Old chap sticks it to Arundel
My god, the sun came out and it was quite warm. Global warming must be worse that I thought. This is a real problem up north as the tundra which should be beginning to harden up for the long cold winter, is still a glutinous mess. Talking of glutinous mess, I am reminded that Peachy Butterfield will be with us in Valbonne when we escape from the UK in a couple of weeks time, I do hope he is enjoying his current northern diet of tripe, road kill and fried meat in cardboard which is all you can get up there.
Yesterday, shorts were donned, the seaside was visited, and it even looked nice in the morning walking on seldom seen sand at low tide at Rustington. Now, tides. Those are a comparatively new or long forgotten phenomenon for us chaps who have spent the last eight years living in the Cote d’Azur. The Mediterranean is largely non tidal, which makes it easy to put a nice restaurant close to the sea, and whilst I understand that in the UK a restaurant must be set back a bit from the sea because of the tidal ebb and flow, but 3 miles? I have yet to find anything that is not a beach cafe or a fish and chip shop, certainly nothing decent where you can get a glass of wine that is nearer to the water. For an island race we do seem not to be able to make the most of our seaside resources.
When it comes to making the best of ones resources, Arundel is far more developed. For instance, I went across the road to take a picture of the classic Post Office building against the backdrop of Arundel Castle, the seat of the Duke Of Norfolk, and as you can see, I have also been able, at the same time, to capture a chap using a walking stick, a theme that has had some resonance in this column over the last few days.
Arundel basking in sunshine and walking sticks to the fore
A new discovery has been made by that nice lady decorator. Due to the prices of wine over on the UK, we took the precaution of cramming as much of our favorite tipples into the car for the trip back. For her that means prosecco, but keeping it cool is an obsession. Today though, a breakthrough was made.. Frozen grapes. Yes, she has discovered that frozen grapes work brilliantly as ice cubes, but far more importantly they do not water down the drink, just keep it cold. A triumph for the enquiring mind.
Talking of enquiring minds, I think it takes such an animal to seek out the best foreign exchange rates, and eventually the best minds will congregate around Currencies Direct.
It seems we are about to have 4 warm days on the trot here in my enforced exile in lovely Arundel. They have a large heated swimming pool close by called the Arundel Lido, but when one is used to having ones own pool this is somewhat less alluring. It seems it is heated to 27 degrees, a temperature that we could only achieve in our unheated pool in Valbonne by the addition of copious amounts of cold water.
If you want a Cote d’Azur link to the Olympics then we now have one. Lisa Dobrisky has qualified for the women’s 1500 metre final tonight and her mother attends French classes in Mougins, meaning she must live in the area. It also means there is another potential client for Currencies Direct that I must see out and convert.
Chris France
Singing up in smoke
As we travelled through the slums of south London yesterday on the way from Croydon’s Ikea, a retail outlet made in heaven for that nice lady decorator, to Wembley to collect our furniture from Cadogan Tate, we had to drive quite close to some of the less well off suburbs of London. It was as we drove through one of these deprived neighborhoods that we witnessed an altercation outside a library. Two chaps of West Indian descent were “in discussion” with 4 police officers about something so contentious that it had turned into fisticuffs. The altercation took place outside the library, and I would like to think that the matter in dispute was the failure to return library books, but I may be wrong.
From Wembley to Muswell Hill to pick up a pot. Not pick up pot as sprog 1, who had been press ganged into helping out, had thought. For the amount of time it took, the stress of negotiating the North Circular and the distress caused me by having to drink tea whilst that nice lady decorator polished off a fair chunk of Paul “Slash and Burn” Thornton Allan’s prosecco in late afternoon, I would have rather bought her a pottery.
So, after a gruelling, but in some ways enjoyable day being white van man, which included driving past where I was born in deepest “sarf London” we were in need of a pint at the White Hart. During the trip, where I managed to avoid using my indicators for the entire day, cut up a dozen cars and gave the finger to scores of others, I was thirsty. I had eaten a nice piece of fish at lunchtime, sadly covered in batter as is usually the way in England so was not really hungry, but when the landlord of the pub next door invites you to dine with him, what can you do?
I think he was trying to apologise for a noisy party which had overflowed out into the pub garden the night before, and for “Singing George” who had given us a practical and loud demonstration in the pub garden of his lack of singing talent and who is pictured today. George, who had clearly imbibed freely and substantially, is well known locally for his propensity for ad lib singing after more than a few drinks in a style which combines the worst of Pavarotti with the worst of the Port Isaacs Fishermens Friends. He is a confirmed non smoker as he attempted to illustrate in today’s picture.
Singing George warns of the dangers of smoking
How is it that the best mussels I have ever tasted could be served at The White Hart in Arundel? I have lived in the worlds leading gourmet nation for 8 years. Anyway, as we got to know the locals in a caring, loving sort of a way until well after dark (which is quite late given our proximity to the Arctic Circle during a season laughably known here as summer), it suddenly dawned on us that the van was stuffed full of furniture and needed to be returned empty to Littlehampton before 8am today. Thus it was that a human chain was formed to unload the consignment from the van into our garden at around midnight. Had the police arrived at that moment, a fair amount of explaining may have been required. Anyway, the van is empty and was returned on time and my garden is full of boxes and furniture, and more remarkably still dry, the first night it has not rained since we arrived 9 days earlier.
