Salty Women?
Lunch in Valbonne Square in the sunshine. For you locals just consider that statement for a moment, are we not as close to heaven as one who does not believe in such a place can get? Even the Reverend Jeff who does believe has never been exalted to the heights of having lunch in Valbonne Square, and certainly not courtesy of Currencies Direct. This is a clear piece of evidence that going to church and living life according to the dictates of the Lord (Voldermart?) does not always pay dividends. I am certain that lunching in Basingstoke yesterday where the Reverend resides was not as pleasant lunching in Valbonne Square.
I love all things French. The French word for school is ecole, easily mistaken one may think for the word for alcohol, which with typical french cunning is exactly the same word in the local dialect. I accept that when one has a carefully cultivated plummy accent they may sound the same, and therein lies the problem. One of our friends who shall remain nameless, but arguments sake we will call Lisa Thornton Allan was on her way home from Mougins school with some of her children yesterday afternoon. She was intercepted by the police at Brittains roundabout just outside Valbonne and asked if she had taken any alcohol, but she thought that she was asked if she had come from school. “Yes, I have” she said and was promptly breathalised.
Technically, as she had not had a drink (an allegedly rare occurrence by 4pm) this could have been construed as a waste of police time. A discussion developed about our various experiences when the meaning of words had been confused or misunderstood. It seems that predictive text can throw up all sorts of horrors, especially when one is pressed for time or in my case cannot find one’s reading glasses. For example recently some embarrassment was caused by a texted order for two portions of homous which became a request for two homosexuals. Any non salad dodger ordering homous deserves such an unfortunate result.
Because of more stormy weather predicted (what could that be by predictive text, salty women?) for later in the week when we had planned to go to the Antibes Yacht Show, there is half a plan to go instead today. My picture for today shows the last time I was in Antibes harbour just as we were leaving on the naked politicians boat D5 to head to St Tropez for lunch last autumn.
Edging out of Antibes harbour aboard D5
Storms are not unusual in April which, along with October is statistically the wettest month of the year on the Cote d’Azur and are cursed by the crews of the 150 or so yachts on sale as it means they have to clean the boats from top to bottom after the rain has stopped after each storm, but it could be worse, what would happen to your I-cloud in a storm?
Talking of I-clouds, the Apple on-line storage facility which is one of the features that has helped the I-Phone to outstrip the common Blackberry hand-held device as the smart phone of choice may soon have another convert. I have been a stanch Blackberry fan for many years but the fact is that they have been left behind by the I-phone and even I now am considering becoming a “Jobs” worth, in deference to the Big Apple saint himself Steve Jobs. When back in the UK shortly looking at houses to buy (one of which is sandwiched between an undertakers and a pub, just to give you a reminder of what you are doing to yourself when you go for a drink) I may make that switch.
Chris France
No smoke without fire
There is something innately satisfying about having a bonfire. It is almost as satisfying as securing a new client for Currencies Direct as I did today. The French of course think that a nice sunny day is a good occasion to set fire to all their garden refuse, and much more besides, whereas in England it is something undertaken on a normal dreary day but now I am hearing banned in some areas, a right that I can never see the French giving up despite the contribution to reducing the carbon footprint that such a ban would make. They are very big on their rights over here. So with the flames building nicely and the smoke rather pleasingly, as planned, wafting over to my Parisienne neighbours garden I felt a particular contentment.
Let me explain, I love a good bonfire and I have several delightful neighbours but then there is the unreasonable Parisian behind our house, He has allowed his laurel hedge to reach a height of 5 metres, reducing the natural light into the back of our house and has refused a polite request to reduce it to a mere three metres, on the basis that we make too much noise in the summer and he was using the hedge as a kind of natural noise break. When I relayed that to the nice lady decorator, it was like watching the start of a french bonfire, or more like a volcano starting to erupt. One could almost detect the smoke coming out of the ears, and I thought I smelled sulphur but that’s ongoing and quite a different issue, hence the bonfire, an activity which she had hitherto absolutely prohibited on the very reasonable grounds, that they are smelly, unpleasant and anti social but the terms of this relaxation of prohibition are that it is only to be lit when the wind takes the smoke into his garden. This has the added bonus of allowing me to eschew regular runs to the tip to dispose of our garden detritus.
