Sunshine and desolation
Lunch at Chez Panisse at the Holiday Inn in Cap Trois Mille where I was accompanied by just one happy customer of Currencies Direct was enlivened by several bottles of Chateau Minuty, arguably one of the better local rose wines. It was further enlivened, but not in a nice way, by that nice lady decorator announcing that we are going to the north of England flying into Leeds Bradford next weekend. I took this picture from the restaurant which seems to sum up the counterpoint between the Cote d’Azur preparing for summer, but with a hint of desolation picking up my mood after listening to that announcement.
Readers from the north of England please note that strange blue colour in the sky
Leeds, in Yorkshire. Let me put this in perspective. The weather forecast for Leeds today is 12 degrees with squally showers and gusty winds. There was no mention of any sunshine, not this month. I know that for up north that is quite balmy, even suggesting that summer is right around the corner but the softening tundra will unleash a plague of midges. The forecast for Valbonne however is for unbroken sunshine and a maximum temperature of 28 degrees, and no midges.
You may be tempted, as I was as we sat beside the sparkling waters of the Mediterranean in shorts enjoying some exquisite fish which was not surrounded and suffocated with batter and with not a mushy pea in sight, to ask that nice lady decorator what on earth she was thinking of. It took a little time to establish the primary reason; Agatha Christie. It seems that Agatha, when deciding to leave her husband at the “height” of her writing career, disappeared for 11 days much to the consternation of the British press and hid at The Olde Swan Hotel in Harrogate.
Bizarrely, that nice lady decorator holds the opinion that this Agatha woman is a superior writer to my good self, a clear phallacy (erk) as she is obviously female. That should wake up the feminist movement this morning! The woman wrote about a Mousetrap for gods sake, a performance of which I was dragged to some time last year.
Thus we are now about to delve into the dark recesses of the winter clothing store and prepare for the tempests that characterise the north of England for most of the time. It seems we shall be staying at The Olde Swan and if that nice lady garden designer gets her way we will sleep in the room in which Agatha Christie once stayed.
Quite why we need to do this now, during the precious time left to us in France is a mystery that I don’t think even our Agatha would be able to solve. We shall be trapped in England for much of the summer and autumn, but when I suggested that perhaps this little jaunt be delayed until that time, the laser beams that pass for eyes in these circumstances were primed and I was hushed into a state of mere whimpering in the corner.
Perhaps we shall also pop in on Midsummer, the most dangerous place in Britain where all the murders take place? The allure of all this Murder Mystery is just that, a mystery to me. Thank god Midsummer does not seem to have a railway otherwise we would probably be treated to “Murder On The Midsummer Express with a Mousetrap”.
Thus today I shall be taking the opportunity to play golf in the sunshine at the Grande Bastide with the Landlubbers golf society and work on my tan which will no doubt be subjected to serious attempted degradation in Leeds next weekend.
Chris France
Dissertation? make my a large one
Mother in law is worth her worth her weight in gold, and believe me that is a shed load of gold. So said one of our luncheon party yesterday who shall remain nameless as we lunched at fashionable restaurant Transat in Antibes.
We had adjourned there after another tennis lesson administered by my good self to Roly Bufton the husband of John Hurts former cleaner and Peachy Butterfield, who had his mother in law in tow, oops, may have given something away there. I took this picture of the quaint bar there.
The Vignale Tennis Club bar
Peachy was in large form and was explaining that he had spent the morning preparing for tennis by reading his sons university dissertation. Given the big fruits size (la grande peche) one may perhaps have been forgiven for thinking that the word dissertation had something to be with being served with extra desert. He began explaining what he had been doing by using a split infinitive but does anyone out there, apart from my syntax sorcerer Peter Lynn, have any idea of what comprises a split infinitive? Star Trek fans will remember possibly the most high-profile of these; “to boldly go”. One must never split the verb. Certainly he did not seem to understand, thus he had no idea why I was smiling when he said when referring to that dissertation he was reading it “to grammatically correct it” .
Lunch was excellent although being chased from the venue at the impossibly early time of 3.50 was a black mark. Do they not realise than this is the south of France and lunch is to be savoured, not rushed? We seemed welcome until 3 30 after which service standards disappeared, chairs were being stacked on tables and I swear another 5 minutes and our waiter would have donned his pyjamas.
Sensibly after being ejected we eschewed the invitation for more rose chez Bufton and instead returned home to prepare for the arrival of Rupert and Sophie Scott, owners of the house in which Edith Piaf died and today promising to do their first transaction with Currencies Direct thereby saving money on their foreign exchange. Rupert is a great lover of the pav and the web, our two outdoor drinking areas and demands time in them whenever here. It is the least I can do for a customer..
It is normal for things to get out of hand and suffice to say they were both still in the web at 1.30am this morning with a two hour break for dinner in Cafe Des Arcades. As they now live back in England and are letting the house out for summer rentals, they had been here a couple of weeks ago and had decided to take back a candelabra to their UK house worth £35,000. As they had flown in rather than driven, and given its value they wanted to take it home on the plane as hand luggage. However, even British Airways baulked at that (can you imagine trying that with Easyjet?) and seem surprised when they were told the only way it could go on the plane was if it was shrink wrapped. I did not know that Nice airport had such a facility but the candelabra is now safely back in England.