I spent some time explaining to George the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct for all his foreign exchange needs but am not certain he grasped the concept.
Today then will be spent unpacking the boxes which contain a range of items which that nice lady decorator claims are vital to our new temporary life back in blighty. When I scoffed at the concept that we needed anything else at all to cram into this pretty but tint house she gave me that stare and said”one of the boxes is full of your unsold books” so she had made a valid point. Vital indeed.
Chris France
More stick for walking
The walking stick debate has stirred up a hornets nest. Yesterday I mentioned that I have discovered a walking stick shop in Arundel and that I felt curiously drawn to owning one. On the one hand that nice lady decorator is determined that owning such an item is a statement of antiquity and as such I am not old enough to own such a thing, which in a small way is rather rewarding, but on the other hand there is the groundswell of opinion that owning a proper one gives one some gravitas.
Apparently ownership of a walking stick can be seen in some quarters as the mark of a gentlemen, which, given the slings and arrows of outrageous torment that have directed towards me by the coterie of public schoolboy friends I have collected over the past few years, may just prove too tempting for me. Anything that might suggest that I am a gentleman in their eyes will irritate them and amuse me in equal measure. I will go and have another look today. I wonder if they have anything with flashing neon lights saying “gentleman”? If not, then Brighton Rock stripes might be nice?
That nice lady decorator is in her element when spending time and money in any retail establishment, but her special favourite is off-licences hardware stores where she can indulge that DIY decorating gene that is so dominant. I have said before that I do not have any tools, she has tools and she knows how to use them. Thus whilst I spent the morning slouched in the corner of various stores, on the look out for customers for Currencies Direct, I watched her at work, arguing her case and putting some of the kitchen experts right. It is a very satisfying spectacle to see these macho sales assistants treating her like a girl who knows nothing. The phrase “you don’t want to do that” is the one that always gets the best reaction. I have seen many an “expert” suffering those laser beam stares that are set to “stun”. Anyway, she had loads of fun whilst I did not. Later, when watching the Olympic highlights when the men were attempting 2 metres 40 she was heard to say “that’s almost as long as my work surfaces I bought today”.
The Black Rabbit at Arundel, a fab pub by the river Arun
Today, my middle finger will be erect for much of the day and I will be hoarse from shouting obscenities as I am once again white van man, collecting furniture from Cadogan Tate in Wembley who took a mere two and a half weeks to ship our stuff from France after promising it would be done in 5 days. After my piece about the frozen wastes of Milton Keynes, my dear friend Paul “Slash And Burn” Thornton Allan, at whose northern outpost the dragons pot was stored, has shipped it south to the relatively equable outpost of north London, Muswell Hill to be exact, thus allowing me to avoid having to make preparations for winter motoring. Just topping up the anti-freeze in the car should be enough to allow an expedition to north London. It may be that we shall stop for lunch but not overnight, too cold and dangerous.
I was in need of sustenance after a morning enduring do it yourself shopping so we popped into the Black Horse at Crymping or as it turned out it should perhaps have been called Skrimping? My “fresh dressed crab salad with new potatoes” was not fresh, not dressed, had no potatoes and the salad was similarly naked of any dressing. There was no olive oil, and no balsamic available, the only options being mustard, mayo and ketchup in plastic sachets. Welcome to the gourmet desert that is most of England.
Chris France
Walking towards oblivion
More on the Holiday Rentals scam, according to Wayne Brown form FR2Day and Tony “I invented the internet” Coombs the fraudsters may have intercepted the owners email account by the owner clicking on a fraudulent link, but that is something I studiously avoid. They both suggest looking at deleted emails on your email system, to see if there any there that you did not delete. I did that and found nothing. He was very keen to say that he did not believe Holiday Rentals were to blame, but their withdrawing their phone number from their website, refusing to take calls and failing to respond to my urgent email on Saturday leaves me with considerable doubt.
According to a report I saw recently, the cost of raising a medium-sized dog to the age of 11 is just over £10,000 (12700 euros at todays Currencies Direct exchange rate). Banjo, the horrid hound who lives in my household under the protection of that nice lady decorator is a big dog, so I would guess he may well cost £15,000 at least to raise to the same age. I think you can see where I am going with this. For that amount of money instead I could have bought a round the world ticket, stayed in some of the best hotels, eaten top quality food and had several cases of Chateau Petrus in my cellar. Now, I ask you, which would you prefer, the latter?, or do have a dribbly smelly dog lurking in your household for 11 years? Perhaps I should conduct an on-line poll, as the result might be close.
Not yet, surely?
Yesterday we took a stroll around the village of Arundel, my home for the rest of this year at least. It is very charming and almost all the pubs are good and restaurants abound. There are also some quirky and interesting shops, of which one I show a photograph today. The Walking Stick Shop. I would like you to consider what that says about the average age of the inhabitants. What worries me most was that I was drawn into the establishment and tried out several different models. I think the silver topped cane would have been my choice and I was reaching for my wallet before reason returned at the last moment. Obviously, I was told, I was far too young to be thinking about such a fashion statement. You see the problem when one does not have the baleful influence of one’s style guru to hand? Mr Humphreys (if was free) would have had something to say had I gone through with the purchase.