Also, I cannot understand his short sightedness in rubbing her up the wrong way. If has any idea about her character then he would have agreed to my quite reasonable request, I may even have paid for it, but his refusal to discuss it is going to wreak havoc with his summer and beyond. He has not heard noise as he will hear it in the coming months. A cacophonous summer is his prospect.
Gone is any sense of control or reasonableness (not that these are traits normally associated with that nice lady decorator) and she has that “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” look about her. I have employed a lawyer to secure our rights and eventually I will prevail, but in the meantime and probably long after the hedge is reduced to the maximum legal height, he will continue to reap the whirlwind that epitomises her with a sense of injustice.
To take your minds away from smoke and the rain that set in late in the day, today’s picture was taken along the Brague river earlier in the week.
Lunch today is provisionally scheduled in for Cafe Des Arcades. This will be just reward for having a day without a drink yesterday. Yes, it happened and I have witnesses, so clearly that is a cause of celebration, one that I hope Pippa, head of Currencies Direct will feel deserved a big lunch. I have seen some interesting wines on the carte des vins at Cafe Des Arcades, I wonder if I can get them to unleash one from the cellar?
Chris France
Inflated opinion?
She held out until nearly 7.30, not a drop had touched her lips and then the decision was made, the Queens Legs and a pint of Guinness. Personally, I was hard at work organizing various Currencies DirectCurrencies Direct activities but I must admit to be weak-willed enough not to argue with a democratic decision, made by the nice lady decorator, the one with the only vote.
That we had to take sprog 2 with is and buy him his first drink is apparently considered normal, but I am compiling a bill ready for if he ever gets a job. Sadly this will be some years away due to his college course being somewhat extended. 2 years? Seems to me that 6 weeks of full on tuition should be enough but I am told rather forcibly by his maternal protector it is not.
Earlier, my worst fears about my probable role as a construction engineer (read labourer – see yesterdays column) dissipated as the normal sunshine was absent and thus that nice lady construction supervisor had lost some enthusiasm for making my life a misery by the enforced mixing of cement.
So we had a couple of pints of Guinness whereupon that nice lady decorator declared that she could not be bothered to cook so a take away Indian from The Kashmir in Valbonne was the swiftly concluded stand in for home cooking, much welcomed by my good self.
My picture today is taken of my swimming pool, adorned as you can see with a range of very tasteful of inflatables. That nice lady decorator can be seen in the background taking a few moments from her busy schedule to ensure that the inflatables were all pointing in the same direction. These were her idea, a tasteful (in her words) adornment for the swimming pool, a range of cheap plastic blow up cartoon characters. A cruel observer may conclude that she had an inflated view of well, you know, an inflated view.
Today I must go to buy a new wheelbarrow. This is the standard of task with which I am charged. Although I had managed to avoid the tedium and sheer hard work of mixing cement, another task was allotted to me. It involved raking over a piece of ground churned up by a tractor digging up a good chunk of the lawn for new drainage. When I use the word rake, it is something of an under statement as I managed to collect a wheel barrow full of rocks, so heavy that they punctured the tyre of the barrow. It is not a task at which I excelled. As the Reverend Jeff might say “some fell on stony ground”.
So what is in store this week? The Antibes Yacht Show starts on Thursday but the weather forecast is not good. April is statistically, along with October, the wettest month but will the organisers be down hearted? Surely not, where would they be without water? There are plans to attend one if the four days but only if the promised water stays away.
Lunch with Currencies Direct French supremo, postponed last week due to infantile illness will hopefully be reconvened and the joys of lunch in the South of France celebrated in a way that will shortly become a treat rather than normality because of the extended time I shall have to spend in the UK for the forseeable future. Each lunch now becoming a more poignant moment given the rain lashed hell that will doubtless await me when I set foot back in England later this month. I can hear you all saying there is a drought on back in the old country, but never mind, I guarantee it will break spectacularly as soon as my plane lands.
Chris France
A truffle expensive?
Just when it was getting late and apart from the inevitable mention of Currencies Direct I was beginning to get concerned as I had nothing planned for today’s column, a juicy story reached my ears although I simply cannot reveal the name of the family involved. It seems that some years ago the father was involved in some kind of corporate promotion which involved or was using some James Bond images. An Aston Martin was required for a few days and a number plate with the numbers 007 was produced. One day he used the Aston to collect his children, all under 10 at the time from school. Weeks later the children sat their father down and said “it doesn’t matter but we know what you do, you are a spy”. He asked what on earth had given them that idea. It seems that discovery in a bedroom draw of a pair of handcuffs was sufficient for them to come that inevitable conclusion.