Today an airport run to make absolutely certain that Peachy gets his plane but there is a plan to have lunch at La Pannisse in Cap Trois Mille on the way. I will want to check his sun glasses line, his personalised blood pressure gauge. If there is a line then it seems he is OK, if the line had disappeared, especially after playing tennis in the quite hot sunshine yesterday, the blood pressure will clearly be a problem.
Chris France
Garden design shock
I made the mistake of mentioning to that nice lady garden designer that I liked the idea of a tropical rain forest theme being adapted into the new garden works that she is undertaking, but had not imagined she would that she would embrace quite such a Brazilian touch as my picture today, ruined by Banjo the nasty Friesian cow look-alike, rather poorly depicts.
A Brazilian theme takes shape
Two days of almost total abstinence was almost inevitably to be followed by a fall from temperance grace and the crumbling of this edifice began last night after another resounding victory on the tennis courts for the MOGs, the Moustachiod Old Gits. The MOGS, a doubles pairing of myself and the Wingco acquitted ourselves extremely well, our opponents, Dancing Greg Harris from Cote d’Azur Villa Rentals and Blind Lemon Milsted not so well. Some us are winners in tennis and life some of them are losers. Details are unimportant to anyone but me but a final set score line of 6-1 tells a story that I would dearly like to tell.
Talking of stories, over the victory dinner afterwards at Capricchio up the hill in Pre du Lac I mentioned that I had recently to attend a funeral for a friend who had been hit by a tennis ball. It was a lovely service.
The Wingco also told the true story of how he spent two weeks in chains in an Indian prison some years ago. On a visit to a rural part of India, I think he called it Arselikhan to watch some horse race or the like he decided to leave his passport behind in Delhi not knowing that one should keep ones passport about one’s person at all times. You might think that such a minor offence could be quickly dealt with by way of a cable (one must consider given the Wingco’s vast age how long ago this must have been before modern communication was invented) but it appears that his overblown countenance coupled with loudly expressed statements in his best English accent such as “Do you know who I am?” and “I am English, I demand to see the Ambassador” or “Where would you be without English manners and culture you half wit” did not endear him to the local police with the result that he spent a fortnight in chains until this unfortunate oversight could be cleared up.
Dancing Greg is off to Devon for the weekend and we got talking about the quality of some gastro pubs in the south-west of England. I don’t like the idea and said I that I for one would never eat at one, a clear case of gastroenteritis.
Having fallen off the wagon last night, I have accepted an invitation to lunch today in Antibes. We have gate crashed a gathering between Blue Water Yachting’s newest yacht broker, the naked politician in his first gainful employment for decades and Roly Bufton and the lovely Leslie, John Hurts former cleaner to discuss skippers for Roly’s new yacht. When I say gainful employment I use the term loosely. It seems his brief is to lunch as many yachty types as possible on the most spurious of pretexts and then submit an outrageous expenses claim. It was on this basis we, led rather inevitably by Peachy Butterfield, decided to gate crash lunch. I can sometimes spell the word yacht correctly and have been on a couple so that seems sufficient to qualify.
Before that this morning I must once again take to the tennis courts with Roly and Peachy who require further guidance from their tennis mentor. I prefer the word tormentor and I shall be endeavouring to put this into practice this morning at the Vignale.
Finally, I do hope you have noticed that I have not mentioed the benefits of using Currencies Direct for all your foreign exchange transactions today, and nor shal I.
Chris France
The harder they fall
That nice lady decorator was not very nice about the contents of this column yesterday. “Why can’t you be funny every day?” She asked which I suppose must be a compliment of sorts, after all by implication I must be funny on some days, probably those when I fail to mention the benefits of moving money via Currencies Direct which has happened only rarely.
Actually, now that she has subscribed to this column, which anyone can do by hitting the subscribe button below and which incidentally had nearly 500 hits yesterday, a record, especially good for something described as not funny, I have an editorial impediment to free speech in that I can no longer get away with having a bit of fun at her expense. Before that I could take some amusement in the full knowledge that she would probably never read it.
I have also been told by my new self-appointed editor to stop grizzling about graveling. I fear that her entreaties may fall on stony ground as I intend to chip away at her displeasure and somehow make graveling funny. I suspect though, in reality she will remain stony faced. In fact this column is very hard to write when one is stone cold sober. Ok, that’s it, I think I have done all the stone jokes.
Tonight, the tempestuous tennis trilogy (plus one) will once again grace the run down but still charming Vignale Tennis Club. I want to find out if any of my tennis compatriots are looking forward to the reign of the new Socialist President of France.
It seems that our illustrious leader and his former partner Segolene Royale still co-own a house in nearby Mougins. It seems that it was valued at some 200,000 euros, at least for wealth tax purposes a few years ago. This will come as a surprise to residents in the same area with almost identical houses on the same estate that also boast a private swimming pool in one of the richest and most expensive communes in France. They would all no doubt be devastated to find that their houses valued at 1.2 million euros have apparently dropped so markedly in value. Any suggestion however that our new socialist ayatollah has stretched tax rules to avoid paying the full extent of what is due is of course a scurrilous accusation and I am certain that come the time he fills in his 2011 tax form shortly, a more realistic valuation will collect him up neatly into his own tax trap.