Today I am sinking into work top heaven. We need new kitchen work tops and a new sink. The existing ones work fine but it seems they must be replaced, and soon. I am told today would be good. I am also told it will rain today and tomorrow, but I would have been no better off in Valbonne as seemingly it rained there yesterday as well, for at least 5 minutes.
Last evening then, that nice lady decorator, who loves a bargain, decided we should attend a local auction held in a pub next door to a junk shop in Barnham. It seems that they had collected together the worst of their stock in an attempt to generate some business, but even she decided that lots such as 6 pairs of Polly Peck tights, some Peters and Lee vinyl albums and collection of stained and cracked crockery was not sufficiently interesting to stay and make a bid, so with silent thanks to the gods of shopping, we returned home, and, to ease her distress, we went next door tothe White Hart for a pint of Harveys.
Chris France
Around Arundel
Dragons den or dragons pots? That was what went through my mind when, after a nice lunch at the Black Rabbit, a three mile walk along the River Arun from Arundle, we lunched well despite a rather long delay between ordering and food arriving. It was a Sunday in August which I would guess must be the height of the season and every table inside was booked. I am sure the Cafe Des Arcades in Valbonne Square was comparatively empty inside at lunchtime yesterday.
We sat outside in intermittent sunshine, and despite what you may have seen on the TV either at the Olympics or Headingley, the venue for the Test match between England and South Africa, where rain was a recurring feature, it remained dry and mostly sunny. Sufficiently sunny for that nice lady decorator to don a bathing costume and lounge about in our cottage garden bleating about how hot it was. It is true that I removed my sweater for about 10 minutes so she had a point. I believe a high of 20 degrees was forecast, but it may have been a degree or two warmer in the sunshine. She is so keen to put a brave face on our enforced exile in England, but we will be back in Valbonne in just three weeks and then I will be able to wear shorts again..
It was during the afternoon, where she took to testing our white wine stocks almost to the point of oblivion, that she mentioned her dragon pots. It seems that these did not come back from storage and it will be my job to venture to the far north, Milton Keynes, in the next week to retrieve said urns. I will have to have winter tyres fitted or snow chains, check the anti-freeze levels and wrap up warm. It is a dragon’s den of winter weather that far north, hence the opening line of today’s column. The dragons pots must be found, the dragon’s den awaits.
My picture today was taken on the walk from Arundel for lunch which started off with a pint of Badgers. Only the Reverend Jeff will understand and appreciate that one. It is some three miles from the town to the pub along the river which winds its way down the valley. As the crow flies, it is probably just over a mile but it is a fabulous walk and all the better for knowing a nice restaurant and a pint of real ale awaits at ones destination. Better still, sprog 1 can now drive so he was able to drive down and drive us back. Having said that, buying him and sprog 2 lunch was about 20 times more expensive than a taxi would have been, so I am not sure it was that good. Despite my best efforts I found no one who wanted to open an account with Currencies Direct, even with all the benefits that opening an account for all your forex needs can bestow.
Several people have been in touch to recount similar tales of hijacked email addresses at Holiday Rentals, the focus of my main story in this missive yesterday. It seems that the police are uninterested in this kind of fraud, preferring to issue parking tickets which they did to that nice lady decorator yesterday. Obviously, mistakenly over staying ones allotted parking time is a far more heinous crime that a fraudster ripping off a family of up to £5000 and leaving their holiday in ruins. Angry? Me? Yes.
So what does the week ahead hold, apart from my trip to the tundra of north Buckinghamshire? Who knows, I have not yet received my orders.
Chris France
Holiday Rentals scam exposed
There is a what looks like a huge scam taking place at the moment with the website Holiday Rentals also known as Homeaway. If you have let your house out in this way, advertised with them or worse still have booked a holiday rental anywhere in the world then you could be exposed.
It works like this and happened to me, so I know. Owners of houses who want to rent them out use these websites. It cost around £200 a year and is much cheaper than employing an agent like my old pal Dancing Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villa Rentals. You put your phone number and email address on the advert and then wait for the responses. The problem has arisen because a criminal element has presumably hacked into the Holiday Rentals website and redirected enquiries to themselves. They have then agreed rentals and had the payments made to themselves without the owner’s knowledge. This happened to a poor chap who thought he had rented my house yesterday. He found me through this column after the criminals had obviously not responded to him about how to get to and into the house, pictured today.
The house that is not for rent
He was on his way to the airport in Ireland when I first spoke to him. He was amazingly calm as we established that he had sent money to an account in Spain. So yesterday morning was spent trying to get some sense out of the police and to contact someone at Holiday Rentals, without success . They had a sign on their website that said because they were so busy they were not taking calls and their phone number was nowhere to be found. Directory Enquiries gave me a number but that had a pre-recorded message saying they were not taking calls. I was able to identify about 10 people who had enquired about my house (which I am not renting this year in case that loony Monsieur Hollande manages to get a rental tax of over 35% imposed, and back dated to Jan 1st this year) and to email them to warn them of this scam. One of these replied to say that he had been scammed on another house. It seems clear to me that Holiday Rentals are aware of this, indeed Dancing Greg said he had warned them about a month ago, and it also seems clear that there is an organised criminal gang behind all this, so why no apparent action from the police? Why no warnings in the press? There is one way to check if you have been duped, phone the owner if you have booked, presumably the thieves are unable to intercept phone calls, only emails, so it is a good way to check.