Sunday was a rare quiet family day. Any suggestion that I stayed at home alert all day to keep an eye on and protect the integrity of the drinks fridge from the kleptomaniac tendencies of sprogs 1 and 2 and their thirsty friends is as scurrilous as it is true. I called it a family day with both sprogs enjoying some much-needed sunshine after having been marooned in dreary old England for most of the winter and it was late in the evening before we saw anyone, and if you read the opening story you will know that I cannot reveal who it was who dropped in.
Today is a bank holiday but I have a sneaking suspicion that a rest seems to be the last thing on my agenda, which of course I have yet to see. Yesterday I caught that nice lady decorator checking the levels of sand and cement in our possession, then peering into the cement mixer. Later she had a tape measure and was pacing out the terraced area around the web. I know a new large structure to cover our outside eating has been ordered and will be delivered tomorrow and I suspect the terrace needs a small extension.
Regular readers will know that I will try the old “war wound” defence followed by the bad back syndrome but will know, as do I, that both strategies are doomed to fail. Even the excuse that mechanical devices should not be used on a bank holiday will, I feel, be dismissed on the grounds that both our neighbours are away, thus a morning of construction hell seems to be my destiny.
My picture today is another captured by Slash and Burn Thornton Allan from The Big Picture who has found some black truffles for sale in our green grocers village shop. I may pop down there today and pick up a kilo.
Truffles in Valbonne
Shortly after the Easter break I shall commence the planning for my second book which I hope to have ready for the Christmas market. Marina Kulik who runs painting courses just outside Valbonne has suggested in the past that I should model for her classes, even suggesting that I would make a good nude, although that all went quiet. However she has recently suggested that perhaps a painting of my good self might make a better cover than last time (and heavens knows very little could be worse than the cover of my first book “Summer In The Cote d’Azur” still available in paperback and for Kindle) so perhaps I should model with the best picture being considered for the cover. I have to tell you all now, I am considering this as an option. Order early for Christmas.
Chris France
Ahoy fat boy
The clouds rolled back, the sun shone and so yesterday morning it was off to play golf with the Landlubbers at Chateau Begude, not St Donat as I suggested yesterday after watching a very satisfying return to form by England’s cricketers.
Sport is a wonderful pastime where one should not care if one wins or loses, it’s the taking part that is important, thus I shall not be revealing exactly what happened yesterday as it is unimportant and also I have forgotten the result. Suffice to say this was important for some of my opponents but I was just happy to enjoy the spring weather and take some exercise. In any event it was not a proper round of golf as we had to play the front 9 holes twice because the back 9 is undergoing massive reconstruction. In that event, had I won (and don’t forget I cannot remember) then I would not, on the basis that it was not proper 18 hole golf, have enforced the collection of the wager. Sadly it seems there may be some amongst us who fall short of the very high moral code that is my life’s benchmark.
Arriving home at around 4pm I was almost immediately bundled into a car together with several bottles of wine and my traveling cigar humidor for a late afternoon barbecue courtesy of man mountain Peachy Butterfield and voluptuous wife Suzanne. I had noticed a pall of smoke lurking just to the north of Valbonne whilst golfing, and had thought it rather dangerous for someone to be having a bonfire whilst the mistral was starting, blowing those thunder clouds away. It turns out that it was sausages. Yes Peachy was incinerating sausages (and probably every animal he could catch or run over in a ten-mile radius) and was ensuring it was all “properly cooked”. The barbecue that he was manning could have come direct from Hades. By 6pm he had barbecued everything to a crisp, even I suspect the lettuce but having missed lunch I was ravenous so tucked in.
My picture today was stolen is shared with you today and I want you to think of it in a loving way with no malicious intent. It appeared on Peachy’s Facebook page and the suggestion is that it is he. However if you look closely enough (please avoid doing this with food nearby) you will see two things that suggest otherwise. Firstly the plate he is holding is far too small and secondly had he been consuming anything that he had barbecued there would have been copious amounts of black charcoal and ash covering the much larger plate.