There seems to be an Orwellian tendency towards some people being more equal than others in the worldwide socialist hierarchy. Do as I say rather than di as I do. If one looks at the socialist opponent in the recent London mayoral vote, the scion of Margaret Thatcher, it was the revelation of his byzantine tax avoidance planning that may have tipped the balance against him. If you were to say “Mr Livingstone I presume”, then you would be not far off the mark. Next shall we look at Mr Mugabe?
Pines felled by winter snows
Out walking in a different part of the Valmasque this morning I came across some large pines that must have fallen down in the freak snow we had in February. They say the bigger they are the harder they fall. I do hope there is no relevance in this photograph to the effect our dear leaders may experience in their political careers due to their tax affairs.
Tonight is the opening of the South of France English Theatre production of Ira Levins “Deathtrap” at the Espace Miramar in Cannes. Sadly I cannot be there but I shall be at Sophia Antipolis later in the month to support this worthy attempt to bring some west end culture to the Cote d’Azur.
Chris France
Never judge a book by its cover
The mass exodus from France has begun. I see from various Facebook comments that the election of a socialist president of France, M. Hollande yesterday has sent a shudder of fear through the ex pat community. Ferrari’s are apparently queuing up and jamming the slip road out of France to Monaco, fleets of super yachts are upping anchor and slipping their moorings and the Euro is beginning to fall out of bed with orders to sell through Currencies Direct swamping the system today (well I had two calls).
I only wish I could stay and enjoy watching how this socialist utopia will develop over the next year but the decision is made, France and Valbonne are now merely a holiday destination for me but only as long as there is food to eat and wine to be drunk. I shall be doing my best to make the most of both before they run out as soon the working people of France will all have retired early and be waiting for state handouts.
Now whilst I am away from my beloved Valbonne during the summer there is an opportunity to rent my house for a mere £2750 per week. All details at this website. Whilst contented customers will be enjoying all that Valbonne and the surrounding area has to offer, I shall be sheltering in my overcoat and Wellington boots (or are they now called Hunters as an excuse to charge you more? in which case I shall have to buy some) from the rain and wind probably in Arundel jealously thinking of my clients enjoying the web and the pav.
So graveling was my grave duty yesterday, I think I would have preferred stoning, which of course in an oblique way I was, although use of the word enjoyment in that context is a little misleading.
Work has commenced on the second book. I sat in the web in the late evening sunshine and began planning it over a refreshing ale. That nice lady decorator has more will power than I, partaking of Ice Tea in an utterly self-satisfied way, tutting as I went to the fridge for the second beer, which was, I contend, helping the creative process. Us successful writers must be allowed the freedom and the raw material to express ourselves in order for us to weave a picture in words for our waiting readers (I can hear her saying, what a pile of shite).
With the book now well underway, the position regarding the cover needs to be addressed. I shall be expecting to hear from Marina Kulik who with her painting classes has taken it upon herself to trawl the huge talent pool of local artists and come up with a cover image that best sums up the new books’ deepest themes. Whilst at the monthly antiques market which takes place in the square and surrounding streets of Valbonne on the first Sunday of each month, I came upon a contender. I do hope Marina is not selling off the best images before I get a chance judge them.
Nice moustache
Today is a bank holiday in France, which followed a bank holiday in England yesterday, but do I get a day off? Not likely. More graveling awaits me. Of course it is not out of the question that the cavalry will arrive and save me from a fate worse than work. I have in mind being dragged of ny I know not who for an impromptu dash up to Valbonne Square for a pizza and a pichet (where have I heard that before) for lunch and to sit and enjoy the sunshine which will be absent from my life shortly. I live in hope but little expectation.
Chris France
Gloria be
Lunch with the Howes, Simon and the lovely Sarah, the saviours of Chateau Gloria was the usual excellent ribald affair. I took this picture of the warm up proceedings but that was just the start.
Gloria in excelsis
After lunch an astonishing thing happened. The cheese had been served and then renowned couch potato Peachy Butterfield returned from the toilet carrying a selection of tennis rackets. One would have thought that the thrashing he had received on the tennis court on Wednesday, combined with the damage inflicted on his corpulent frame as a result of having to run (perhaps that is an overstatement) around for an hour may have put him off sport of any kind for life but no, it appears to have kindled his enthusiasm. That or red wine induced bravado came to the fore.
He had spotted the private tennis court of our hosts on an earlier tour of the gardens of this house built by F1 legend Emerson Fittipaldi and to my surprise the entire luncheon party, already stoked up nicely on Verve Cliquot champagne, Chablis and the aforementioned Gloria took to the tennis court for a number of rather alcoholically challenged games of tennis.
Peachy did remove his sunglasses for one point, to reveal an unsuntanned line above the ear which he said was his blood pressure monitor line, and another luncheon guest local estate agent Cubby Woolf was a revelation playing some excellent tennis in his Gucci loafers which until then I had though was some king if northern bread, something like Hovis.
I think it was he who began the discussion about hookers. It seems that a little way along the Var towards St Tropez and especially around Lac St Cassien one often sees scantily clad young ladies sitting in chairs on the roadside touting for business. Cubby claims yesterday on a trip down in this direction for reasons that were never fully explained, certainly to my satisfaction, to have seen an elderly gentleman emerging from the bushes with his Zimmer frame. My suggestion that he was probably just answering the call of nature was not an opinion shared by anyone else present.