What concerns me is how many people will turn up at our house unexpectedly? What will happen if they have children with them and there is no house available to them? It is a nightmare.
Regular readers of this column will probably be stunned that this column has so far today turned into a public service and that there have been no jokes yet, so let’s start with the biggest joke, the UK weather. I have realised that I have not worn shorts since we arrived back in UK last weekend. This is August. This is a joke, although I admit, not a very good one.
There was a plan, currently in doubt because, yes, it is raining as I write, to walk along the River Arun to the splendid Black Rabbit pub for lunch, a perfect Sunday if only the weather abates. Instead I shall spend time contemplating the real savings I have made by opening an account with Currencies Direct and watching the Test match on TV.
Chris France
Dial a hubby?
One of the things that is the most fun about being a father is the amusement one can have by embarrassing ones children. Yesterday, I took computer savvy sprog 1 with me to Chichester to help me buy a new computer. I had left my ancient desktop in Valbonne, with its wonderfully evocative analogue screen that I had lovingly nurtured since late last century. It had been universally mocked by both sprog 1 and 2 but I liked the screen especially because I think it was valve driven, in that it look a minute or so for it to warm up in the mornings, and it provided a necessary platform for my printer. It was not one of these ultra slim screens that seem to prevail everywhere. One has to make the most of space in a kennel masquerading as an office and without it I would not have had room for the printer. That, and its quirky performance were the main reasons why I had not ever acquired a digital slim screen.
So to computer shop Currys, where the amusement began. It started with my acting dumb (some would say it is no act) about disc sizes and alluding to Alzheimer’s, in computer speak the lack of memory, was the start, and the other features which should be considered when making a purchases of this type also provided me with enormous entertainment as sprog 1 became seriously embarrassed by my apparent lack of knowledge. Lines like will I able I type things on this?, or “how can I make a carbon copy” (I had to explain what that was to sprog 2 later, but the salesman knew what I meant), or “where does the typewriter ribbon go” are wonderful fodder for amusement in those circumstances. I considered asking “How does one clean the (food) processor’ but by thus time sprog 1 was becoming seriously unamused. I think my piece de resistance was when asking about memory. The very patient sales assistant told me it had a terrabyte of memory. So I deliberately misheard and asked what one should feed the terrapin and that I did not know they had such good memories.
On the way over, I spotted a van from an operation called Dial-A-Hubby as my picture today illustrates. This seems to me to be a splendid idea for a business. If I understand it correctly, it would seem to imply that whenever one is detailed to undertake an unpleasant task by ones spouse, one could avoid personal compliance by making a quick call to them. Digging, gravelling, cementing could all be tasks from the past, settled with a simple telephone call. However, I guess the problems could start if that nice lady decorator were to call them herself. I don’t want her getting an ideas. There are certain things that this particular husband chooses to, and can still manage.
Mostly good news, I think
With horse racing being staged all this week at nearby Goodwood, Arundel was buzzing last night, but even without that equine delight there seems to be a very lively scene in the town with live music at The Eagle, so after a very nice dinner at Butlers we checked it out. I wanted to see if I could find and meet the chap who told my sprogs that he had read my first book, “Summer In The Cote d’Azur” but alas, although there may have been a large number of people there who had undoubtedly have, to my surprise I was unable to find any of them.
As I have done so little to find new customers for Currencies Direct this week, except for plugging their services in this column, I shall make it a priority today despite the fact that it is the weekend.
Chris France
Political correctness anomoly?
It is said that political correctness is rife in England, and it is an opinion I held but last night when we traveled over to East Sussex for a business meeting (on this occasion not in respect of the worthy services of Currencies Direct) in the early evening, and where I was to be temporarily disavowed of this opinion. Of course, more business is done in the bars and restaurants than offices nowadays, so, in keeping with the modern way, we decided to meet at a point equidistant between us and stage the meeting in a pub. Which pub was only decided en route, so we ended up at the Blackboys Inn at Blackboys near Uckfield.
In a world where even children’s books have had references to gollywogs and sambo removed by the over sensitive racial equality brigade, who incidentally have made no attempt to expunge references to Pinky, from Pinky and Perky, this is an astonishing oversight and one that I expect they will address shortly. May I help them out by suggesting that perhaps the village should be renamed Rentboys? And the pub The Rentboys Inn?
I want to state now that our business did not involve supplying my public school friends with slave labour or of much-needed new blood for their delectation and delight, although given some of the dubious stories I have recounted in this column about them in general, it could perhaps be a conclusion one could jump to. Oops there I go again.
BlackBoys is a very pretty English village, beautifully green and moist from the inevitable shower, but when the sun comes out there really is nowhere to be in the world like an English country pub nestling on a very green village green. That it was too cool to sit outside was a given, we are now deeply into August and the nights have begun to draw in, but it was a delightful view that I would have featured today had my infernal blackberry not died on the way to the meeting. Instead I give you this shot of modern water delivery techniques.