Dinner aboard a yacht, Peachy style
So as I lay in bed this morning, I began to consider the day ahead. A quick trot round the Valmasque for my morning constitutional but as yet there are no plans (of which I have been made aware) for lunch so perhaps a barbecue where things are cooked rather than incinerated may transpire. I was thinking that life today is grand. The sun is shining, it is a holiday period so I shall be able to forget for a short time my responsibilities with Currencies Direct, the fridge is full of beer, the wine rack creaking with fine french produce, what could possibly go wrong? Then I remembered. The voracious locusts, sprogs 1 and 2 are back from various colleges in England to eat and drink their way through my stores see and spend some time with their loving parents. That done, after half an hour a steady stream of teenage miscreants begin arriving, seemingly none have been fed in weeks and all have an appetite for a free drink. I have not as I write this been downstairs yet, but I am expecting carnage..
Chris France
Truffles or mushrooms?
Having decided to take Good Friday off from my missionary work with Currencies Direct, a motley straggle of ex pats decided on lunch in the unforecast sunshine, which was taken in Valbonne Square rather than indoors at the lovely Pierres Rouges, with John Hurts former cleaner. The lovely Leslie Bufton and long-suffering Roly who have just taken delivery of their new yacht, a splendid looking Fleming, have come a long way from her humble beginnings and are off to Falmouth this week for sea trials.
They have chosen their captain, he is Italian. This piece of information of course led to some merriment at their expense due to a certain Italian captains unfortunate experiences recently. I am not certain of their boat’s name but “Costa Packet” was suggested along with “A Bit On The Side” and one or two more tasteless suggestions, “Dead Wood” being one that I can include in this column, renowned for its taste, poise and treatment of gossip. I suppose that the captain of the Costa Concordia (whose name Schalatti is the Italian word for “roller skate”) will shortly be facing his own sea trial.
The Italian theme continued through lunch with Pizza Truffino on the menu (I assume this means a pizza with truffle oil?) which was very pleasant but I cannot see what all the fuss is about and with lunch over, adjournment to the pav became the order of the day, a good decision as the promised thunderstorms began to circle, and by that I also mean the beautiful university educated blonde Lisa Thornton Allan became more than slightly unsettled claiming at one stage “I would be so much more intimidating if I wasn’t so stupid” this of course is utterly incorrect, she is even more intimidating when she is being stupid because she has the ability to project her opinions in such a way they have the ring of certainty. For instance, I now firmly believe that passenger airliners can and do travel at 2000 miles per hour, Whitstable is on the south coast of Kent and a camera on a smart phone has 256 pixies.
When walking in the Valmasque yesterday morning, I was struck by this very large and possibly magic mushroom apparently petrified in stone. Of course if you cannot see it then you probably need some magic mushrooms in interfere with your spatial awareness.
As Rolf Harris might say, Can you see what it is yet?
After this stiff walk, more exercise to ensure a proper appetite in the form of tennis with the Wingco. He was not convinced that I won but a scoreline of 4-6, 6-2 tells its own story. Nominally it was one set each but on the count back, a method I employ when it suits me, the score was 10-8 to me, a clear victory, lovingly and truthfully reported in this missive. He will not read it of course (“Ghastly” his considered opinion) but many of his friends do and many will alert him to my interpretation.
Today I am due to play golf with the Landlubbers at the magnificent St Donat but as I write this at 6am the promised storms are lashing rain on my windows so my computer has stopped working I think golf may be cancelled.
I firmly believe that other social occasions for the Easter weekend were organised and agreed yesterday but I admit to a slight over consumption of a very good 2008 St Emilion Grand Cru priced at a very reasonable 7.99 euro (I can hear Peter Lynn saying it’s “not old enough to be out on its own”) and subsequent memory loss. Doubtless all will be clear when I sober up.
Chris France
Mourn Day Thursday?
When looking around the garden to see what has survived the winter, it was sad to see the lemon trees have been badly affected by that snow but one perennial survivor is my banana palm pictured today. It is able to stay out in all weathers and keeps its fronds all year around, mainly because it is made from the finest plastic and metal known to man. If I had my way (which regular readers will know is an utter pipe dream) all the plants in the garden would be plastic, how much less labour intensive would that be?
Imagine, at the end of October, a quick five-minute trot around the garden to collect up and bring in all the flowers, stuff them into the washing machine with a bit of Ariel then a quick wash and spin dry, iron and then in the drawer until February and back out again ready for spring and summer, very civilised. No pruning, watering, spraying with insect repellent, no work at all, least of all digging and being mutilated by malevolent plants.