As coffee was served it was the token Frenchman amongst us, Robert Angeli who exclaimed that the French Presidential race was about to reach a conclusion and so the party gathered around the TV set to witness the confirmation of election of M. Hollande as the next French President.
This piece of history was greeted with some despair by all of those present except me. My enthusiasm for his election was in no way based on any political considerations, merely on the extra business that will be generated in the coming months for Currencies Direct as people with Euros flee the single currency as soon as they see the damage his policies may wreak on the Eurozone. I predict the doomed euro experiment is about to enter the final phase of its ultimate demise.
Alas today is Monday and despite invoking my age, my bad back, my shrapnel wound, the French election and any other excuse I could muster today I have to work. Not the higher intellectual work for which I am admirably suited, no, physical hard work. That nice lady decorator turned garden designer has a broad vision of gravelling areas of our garden which had hitherto been able to be dealt with by Terrance the Tractor and his grass mowing capabilities. Her building of a wall now precludes a great swath of grass from being accessible to Terrances’s special abilities. Gravel has been designated and sadly I have been designated the graveller despite a lot of grovelling.
Chris France
Inflated view of work
The weather forecast yesterday was for possible storms so I eschewed the chance to go and play golf with the Landlubbers at the Grande Bastide, despite having a number of happy Currencies Direct clients in attendance as I had previously given my wet weather golf gear to charity in the full knowledge that having moved to France I would never need them again.
That full knowledge was not quite as full as I had assumed. With the new capital gains tax rules savaging my plans to live in France, it seems that I may have need of them in the UK unless I give up golf completely, but that is still an option.
The combination of living in England for any length of time and advancing years will, I am certain, force me to seek solace in travel so in preparation I have begun to consider the places I need to visit before the metaphorical trap door opens and my soul falls into the fiery abyss. The film Bucket List which stared Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson was about things one needs to do before one kicks the bucket. I was discussing my bucket list with Peachy Butterfield over a few after dinner drinks in the web after Thursday’s epic tennis victory but he, being younger than me said he had a fuckit list, presumably describing a list of girls (or boys? or both?) with whom he would like to become intimate before his demise. I was thinking of countries I would like to visit he was thinking of can’t bring myself to say it.
Earlier, after lunch at Auberge St Donat the lovely Leslie Bufton produced a plastic container and proceeded to spoon the remnants of her uneaten veal and rice main course into her own personal doggy bag. She said she always carried it with her when eating out but I do hope she draws the line at doing the same at private dinner parties or aboard their yacht that is about to be delivered. As I had some of the same dish surplus to my requirements I offered it to her but the offer was politely declined. This lead that nice lady decorator to exclaim that Leslie had publicly refused to allow me to put my meat in her lunch box. I can still hear her cackling as I write.
So with golf off the agenda prepared a load of cement for that nice lady garden designer to ensure she was busy and then took a little stroll into Valbonne to Cafe Latin to meet a fellow golfer Paul Howard, a nice chap but culturally challenged because he hails from up north. He who also could not play due to injury and was accompanied by his beautiful dusky maiden, Lisa soon to be his wife who it transpires is a direct descendant of Sir Stanley Matthews. When I returned home expecting the place to be a hive of garden design activity this is the picture that greeted me.
That nice lady garden designer resting with her two inflatable friends
It is of course that nice lady garden designer sunbathing whilst being watched over by the two inflatable facsimiles of her dogs the lovely Max and diabolical Banjo. Clearly I had not prepared enough cement.
Today is Sunday so lunch beckons, this time in nearby Mougins. That Chateau Gloria will be drunk and Montechristo Number 2’s will be smoked is a racing certainty as we are guests of the man who single-handedly keeps this great vineyard going, having 100 cases at a time delivered from their cellars into his. I of course have recently been to Cuba and have managed to restock the humidor so the cigars will be on me.
Tennis take off
Tennis as expected was a triumph for one mustachioed old git. Despite playing against man mountain Peachy Butterfield AND Roly “gay skipper” Bufton, not a single game was lost and so some of us, and by that I mean me, adjourned to lunch at the Auberge St Donat with a happy smirk playing about their facial features. Some were forced to accept that their hopes had crashed and burned as my picture today in no way suggests.
I think the tennis aspirations of my opponents will fly
Lunch however was no picnic. It was there that I secured yet another customer for Currencies Direct (this transforming it into a business lunch – this for my accountant, an avid reader of this column) and two more customers for my book “Summer In The Cote d’Azur although one sale was secured by dint of Masterful subterfuge by my self-appointed French sales manager Master Mariner Mundell and the other has yet to be paid for.
Why anyone would trust the Master with a 10 euro loan and then accept repayment in the form of a copy of my book is on one level very gratifying but on another level mystifying. I suspect the questionable sales tactics of my sales manager may still cause me problems at some stage but at the moment I am prepared to accept a sale is a sale. One area I need to address is the question of sales commission . I had thought that the Master had been prepared to undertake this onerous task on a voluntary basis. Indeed he had volunteered to undertake this hitherto non-existant position and has subsequently dined out on his sales success at the Premier Mardi event in April where he sold 9 copies and secured another 10 euro (the sales price) from one of the delegates on the understanding they she did have to take a book and that the Master went away for ever.