Pump up the jam?
Earlier in the day I had thought that gravelling was one thing I had left behind in sunny Valbonne, but as it transpired, I had been left some to do in Arundel. Good news though, they were called river pebbles, all 24 sacks of them which, much heavier and harder to deal with than gravel and needed to be manhandled through the pub garden, other than the front door, the lounge and the kitchen, into the cottage garden.
The more perceptive of my readers will have spotted that this exercise would have entailed going into and out of the pub garden on numerous occasions without stopping for even one drink. This is purgatory and cruelty of the most unpleasant kind, but I took it like a man. Was I down hearted? Yes. Was I thirsty? Yes. There is a joke here about black boys, slavery and denial of basic human rights but I cannot quite put my finger on it.
I have begun the countdown to my last full week in Valbonne at the end of August. In the meantime there are a number of events to look forward to, and to keep my mind from dwelling on the forthcoming winter in the UK which I will be forced to endure, at least in part. The Arundel Festival starts on 17th August for 10 days, but I shall miss the opening day as I have pressing business at Lords, for which I have tickets courtesy of an old pal. The event to which I am most looking forward is “The Bathtub Challenge” which seems to involve a race along the river Arun at high tide in boats constructed from bathtubs. What could be more English?
Chris France
Need to park a Banjo?
There was an old TV series I used to watch when I was young which featured “Bayleaf the Gardener”. I have a new concept based on that theme Banjo the gardener. Let me set the scene. That nice lady decorator spent the afternoon in the cottage garden at our new house in Arundel, digging and hoeing with all her might. Banjo, the crappy cocker, the gratuitous gardening git decided to get in on the act by digging up areas that she had carefully weeded and hoed. That was when I blotted my copy book. It was quite a funny scene, watching the horrid hound destroy all her hard work but perhaps it was unwise of me to mention ho-ho-hoeing in this context.
Where I think this could all go catastrophically (or rather dogastrophically?) wrong is that earlier, that nice lady decorator asked me what would be the best form of fertilizer to feed the roses. Before I had thought it through, I told her that horse shit is the best thing for them, which was a mistake on two levels. Firstly, she will now be on the look out for some horse produced garden elixir. She has taken to carrying around a small bucket and trowel. Secondly, I have now raised the possibility of encouraging a Banjo inspired redistribution of horse shit over our entire garden. I do hope she takes in the washing in first.
I had been dragged from my pit at some time before dawn, nearly 8 o clock I think, to attack more shops. On the way I persuaded that nice lady shopper that I wanted to see the beach at nearby Littlehampton and as if I have not had enough of Banjo, I discovered that they had named the car park after him. You will not be surprised to hear that the car park was also smelly, damp and unpleasant.
The name alone is enough to put me off
Gardening was not high on my list of priorities having spent the morning suffering more retail “therapy”, buying yet more clutter to ensure a small house has even less space that it does now. So tired and thirsty was I after this retail marathon, I persuaded her who must shop on the way home to pop into the Murrell Arms, a charming Fullers Pub at a place called Barnham, for a pint of London Pride. The word that looms large in France at midday is lunch. In England that word is beer.
Last nights plan to take in Arundel’s Chinese restaurant was scuppered by a vicious downpour just as we were about to leave. It has, of course, rained on me at some stage on each and every day I have been back in the UK, but for the most part the rain has been light. Last night was different. Thus a family decision was taken instead to dash across the road to the chippy for some fish and chips and mushy peas. These are the sorts of delights beyond the reach of my Currencies Direct friends languishing in the sunshine and warmth of Valbonne, one of whom was kind enough to tell me that the temperature there is a steady 30 degrees, and that the dish of the day at Auberge de la Source was salmon in a cream champagne sauce at 9. 50 euros. Sauce at the Source?
Today I am on a door hunt. It seems that one of the bedrooms has a door missing. My suggestion that a visit to Jewson, or Wickes was given short shrift. It seems that we need a 16th century door so that it is “in keeping”. This sounds like a euphemism for keeping on paying, but that is my lot. A lot more than I want to pay.
Chris France
James cleans up
Being a removal man in the rain must be one of the most thankless tasks in the world, so imagine my rejoicing when it was revealed that the shipment of crap beautiful personal effects and furniture from France had not arrived in Wembley, from where I was on notice to collect it all.
I gathered myself up to something more than my full height, took a deep breath and used my most direct, plausible, persuasive and imposing verbal style to berate the removals company, Cadogan Tate and demand in an imperative sort of way that in the circumstances and in order to avoid a bad press day in this column, they deliver the shipment direct to us in Arundel, but astonishingly this threat failed to achieve the intended result. We must await the shipments’ eventual arrival when they finally get around to bringing the stuff over from the Cote d’Azur. Suffice to say I would not recommend their services to anyone. I think they have just Cadogan their own grave.