Read my palm?
I think you may be able to gather from the sentiments expressed in the last paragraph that I was required to do yet more gardening again today. There seemed to be no allowance granted for my having to get up about three hours before dawn to be at La Pomme Rouge in Valbonne for the Riviera Business Club breakfast networking event at the ungodly (at Easter!) hour of 8.30am, where I continued my missionary work of spreading the word about the benefits of opening a foreign exchange account with Currencies Direct. Don’t forget the traveling time and preparation required. I had to set the alarm for 8 10, imagine! I even saw kids actually going to school.
Anyway, back to the gardening. That nice lady gardener had decided in her innate wisdom that a Phoenix palm had been planted too close to a Yucca plant about a year ago. She did not seem to recall that it was her idea that it was planted there in the first place under her careful direction, or to take account of the physical damage I had suffered planting said item at the time. She also did not seem to have considered the damage that might be wreaked to her loved one by digging it up a year later. For the uninitiated, both plants, now grown into trees, have a massive number of spiky thorny protuberances seemingly designed to lie in wait for any hapless and unenthusiastic gardener to come near and then strike, repeatedly, and to draw blood. Whoever designed these plants (and the Reverend Jeff would contend it was God) must have been having a spiteful day when he invented these two. I might have been killed by that Phoenix, but I suppose in the Reverends little dream world that had happened to me today, on Good Friday, he would expected me to have risen again after the third day like one of Gods family. Nice fairy tale.
At least it being Friday and a public holiday for some I may be permitted to go out for lunch. So after dismissing the Wingco’s challenge to a game (and I mean winning it) of tennis singles this morning I expect to enjoy a convivial lunch along with a few thousand others when I think we are going to share several loaves of bread and 5 fishes, or am I mixing something up here? I believe that this little parable was set in the open air but with continuing showers, and me still covered in bandages there may be a late venue change from the Cafe Des Arcades to Les Pierres Rouges.
Chris France
The most expensive cherries in the world?
I hate italics but for some reason the italic button will not work today so everything is in italics against my express wishes. The cancellation of a free lunch at the expense of Currencies Direct again for the second time in two days was too much, action was required so I took that nice lady decorator out to lunch. Actually the expression “out to lunch” could easily be applied to the enormous intellect of the university educated but fatally blonde Lisa Thornton Allan. Recently whilst en route to Cuba she contended that the plane in which we were being transported was traveling at 2000 miles an hour despite spending most of the flight watching the moving map which updated the ground speed every minute and which indicated a speed of just over 500 miles an hour throughout the 10 hour flight. Yesterday she excelled herself again with her knowledge of geography. This time it was her contention that the lovely northern Kent town of Whitstable was on the south coast of England. She was certain because as she said “my mother lives there and I visit regularly and I know it is on the south coast”. Beautiful and fit she may be but geographically challenged and suffering from a velocity awareness deficiency certainly. Because of a rare bout of poor weather, the type that I shall be required to put up with know that I am officially a UK citizen again, with the need to be there for at least 6 months in the next year, yesterday was a useful exercise in reacquainting us with what we will have to bear after a number of years happily settled in sunny France. Rain is seldom welcome but obviously needed in the garden (no doubt to water in that damn palm tree that so damaged my perfect being earlier in the week, the roots of which had to dug in so deep that I fear they be singed by proximity to the molten core of the earth, and which may now cause earthquakes so much have I have disturbed the land) so there was nothing to be done but to go to lunch at the excellent Pierre Rouges in Valbonne. Scene of a triple murder surrounding a crime of passion some 25 years ago and opposite a garage the initial impression of the restaurant is a little unfavorable, but inside it is charming with a welcome fire in the log burner and exquisite food and made an admirable contribution to putting the dreary English like day of weather into perspective.Earlier in the week in Valbonne in the best and the most expensive fruit shop in the world, the first cherries of the season were on sale, a snip at just 199 euro a kilo so by my reckoning that’s about 5 euro each. Cherry pie anyone?