It seems however that certain traits of the Jewish faith to which he is beholdent are hard to suppress. One comment today suggested to me that philanthropy was not as well embedded in his Jewish soul as I had hoped. He does not collect stamps after all and would prefer to collect commission. Sadly from his point of view the business model upon which sales are based precludes such a ridiculous notion as commission.
I had escaped to play tennis only after mixing up a cement mixer full of, well, cement for that nice lady garden designer, her epithet when she is not decorating. When house builder Peachy arrived he had the temerity to suggest that she was a full on civil engineer, but I have a problem with the civil part of that description.
Then to the tennis at the Vignale. It seems that during the planning for this titanic tennis outing, Peachy had expressed the opinion that he had great hand to ball control, not hand to eye control as I suspect he intended to say. I am a big follower of Freud and I know what he really meant.
After the sport clash was concluded we went to the inevitable post tennis debriefing at the Auberge St Donat for yet another astonishingly good simple meal of fantastic value. However a vast over consumption of wine led to some rather distressing revelations so much-loved and happily seized upon by the author of this column.
For instance, who was it amongst the assembled multitude who released their innermost fantasies when faced with a morning erection, and why on earth should the phrase ” hand of god” have entered onto this discussion? My own feeling is that this is food for thought but Peachy did not concur, he expressed the opinion that food was for eating and proceeded to give us all a wholesome demonstration.
So much more material was generated today that this missive will be simple to write in the coming days, but until then dear reader you will have to wait.
Chris France
Rubbish clear out
The cardiac arrest unit at Nice Hospital will be standing by at the Vignale Tennis Club this morning in the full expectation that they will be receiving some customers. This will mark a change in my usual pursuit of customers for Currencies Direct but on this occasion I do hope there are no takers.
Let me set the scene. It was at that lunch earlier in the week, when man mountain Peachy Butterfield, just after he had fastened on to his third bottle of rose having tired of the extra strong mohitos our host had thoughtfully prepared earlier, expressed the hitherto unthinkable interest in getting some into some whites and taking some exercise. By that in normal Peachyland speak the natural thought for anyone that knows him would be that he had some Chablis or Sancerre or some other possibly less well-regarded white wine lurking about his person or perhaps more likely White Lightning, the supercharged super cheap sparkling cider that passes for champagne in his home land up north, as I thought they were the only whites he would understand.
It became clear that he was serious so after I had stopped laughing I focussed on what he meant; Whites for tennis? I know he looks like he was born before Fred Perry, but surely he has seen tennis on the TV? There is every colour on show nowadays except white.
His normal response when any suggestion is made that at his age he should think about some exercise has been to agree then run to the fridge and open another bottle, so it took me some time to recover and to roll up my tongue and stick it back in my mouth.
And so today, at 11.00am sharp the three of us, no, Peachy does not count as two although it’s a fair point, Roly Bufton is coming out of tennis retirement as well and we shall attempt to build up an appetite for lunch afterwards at Auberge St Donat and hope the para-medics and the defibrillators will not be required by playing some tennis. I shall play them both on my own and will be triumphant again. Usual rules, if it goes well then a full report tomorrow, should I face some sort of reverse it will all be glossed over.
My picture today was taken of the back of the car full of garden rubbish. As Banjo, that stinky dribbly hound so beloved by that nice lady decorator is the biggest piece of rubbish I have ever encountered in my garden I though the picture was a stoic acceptance of his place in my affections.
He will have eaten most of it before we get to the tip
You may be aware that I am making the most of it here in France in the coming weeks as by mid July I must face the prospect of being billeted back in the UK for extended periods. It is not a prospect I am considering with much enthusiasm, but on the plus side we have made an offer on a house next door to a pub with direct access from the garden to the pub garden next door so drowning ones sorrows appears to be a very real option. That or drowning in the floods during a drought. That would be the ultimate irony, drowning during a drought in England.
As you may know there is an election campaign in full swing over here in France being contested by the hyper active and hyper ventilating dwarf current president M. Sarkozy and the man who would complete the demise of the Euro, M. Hollande. As the lovely Julie Faux commented yesterday “Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right”…
Chris France
A box of chicken for a man in a box?
It was that kind of lunch on Tuesday. The type where too many stories can be told at or about lunch, too many to cram into the daily target of 600 words in this column which is dedicated to helping people who needs to send or receive money from abroad. Detailed help available from Currencies Direct.
For instance, Bailey’s loving Jude O Sullivan was there and mortified as none was offered but she revealed that even the Valbonnaise restaurant keeps her own special trough of the evil looking liquid Baileys under the counter of this popular family run eaterie.
More worryingly Peachy Butterfield spent some time showing pictures he had taken of the naked politician meeting various waitresses whilst wearing leaderhousen. I am not sure if I am more uncomfortable about the wearing of those curious German leather shorts in public or the fact that Peachy had kept them on his phone and was happily showing them to all and sundry. He describes himself like a duck, swimming around serenely but there is a lot going on underneath. This is a concept into which I am sure my dedicated readership can understand I did not wish to delve too deeply, especially as he had his hands in his pockets as the description unfolded.