However, this meant that for a fleeting moment I was off the hook. Thoughts quickly developed of a nice siesta in our very comfy new beds, sliding next door for an early evening pint followed by a spot of snap and an early night to rest my aching bones flicked through my mind, but fleeting it was. Having earlier hired the white van for the day, that nice lady decorator was determined to put it to good use, thus I was overjoyed to be dragged to several thousand furnishing and bedding shops in a single-handed attempt by her to kick-start the UK economy.
Sprog 1 has a name. It is James. I name him here because yesterday, when on the spending spree of the century, amongst the items we bought was a vacuum cleaner. I wanted to buy the one shown in my photo today but was over ruled. It would have been so ironic to have a piece of equipment for cleaning to be named after sprog 1, the untidiest and scruffiest teenager alive. It would also have evened it up between himself and sprog 2 who was mortified and has been the subject of much hilarity discover that the bathroom toilet was emblazoned with the name “Charlotte”.
The ultimate irony, a cleaner called James
We now have a new fridge, pillows, a hoover, an ironing board (what is that exactly?) plus various other vital household items. And guess what? We are going to do all again tomorrow! My cup runneth over. I am such a lucky chap, I have been “rescued” from all that hot weather, my bar and swimming pool in Valbonne, and all the other French gastronomic opportunities that were in my grasp so that I can fully enjoy being rained on whilst wearing long trousers (not previously considered since late April) instead of wasting my life blissfully in Valbonne with all my Currencies Direct clients.
Add to this the fact that Banjo, the ridiculously needy and equally unpleasant hound has not yet done the decent thing and run off and you have a very clear picture of how much I am enjoying being back in England.
That nice lady decorator says I should say something nice and perhaps I am overstating it. The house is actually quite lovely and Arundel is a really nice little town and the pub next door, a visit to which is now part of our daily routine, serves Harvey’s and has a very decent menu. If only the south of France weather could be applied then I could be happy. Take today for instance; the maximum daytime temperature is forecast to be 21 degrees. The minimum night-time temperature in Valbonne last night was 21 degrees. You get my drift?
Chris France
English creature comforts
I am too old to be a removals man and I am too old to sleep on a blown up mattress that decided gradually to unable itself whilst I tried to sleep last night. I seldom have nightmares, least of all when I am awake but last night was an exception.
But I am getting ahead of myself on the misery stakes. Those that know me well understand (but may not necessarily agree) with the fact that I consider that my skills lie more in the literary, cerebral and intellectual fields rather than areas that require physical labor and practicality. For instance, I have never been able to take something simple out of a box, follow the instructions and make whatever infernal gadget was in it work. I am dangerous with tools, (a failing that I have deliberately nurtured over the years with some success) so usually I have been able to avoid hard physical labor with the notable exception of graveling recently, which was deemed by that nice lady decorator to be so simple even I could be trusted with the task.
Yesterday then, I was ordered to hire a van to collect a seriously large load of detritus beautiful old furniture and curious knock knacks which had been carefully hoarded by her over the past decades which had been stored ready to decorate our new house in Arundel. It was my own fault, I casually asked when the removals men were going to deliver the beds and sofas etc. That is when the trouble started.
Comfy garden furniture, English style
The only good thing about being a press-ganged removals man for two days, yes the nightmare is only half way through, was that I was able to hire a big white van. This has a curious influence on how one behaves. Suddenly my accent reverted to “surf London” where I was “brung up” so to speak, and when driving it, the middle fingers of both hands seem to take to a life of their own erecting themselves vertically without warning at any slight, real or imagined. Swear words that would never pass my lips tumbled out in a torrent, I cut people up on the roads, parked badly and never used the direction indicators. In short, I became white van man.
However, that was the end of the fun. We have a tiny house now so what was the point of hoarding three grandfather clocks? Especially as, with low ceilings almost throughout, they will presumably have to lay on their side or be cut down to size. How many dining room chairs does one need when the maximum number of people standing up in your tiny dining room is 6? I counted 12. Why an axe, a shovel, a hoe, an edging tool, a hedge trimmer, a garden fork and a trimmer? We have a small back yard, which will be decked or concreted over and will be used only as access to the pub next door.
But notable by the absence was a number of items one may have considered to be slightly higher priorities. Sofas for instance, or beds or pillows? So as I write I am lying in back-breaking agony on a deflated mattress with a deflated ego and no pillow, contemplating another demon day of nightmare toil ahead. And I have not even mentioned the rain yet, nor the fact that I am missing Valbonne and all my Currencies Direct customers already.
If there are no beds in place by this evening I have told that nice lady decorator that I shall be checking back into the Norfolk arms in the village for the foreseeable
Chateau supreme
How many knew that there was a local connection to the Olympic Opening ceremony? Marc Wolff, whose lovely wife Lin runs the English Book Shop in Valbonne and who lives in Plascassier, was flying the helicopter which dropped the “Queen” and James Bond over the Olympic stadium for their parachute jump watched by 20 million people in the UK alone. Marc, a Currencies Direct client, who does much of the flying for loads of feature films including James Bond and Harry Potter via his company Flying Pictures told me it had taken 6 months of rehearsal and involved him in high level meetings with Buckingham Palace and MI6, which is presumably why he was able to get Britain’s top spy to play ball. I would have liked to have been a fly on the wall at his meetings with the Palace. “You want the Queen to do what?”.