An hour later it was gone, bought by one of the idle rich in the village one assumes. Picture taken by Slash and Burn Thornton Allan from The Big Picture http://www.tbigp.com
Blowing Dixie
It started on Saturday when that nice lady decorator asked me to dig a hole because she wanted to plant something. I was busily working away with my Currencies Direct foreign exchange benefits service so I was not best pleased to be disturbed from this vital work merely to dig a little hole. Best to get it over with I thought, then I can return to my work saving people with foreign exchange needs from falling into the hands of their voracious banks. Little however is a word better described to show how little I knew. I have only myself too blame. I had become aware that she had purchased another palm tree as I had fallen over it a few times as it had been laying on its side for at least a month but had not focussed on the fact that a hole would be required. Thus my first movement toward the garage and my return with a small trowel was ill thought out and betrayed me. I could not use that old stand by, the “war wound shrapnel moving about defence” (which come to think of it has never worked as she knows I was never in a war, except for in my marriage) which I would have brought to bear immediately had I any inkling that rather than digging a hole I was in for what seemed like a major piece of tunnelling work because by this time, I had given myself away.
This tree has to have the biggest roots ever. Even with most of the earth removed from the roots, the tractor hitched up and three adults wrestling with the damn thing it took us half an hour to tow and drag it up the garden. Now here is another piece of genius from that nice lady garden designer. She had bought the biggest palm tree in the world, and them decided to plant it in the most impossibly difficult location in the garden. No that is not quite correct, she wanted me to plant it in the most inaccessible spot in the garden, and this after digging a hole big enough in which to fit Big Ben. It was so deep that I swear I got near the core of the earth, such was the heat. Any further and I think I may have set off a new volcano.
With my meeting yesterday postponed I had a day without an alcoholic beverage. Government advice warns against binge drinking and suggests some time off each week, so now that is over I am looking forward to good lunch today with and courtesy of the lovely Pippa and Cosette, fellow Currencies Direct warriors both, with a plan to go to Cafe Des Arcades in Valbonne Square, although unwelcome clouds appeared yesterday morning. This is the kind of weather I shall have to get used to all over again during this year now that I have been forced to spend more time in England with my money due to Mr Sarkozy’s callous changing of the tax laws. In the meantime here is a picture taken by Paul Slash and Burn Thornton Allan yesterday in the square with a charming Dixie land jazz trio setting the mood. well it was an Antiques Fair and none of these guys look like spring chickens.
And I always thought the expression "Blowing Dixie" meant something entirely different.
As long as lunch is not too drawn out then I plan to attend the excellent Premier Mardi event run by The lovely Karen Hockney and Fiona Mclean at La Pomme Rouge Deli in Valbonne this evening. Anyone can go but there is a small entrance charge, check the website for details
Chris France
Peachy makes a boob
It is always a big lunch when one is invited to the Butterfields, but quite how big I was destined to find out when Peachy decided to try out a pair of false breasts as my picture today unfortunately captures. Quite why he feels the need to own a pair of quite respectable blow up false breasts which he claims he uses as the ultimate comfort cushion is not beyond me at all, in fact I can well imagine the therapeutic effects (sorry Lin) that could be secured by owning such an item. Where can I buy one or should it be a pair?
What's going on here then?
Events understandably got slightly out of hand after the early administering of mojitos at lunch but it started earlier than that. The Braderie in Valbonne took place yesterday. It coincided with the antiques market which takes place on the first Sunday of each month throughout the village of Valbonne. After the desultory look around at the vastly overpriced merchandise on the market we ended up having a sneaky beer at the Cafe Des Arcades just after the sun had passed the yardarm (somewhere in the world) but that of course lead to a glass of rose which was still insufficient to prepare one for the onslaught of lunch. However, Slash and burn Thornton Allan who was also on the look out for non-existent bargains was sufficiently disheartened as to order a double expresso, a large pastis and a carafe of rose to accompany one of the many Cohiba’s he purchased in Havana. It was shortly after this that we made a strategic withdrawal from what was stacking up to be more carnage and headed for lunch.
I espied Chateau Gloria almost before I encountered the many times retired Simon Howes who single-handedly allows this vineyard to maintain its frankly ludicrous prices. It is a fantastic wine but we only had 3 bottles (there we’re 3 of us drinking red) so we had to degenerate into a magnum of St Estephe whilst taking advantage of an over stock of Cuba’s finest cigars. I am not sure if Cuba ever had a cigar mountain but a fair dent was made yesterday, in fact in climbing Everest terms I would venture to suggest that we passed base camp one. A plume of cigar smoke trailed through the garden to the distant horizon.