Then there was the discussion the details of which never reached my conscious mind about the Mail online, or was it the male online? There was also some talk about a kind of desperate housewives tv programme concept but with cleaning ladies, a reaction I think to the steely eyed one’s revelations at lunch about cleaning her shower room with a toothbrush whilst naked as I outlined yesterday, but details in my memory banks have proven elusive.
So, yesterday we managed it, we did not have a drink, either of us even in the face of the provocation of evening sunshine and a well stocked bar. Proud or thirsty?
My picture today is of Colonel Saunders in a phone box in wet and windy drought stricken Surrey last week. I cannot explain it but perhaps he was ordering Kentucky Fried Chicken to take away?
“Have you anything finger licking good by any chance?”
Next Wednesday is the opening night of Deathtrap the new theatre production at the Espace Miramar in Cannes. A number of well known actors including David Easter who was in Brookside and several other mainstream TV programmes are in rehearsal as we speak and the show comes to Sophia Antipolis on 24th and 25th May. I shall be there to support them. Tickets available from their website or on the door on either night Wednesday or Thursday.
Then looking ahead, dinner tonight at a splendid Bastide near Grasse where I shall encounter the Wingco whom I have not seen much of lately, church at Cafe Latin in Valbonne tomorrow to catch up with Mr Humphreys (if he is free) to find out any gossip about his resent trip to Amsterdam. It defies belief that my often effeminately attired magistrate friend and style guru will not have a story or two to tell about his inevitable visit to the cities famous red light district.
Golf with the Landlubbers is possible on Saturday although if the predicted possibility of storms comes to pass I may find myself unable to attend should there be clouds in the sky (why play golf in the rain when there are 300 sunny days a year down here?), and a potentially gossip laden and interesting lunch in Mougins on Sunday is on the cards. I do so love being back in France.
Chris France
Accidental fork
Back in Valbonne and straight back into that lovely south of France lifestyle that I adore. Lunch, one of the most delicious words in any language was taken chez Roly and the lovely Lesley Bufton at their palatial abode right next door to their other palatial abode. Most people would be happy with just one but hey, it’s a long story which I will not go into here.
A happy throng descended to eat and drink in that typical ex pat Provencal way. The eating part of lunch was completed at about 5pm but I did not get home until after 10pm. Situation normal, although I do not recall the promised Coupe Coronel, perhaps a good thing as that nice lady decorator hit the proverbial wall early, at 8pm, taking a sort power nap in order recharge those formidable batteries.
With the blackberry fully charged and my reading spectacles readily at hand I was able to record the many details of some of the more amusing events discussed over pre-lunch mohitos, gallons of rose and a rather good 2000 château bottled Cru Bourgeois Haut Medoc.
Days like yesterday provide a massive amount of material for this column, far too much to cram into this daily look into the lives of the idle rich, which was born out of a need to educate the community about the value of using Currencies Direct to effect foreign currency transactions.
For example, Slash and Burn Thornton Allan got proceedings off to a fine start by revealing that once, after a trip abroad he was dispatched by his wife, that steely eyed goddess Lisa (of whom more later) to collect the family’s black labrador dog from the kennels. All was well until Berty the dogs behaviour was noticed to have changed. The dog went from room to room sniffing, then upstairs where he would not normally venture and then jumped on to the kids trampoline which was a bouncing departure as Bertie was renowned for avoiding the trampoline area, perhaps because he had apparently once been the unwilling star in the Thornton Allan sprogs reenactment of the famous Barnes Wallis bouncing bomb story.
Doubts about his treatment at the kennels increased until one of the Thornton Allan sprogs noticed a curious and astonishing new addition. Bertie had apparently grown new testicles during his stay at the kennels. It was I think at this stage Slash and Burn realised that he had collected the wrong dog.
Peachy Butterfield, man of mystery or more precisely man mountain of mystery was very keen to ensure that he did not over eat (although to be honest this did nothing to reduce his intake of the local rose). He stated mysteriously that there was to be no TTT. When questioned as to what this stood for he confessed it was Tummy Touching Table. In his own mind his figure resembles that of the figure in my picture today taken in one of the far-flung corners of our hosts garden. But why the garden fork?
a naked forker?
Roly’s boat which is being delivered at the end of the month was the subject of much discussion, as was his decision to employ a gay skipper. Some good ideas were expounded to aid the forthcoming seafaring experience but Mr Butterfield’s helpful suggestion that their captain be asked to wear a t-shirt emblazoned with “Hello Sailor” was quietly rejected.
Another revealing story was undressed by the piercing blue eyes of Mrs Slash and Burn, the willowy and beautiful Lisa. I have no idea why she admitted to taking to cleaning the family shower room whilst naked save for a toothbrush and some red marigolds, or indeed why she should allow an arch blogger such as myself access to this kind of information but it is an image I wish to hold with me until my demise.
There is so much more that will have to wait for another day.
Chris France
Doggy bag sir?
On the way to Gatwick the following occurred. That nice lady decorators blackberry screen collapsed and went blank, my blackberry ran out of battery during a house sale negotiation, we parked too far away from the petrol pump to put fuel in the hire car resulting in my being sprayed with petrol when I tried to fill it up, the ignition key got jammed in the car filler cap, so we took hand brake off to push the car nearer to the filler, then the car began to move of its own volition, we got lost because we were relying on google maps which requires a mobile phone signal, not readily or continuously available in technologically challenged England, and as a result we were very late for our flight. It was an interesting morning, but still despite massive provocation we kept to our determination not to have a drink.