Talking of the Olympics, a friend of mine, Tim Swanee from Home Hunts was walking around the Olympic Village yesterday. He asked a chap if he was a pole vaulter. The chap replied “no, I am German but how did you know my name?”
Leaving France is like an end of a chapter. Topped with a night at Chateu du Cocove, pictured today, It reminded me of what happened at Tiddenfoot Leisure Centre in 1976 when a very different kind of chapter, the Wycombe chapter of Hells Angels came up against the person who was taking the money at the door for a gig by punk band The Damned that I was staging. That nice lady decorator was that person, and her ensuring that every verse and line of that chapter paid to get in is, to my mind, a factor in the ultimate demise of that particular chapter a few years later.
Apart from being the end point of my second book, the Valbonne Monologues, which will be published in November, it is also the end of an era, a long and happy chapter in my life. My plan now is to be even happier based in England for the forseeable future. I believe Harvey’s real ale will be the perfect elixir to help the transformation, so I started the treatment yesterday.
The White Hart, a Harvey’s pub, is quite accessible, seeing as I have a gate from my garden into the pub garden, but there is still the irksome walk of some 7 metres before you get to the bar, so not quite perfect. However, I have decided to grant it my seal of approval on the basis that the older I get the lazier I get and the day may well dawn when proximity is the major factor in where to drink. The restaurant menu looks good but I was desperate for an Indian to we went to the India Gate in Arundel.
Sprogs 1 and 2 were detailed to stay in the house with the codicil that one of them would fetch fish and chips from the shop across the road. Someone needed to be in the house because of the needy and needless Banjo, that horrid dribbly hound loved only by that nice lady decorator, who panics whenever there is no member of the family present. As they are both students, blow up mattresses should be viewed as a luxury (none of our furniture will arrive until tomorrow), and with £20 for dog sitting duties donated to the cause they seemed more than happy.
Earlier we had stopped off at some cousins in Kent who amongst other things press their own cider. It would have been churlish to have refused the chance to sample it, and regular readers will know that churlishness is an alien concept to me, unless I have lost at sport, which of course never happens.
Chris France
Dogs and Beaune
So the last day in France began with a dog and Beaune. Like a dog who is about to have his bone taken away, I was desperate to make the most of France before the ever more depressing prospect of returning to England. It was during a quick look around this charming, pretty and busy town on market day that I took today’s picture. I am all in favour of gay rights but a gay estate agent? Would that suggest that he may only sell houses with pink decor? Does that mean they do not cater for heterosexual house buyers? Seems a bit house heterophobic to me. Also, it may be unrelated but would a resident of this fair village be known as a Beauner?
A happy estate agent?
The last leg of the trip back was crowned by a visit and a very last night stay at Chateau Du Cocove, an excellent discovery we made 10 years ago. It is a wonderful place in an area which is otherwise a hotel desert. Calais is, as most people who have ever had the misfortune to pass through the area, a boring, ugly place where one does not want to linger. Thus the discovery of this hotel set in beatific secluded grounds and which also boasts an excellent restaurant about 10 miles from Calais was a life saver. It was my duty to ensure that its standards had not dropped which I did last night.
The trip north began in warm sunshine but by the time we got north of Paris the clouds had gathered and we were still 250 kilometres from our destination when the first spots of rain splattered on the insect encrusted wind screen. Although expected as we are, after all, getting quite close to the UK, it was not welcome. I suddenly realised that I have no long trousers in my overnight bag and suggesting to that nice lady decorator that I needed to delve into the depths of the car, which is packed to the ceiling, was met with the same enthusiasm as she reserves for a visit to the dentist or gynecologist. Shorts were therefore pressed into service. The Staff there are usually so charming I am sure I will not be judged.
That’s it then, I leave in 5 minutes for the Channel tunnel, a tunnel through which I can see no metaphorical light. As my old mate Wild Willy Barrett would say, “is that light at the end of the tunnel or is that a train coming towards you?”. The train in this case is life in England. Let’s hope it is late as usual.
There will of course be benefits which I shall seek to embrace later today. A pint of Harvey’s real ale at the pub next door to our new house in Arundel seems to me the best way to start. It is not impossible that I may find a Currencies Direct customer in this very pub. Rest assured I shall be looking.
That pesky hound has been on th trip with us. Banjo, the fetid non feline has been perched in his basket barely 6 inches away from my left ear, emitted his foul breath and attempting to dribble on me as I drive. He has also been allowed into the hotels and last night was treated to a prime seat in front of the TV. It seems that after a few drinks and whilst watching the opening ceremony that nice lady decorator exhorted Banjo to pay more attention to history in the making. “Watch the olympics, Banjo” she said. I do not know wear this will lead, but he will be on a lead tonight.
Chris France
Ducks off
The snobs tabloid! That was how The Daily Telegraph was described by Mr Clipbeard at the last night supper at the Auberge St Donat on Thursday evening. I was being congratulated by Mrs Clipbeard, the lovely Ashley for my contribution to that bastion of conservatism at the time, and I think the green eye of jealousy got the better of him. How. Can one describe one of the most respected dailies in the world just because a grammar school oik wrote an article for them?