I must draw a discrete veil over proceedings mainly because I have either forgotten them, I have been bribed or the details are far too disturbing even for this daily look at the lives of the idle rich in Valbonne, save to say that the lovely Suzanne must have had the entire Valbonne stock of chickens slaughtered for the meal which for once involved no barbecued road kill, Peachy having been forbidden to unveil the barbeque.
I had planned a day off today but my diary had a different idea with a meeting early evening to talk about the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct to save 3% more on foreign exchange transfers, and the benefits of QROPS whatever they are, maybe something to either with pensions or farmers. I know, some jokes land on stony ground, anyway today is Monday and I am on top form, something to which I have no right given the consumption programme over the past few weeks, well month actually so I shall make the most of it until after lunch when I expect to be overcome by an extreme bout of tiredness which I shall deal with by doing some horizontal planning on the couch in the web
Chris France
Compare the mark up?
There is a Braderie today in Valbonne. A Braderie is like a clear out sale, with the local businesses clearing out all their old stocks of merchandise at knock down prices, even The English Book Centre will be open on a Sunday! I may venture down on the way to lunch with Peachy Butterfield and statuesque beauty Suzanne to collect a copy of The Sunday Times to see if I can identify any poor souls in need of the currency exchange services of Currencies Direct. You can usually tell them by their hang-dog expressions or sometimes you can see them peering into their wallets and shaking their heads.
An interesting concept has been floated by long-term devotee of this column, Mellissa Graves. She contends that when girls answer a question with the single word “what?” It does not mean they have misheard the answer, they are just giving the man a chance to reconsider what he is saying. This is a sweet and generous concept and one that I shall bear in mind, especially when that nice lady uses the word in a context like this; “what the f**k do you think you are doing?”
Then on to lunch. Peachy Butterfield will be anxious to know if I have been successful in my quest to find a 5 litre flagon of wine for 8 euros as was the case the last time we lunched together, but I am afraid I have not, just a magnum of a very good Bordeaux. I know it is far too good for him and I have selected some bottles to take but he does like quantity rather than quantity, a fact reflected in his gargantuan waist line so I asked the supermarket for the biggest glass vessel they had and so that is what I shall be taking for him. The Bordeaux will remain my side of the table.
I am not quite certain what is going on in this photo that I took in Havana recently. I am sure that the animal in the basket believes it is a dog but it seems to me to resemble a meercat. Perhaps this chap was seeking the best insurance for his bike? As all insurance companies presumably aim to make a profit, should not the slogan be “compare the mark up.com?”
Dog in a manger? Oh on, dog in a basket
Today of course is a write off, but there is a faint possibility that we may get a teetotal day tomorrow.Liunch in Valbonne square and the Premier Mardi event at La Pomme Rouge in Valbonne tomorrow evening will ensure that Tuesday is a wipe out as well, so I am clinging to the prospect of a day away from the demon drink on Monday like a man trying to wrestle a lion with one arm tied behind his back. It is not me you see, that nice lady decorator gets the taste about 6pm, sun downer time and I am so easily lead.
There is something I have put off mentioning. Yesterday she asked if I could dig a hole so she could plant something. reluctantly I delved into the satanic depths of the shed and caked in dust found a spade (I was going to say my spade but I do not recall never owning such a thing – it is a well-known fact hat I am dangerous with tools). I had in mind a full minutes digging and then repair to the bar for a beer. What she did not tell me that the hole was for a fully fledged palm tree necessitating a hole a metre across and a metre deep. I shall continue with this earthy tale tomorrow.
Chris France
I want to Brague
I want that job. I would dearly like to identify her but I promised anonymity to the beautiful wife of a BA captain whom we ran into at Cafe Des Arcades in Valbonne on Thursday lunchtime who was on her way to have her beautician, and I quote “work on my arse”. I want that job. When I was unemployed in the early 1970’s they never had jobs on offer suggesting one could be being paid for manipulating beautiful girls arses, if there had been then I venture to suggest that I would have exclaimed “bottoms up” and made the best of it. I liked to have a hand in many things and…..I think I should stop there. There was a chap signed on the dole in Camden when I was growing up, he was a friend of mine and was registered as a ski instructor and do you know they never did find him a job. Not many ski resorts in North London. Pretty sure he could not ski either.