It was as soon as I saw Peachy Butterfield at the airport, accompanying the lovely Suzanne, our lift home, I knew he had not come plane spotting, and our planned temperance was in danger. Arriving home I politely asked if he would like a cup of tea and after a pause sufficient for him fully to understand that the offer was rhetorical and not under any circumstances to be accepted, would he like a glass of wine. I think you will be unsurprised to learn that he would like a glass of wine, and that is how it all started to get out of hand.
Once he was there, standing in his brightly coloured Vibrequin shorts at the arrivals hall at Nice Airport in a thunderstorm I knew that he had obviously become bored and that our carefully planned and rigorously self-imposed, despite the mornings immense provocation, abstinence was not going to fail the ultimate test. He was ready for a party and nothing was going to stand in his way, and that your honour, sums up the case for the defence.
With little in the fridge after days spent in the technological desolation that is England, it took little extra persuasion to agree to an early dinner at the Valbonnaise, the atmospheric family run eaterie in Valbonne which was full on a Monday night despite the storm.
It will be no better today. Two invitations to lunch were eventually whittled down to one, but that is enough for the continued assault on the liver which started, well, in about 1995 despite regular attempts to take an alcohol sabbatical.
It was at the Valbonnaise where I took today’s picture, summing up for me the difference between France and England. Some people may agree with the legal position under EEC law that dogs other than guide dogs are not allowed in restaurants. You never see dogs in restaurants in England, perhaps in pubs but restaurants? No. It is a clear breach of rules that the Germans make, the English obey and the French ignore. The over zealous health and safety brigade in the UK would have objected vociferously and tried (and probably succeed) in having the place closed down. This little chap was not only allowed in but given his own seat at the head of the table. I wonder if he had his own napkin?
Whats for dinner dad?
So we are safely back in the tender mercies of Valbonne, now just a holiday retreat rather than home and determined to enjoy every minute. However, as regular readers will know by now, the word holiday is for me not the purest concept that I imagine most people embrace, and even although I should be resting I shall remain vigilant for any potential customers seeking the to move money from one currency to another as they will benefit from services that Currencies Direct have to offer.
Chris France
The difficulties of motoring in a drought
The drought in the UK is getting even worse as today’s picture shows. One even has to park ones car near water to keep ones tyres from overheating in temperatures hovering in the high single figures celsius. I am so glad we are returning to the steamy wetlands of Provence today.
Yesterday, we had just enjoyed a nice lunch at the Old Mill at Elstead, deep in the parched Surrey countryside which was clearly screaming out for some moisture as my picture today captures. It seems that it is so hot and dry in England that people are removing their socks and shoes and walking about the place as if they were in the south of France in summer. Shoes seemingly not required as my picture today of a diner trying to get back to their car illustrates.
A quick paddle after lunch
The rain has been relentless and the drought continues. It seems that there must be 6 months of continuous rain in England before the leaky reservoirs are once again replenished and the gardeners can stop worrying about how to feed their plants. In the meantime rivers break their banks, millions of acres of farmland are flooded, roads are closed and plants are dying from lack of moisture. What a curious place England will be in which to live again.
Guildford is the victim of a devilish one way system but eventually after an hour or so driving around and only one pub stop for sustenance we booked in at the Angel Posting House into a lovely room once again dogged by the loudest central heating boiler in the northern hemisphere. That nice lady decorator was not happy and at the time of writing this early evening on Sunday, I would not rule out the spilling of blood, mine probably because obviously the booking of this particular room is my fault, despite the fact that the booking of the specific room was undertaken under her careful guidance from the decorator in chief.
However, once the shower setting stubbornly would not move from “dangerously scorching” I knew it was simply a matter of time before the spilling of blood was a racing certainty and that she would attempt to have us moved to another room. It was fortunate for the management that the receptionist was a young good-looking foreign chap, perhaps French, who could not have been more helpful. It helped to calm that nice lady serial complainer and take the sting from her venom.
To get away from the noise we ventured into the town in search of somewhere cheap to eat somewhere to entertain sprog 2 who earlier in the afternoon had refused point blank to allow us into his student hovel. A quick shufty through the window however revealed the true horror. And we wondered why he has been ill with food poisoning? The flat mates in the BBC’s “The Young Ones” were anally obsessed by cleanliness and order in comparison.
Dinner then was taken at Coal in Guildford Town Centre, the sort of venue that I would have loved had I been aged 19, but given that I am a little older, did not enjoy as much as sprog 2 clearly did. Jalapeno peppers in a burger? Insanity. They did however serve a fairy decent Rioja so partial solace was at hand.
As it is now Monday, I can safely mention that I shall one again tomorrow begin scouring the Valbonne area seeking any poor unfortunate enough still to be using their banks when shifting money from one currency to another. Currencies Direct is the answer.
Chris France
Phone home? no chance
We circled the last round-about at Arundel about (irritating alliteration?) 11 am yesterday having received instructions from Mr Clipbeard that we were invited to lunch. In his customary regimented fashion we were instructed to be at the house at 1pm sharp, scrubbed and tidy, having previously had a short back and sides and to be ready for inspection.