I have heard of penis envy but not journalist envy, and frankly I was not prepared for it. The day would have been perfect except for having to partner fellow MOG the Wingco at tennis. Watching him at the net from my custom mary position at the back the court on Thursday after he had lunched rather too well was like watching a drunk chase a balloon in the wind beside a cliff.
Last night we had a plan to meet up with Mr Clipbeard again, this time in Burgundy as we are both heading back to the UK and I thought it would be another good opportunity to discuss my new and successful career as a national newspaper journalist. On the drive up that nice lady decorator spotted a Dacia Lodgy, a nasty looking little car that she said sounded like an unresolved case of constipation.
So beers in Beaune followed by Burgundy in Burgundy. The town of Beaune is a beautiful historic place full of interesting buildings with distinctive local roof tiling, 15th century wine caves and pretty hotels, but we were staying at the most hideous concrete jungle, The Metropole, a hotel exhibiting the worst excesses of 1970’s design complete with swirly floral carpets and chrome everywhere, an utter horror. Given previous for, you will not be surprised to know, that the choice of abode was made by Mr Clipbeard who took it upon himself not to book any of the charming and delightful hotels that festoon the heart of this village, plumping for a monstrous carbuncle not even in the centre. From this description you may also not be surprised to know that I had an altercation with a very inhospitable and unhelpful member of their staff over the booking, too mundane to amplify here.
Whilst I settled for snails and a steak, one of our party chose the duck, which seemed to distress Mrs Clipboards permanent travelling companion, I believe she calls Daffy, who is pictured today covering her eyes at the very idea of eating her relatives. I think she wanted to duck the question.
How canard can it be?
Later, back in the bar which had been carefully vacuumed of any atmosphere to see the Olympic Games opening ceremony where I got talking to some Brits. You never know where you will find the next customer for Currencies Direct.
So today, our last day in France revolves around a quick trot around this morning before driving up to Calais to stay in the exquisite Chateau Du Cocove, one of my favorite hotels, and one that I had booked myself rather than leaving it to a public schoolboy moron with no idea. A fabulous dinner will no doubt ensue and then….that’s it, back to England and a life of drudgery and damp. It even rained a little last night in Beaune in order no doubt to begin the acclimatisation to English weather. The lovely Julie commented yesterday in the section below that I have apparently missed the 4 day summer which ends the day I arrive, how apt.
Chris France
The end is nigh
Today is the day. This morning I shall leave Valbonne, probably the best French village in the world and begin to head inexorably north. England beckons and, like a fart in a wind tunnel, there is only one way I am going. At least the metaphorical wind tunnel will be turned off at night until Sunday.
It was perhaps fitting that the last evening was spent at one of my favorite haunts, the Auberge St Donat. Earlier I had played tennis, partnered in the traditional way by my Moustachioed Old Git (MOGS) partner, one half of 118 118, the Wingco. I am not certain of the result by I do know that two factors had a bearing on events. Firstly I am injured. I do not want to make a fuss about it, indeed I scarcely believe that either of our opponents, Mr Clipbeard and Mr Custard would have noticed my knee brace except for the fact that I had written “injured” on it in luminous white paint. Whilst this impediment slowed me down from “whippet” to “donkey”, my innate judgement of where to be and a deft touch made little difference to my classic lobbing game that those that play against me hate so much. The real problem was that the Wingco had lunched rather well. He thought he played very well but he was wrong.
The occasion was his daughters 16th birthday, which in itself is a slightly alarming fact as he will shortly enter his 7th decade. Why he chose to drink that much wine on the beach prior to joining me on the tennis court is a mystery. Indeed, looking at the state of him I suppose I was lucky he even found the tennis club let alone the court, but no matter, I was convinced that his game would not suffer. I was wrong.
It would be rude of me to go into details, but regular readers will know that rudeness is one of my strong suits. Time and time again it was his giant salmon-like leaps at the net accompanying the flailing racket whilst making little or no contact with the ball that put us at something of a disadvantage, and although Mr Clipbeard, whose only saving grace is that he is a Currencies Direct customer, was very jovial and triumphant at dinner afterwards, for me the result is in doubt. Morally at least, we won, although numerically others may claim victory, and if that is the case, which is not admitted, then the “winners” should be ashamed that the beat a cripple and a drunk.
It’s a sign
So as we sat down to a last supper, hence my religious picture today, the mark of the cross, where the Wingco proceeded to top up from lunch, having sweated out several gallons attempting, and mostly failing, to get up-stream, the inevitable subject of the forthcoming Olympics came up. It will give you an idea of Mr Clipboards sporting abilities and his deep knowledge and love of sport that the contest to which he is most looking forward and for which he has tickets is the ladies volleyball, Brazil v Holland. Why he would want to witness this obscure event is not a mystery, although I read recently that if the weather is inclement then the skimpy outfits habitually worn by the contestants, which will have had no bearing on his multiple application for tickets, may be replaced by something less titillating, a fact that he refused to accept last night. Neither would he accept my contention, with admittedly had no basis of truth, that I had heard the weather forecast and is was going to be cold and wet. I am sure their wearing of overcoats will not spoil the spectacle.
Chris France
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