tardis? but I digress. Clearly the tour will be a media feast, if for no one else but me. I shall of course be attempting to ensure that my team mates are well aware of the dangers of not using Currencies Direct for all their foreign exchange needs, which will arguably make this a business trip. That is certainly the firm line I shall be taking with my accountant when the credit card bills come home to roost. All I need to do is get a little fitter (do you think Kwik Fit might have a spare one?) which is a bit of a problem as I have a bit of a dodgy knee. As one gets older bits keep breaking off and it may be that some routine maintenance may be required before I venture onto the field of play. The solace is that there will be those playing who are even older than I as the minimum age at which one can take part is 40.
Chris France
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