We arrived breathless with barely 30 seconds to spare to find him looking at his watch with clipboard in one hand and slapping his swagger stick against his jack boots. I don’t know exactly why he was doing that and cannot pass any comment as to what gratification he may derive from said slapping, but slapping is a good description. Perhaps it reminded him of something from his school days, but I digress.
Having seemingly passed muster (which until then I thought was in Ireland) we were treated to lunch which seemed to comprise of the neatly arranged left overs from a feast from the officers mess from the night before, to which we had not been invited, but as that included some 1994 St Julien Grand Cru followed by a couple of glasses of 1983 Warre’s vintage port (“sip it don”t glug it man”) left over from the visit of their important friends who had been invited the night before I think you will understand why I was content to be on report.
Our house hunting is done for now, decisions have been made, offers have been made, and lunch had been made (for us) so after a siesta (“report back at 6.30 sharp”) we prepared for pre-dinner drinks in best bib and tucker for further inspection by Mr Clipbeard.
Our penultimate night in England took the shape of dinner chez Clipbeard and a rather splendid event it was. From the moment the cork was removed from that 2005 Pomerrol I knew I was the evening was in safe hands and so it came to pass.
One thing that is going to drive me insane living for long periods in England is the diabolically poor mobile phone signal. Even at Mr and Mrs Clipbeards billet less than a mile from the M25, the busiest motorway in Europe, no reliable mobile telephone signal can be found. How can anyone do any work or stay in touch? I had a client yesterday ready to sign up for an account with Currencies Direct. He had some questions to ask me but I could not get a continuous signal. I took this picture outside a house in Chichester a few days ago which seems to me to sum up the state of mobile telecommunications networks in the UK.
England calling?
Talking of technology, Mr Clipboard has 3D TV but this wonderful invention appeared to confuse that nice lady decorator. “Why is the TV so out of focus?” “And what are these silly glasses for?” Technological advances have often passed her by with the notable exception of her I pad.
Today we have luncheon on the spreadsheet once again with Mr Clipbeard and his exquisite wife Ashley close to his regimental head quarters, in fact at The Mill at Elstead in Surrey with my favorite aunt, the Clipbeards and both sprogs, who given the sniff of a free meal anre descending upon us just to ensure the bill will be as bloated as possible. Then tomorrow, glory be, back to France for a few weeks at least, back to the cradle of Valbonne, sunshine, and a life spent mostly out of doors instead of indoors, a necessity yesterday as it did not stop raining all day. Let me take a peek outside now. Yes, still raining.
Chris France
Rabbiting on
The rain-soaked English house searching odyssey will commence again this morning. Yesterday as we viewed a house in Chichester owned by an old lady who was the proud owner of a Stannar stair lift, I suggested that it would not be very expensive to have it removed but that nice lady decorator commented that it could be left in place as I may shortly be in need of it.
My first reaction was one of hurt. I am in the prime of my life, a magnificent honed vital creature but then reality set in. I am just a year a bit away from my seventh decade and I gradually realised that she has a point. But there is an upside. Imagine, after a skin full of wine and beer, arriving back at one’s home and having a stair lift up to take you up to the top floor for a nightcap? What a splendid invention.
After a torturous set of viewings of many a poor house alongside a couple of nice ones we asked where best to go for lunch and were recommended to the George and Dragon at Burpham. A lesser writer than my good self when presented with the twin facts of a lunch taken at a wonderful Sussex countryside pub and the village of Burpham may conjure up at least one very poor joke about the exhalation of wind after eating and drinking, but I know my readers would not want me to stoop so low as to indulge those who may be amused at such low humour, thus I shall not mention it.
Exhausted by the viewing process and encouraged by a sudden break in the weather we walked after lunch to The Black Rabbit, the riverside pub a couple of miles outside Arundle from where I took this picture. The art involved in framing Arundle Castle in the background of both the River Arun and the pub sign should not be over estimated.
The Black Rabbit on the banks of the Arun
The Town House in Arundle, the dinner venue was also splendid. A Chateaubriand for one is a thoroughly wonderful departure. Normally it is a cut prepared for two and I have long wondered why it could not be sliced in two, in fact one might say I had a bit of a beef about it, but now it can and was enjoyed to the fullest possible extent by that nice lady decorator who would normally require me to be the other steak holding (erk) party. I was thus able to enjoy a far more modest but very tasteful monk fish in a seafood sauce which was as good as her for me as the beef was bad for her.
The more perceptive of my regular readers will have noticed that I have not yet mentioned the wonderful benefits that will accrue to anyone opening an account with Currencies Direct and using it for their foreign exchange receipts or payments, but they may also have noticed that it is a Saturday today and thus part of the weekend, so I am having a day off.
My impending return to the south of France and Valbonne in particular on Monday is filling me with enthusiasm. I shall need to check up on the progress of the Marina Kulik painting competition for the cover of my next book. The only real issue is that at some stage I will have to write it, so much of my summer, a large amount of which I shall have to spend out of France will be spent in a creative cocoon, which some may say is another expression for an alcoholic haze. I find the creative process is helped immensely by the self-administering of some wine.
Chris France
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