It was a last minute decision on Thursday to go lunch having previously undertaken with that nice lady decorator to have two clear days without a drink bearing in mind the impending carnage of the weekend, which includes lunch with man mountain Peachy Butterfield on Sunday, but in the end, the sunshine weakened that resolve and we popped into Valbonne for a quick lunch, which became a slow lunch or rather a long lunch because of the bottoming out of the market. (Yes I am ashamed of that one as well). It may well be that I may have wasted my life in rock n roll or latterly in the pursuit of currency exchange excellence as Regional Coordinator (read Fat Controller) for Currencies Direct but no matter, the world of the beautician has passed me by.
Talking of the beauty of the female form, I see on the Facebook page of Mr Humphreys (he was free) that at one stage during his youth he did possess a muscle car, an American Pontiac Firebird with a 5.7 litre engine. I was impressed until I saw the colour which had rather too much pink in it for me.
I hear a story about a blonde who called her husband in the office to say that the windows at home had frozen. He told her to put hot water on them. She called up 5 minutes later and said the computer doesn’t work at all now. Another story that evolved last night was some revelations about the Naked Politician in Las Vegas some time ago. It seems that he lived up to his name, removing his clothes to sprint around a casino before being thrown out. His excuse was that his leaderhousen was chafing. No one has yet provided a convincing explanation as to why he was wearing leaderhousen in a casino in Vegas.
My picture today was taken yesterday morning on my daily walk along the Brague, the river that runs through Valbonne down to Biot and then into the sea.
The Brague, there is a riverside walk from Valbonne to Biot
There are two events scheduled for La Pomme Rouge Deli next week, Premier Mardi the mainly girls networking group on April 3rd and the Riviera Business Club networking breakfast on Thursday 5th. I shall be attending both as things stand at the moment, although I concede there must be some doubt about an 8am start for RBC, however at present it is my firm intention to get up in the middle of the night to support this worthy venture.
Chris France
No wind emissions from anus
With my Currencies Direct duties to the fore and royalty time approaching there was no way we were going to have a drink. With ten days in Havana where frankly rather too many daiquiris and mojitos had been consumed, followed by the English adventure of beer and removal fun interspersed with more beer, the decision had been made that we should have a couple of days without a drink. Tennis on Wednesday evening, whilst in itself represented no threat to this teetotal intention was followed inevitably by a few beers, but as we awoke yesterday the determination to have a day off was unshakeable. That was until that nice lady decorator tired of sunbathing and suggested lunch in Valbonne Square.
I resisted manfully for nearly a second whilst I wrestled with the competing arguments, for or against, but perhaps you will be surprised to hear that I decided to not to argue with her, so meekly went along with her decision.
Valbonne Square, and the Cafe Des Arcades was as busy as one would expect given the warm sunny weather and a nice log lunch was enjoyed before an adjournment to the web, our outdoor bar area for some quiet contemplation. All was proceeding splendidly and then a catastrophe occurred, Peachy Butterfield and entire family arrived at 6pm for mojitos. This was a bit of a shock for me because I had an appointment at just that moment with the charming chap who is overseeing our move over to mains drainage and has trashed large tranches of the garden as a result to review progress, indeed when I heard a car in the driveway I thought it was he. That nice lady decorator was also surprised but it transpires that she had, after several too many glasses of wine at lunchtime, texted them inviting them to join us for mojitos in the web, but was in the shower with no recollection of issuing such an invitation until she was shown her phone issuing exactly that invitation. They had been en route from St Tropez where they had lunched on what Peachy called “pizza and pichets” and had diverted, but all’s well that ends well, mojitos were mixed, then wine was drunk and the pav was subjected to its first serious summer evening bashing.
I do love being back in France and I derive much amusement from their ability to use eight words where two would suffice. Take “wealth tax” for example; in French this is called “un impot dans la security de la fortune”. I was amused by this sign outside La Source in Opio which I photographed earlier in the week. I presume it means “no farting”? Perhaps I should have something similar in place above our bed (on that nice lady decorators side of course).
A french sign forbidding farting? How can this be enforced?
Today is Friday so I may pop down to Cafe Latin for “church”, the Valbonne market day traditional worship of coffee, croissants and gossip. I am anxious for a full first hand account of Mr Humphreys (if he is free) recent trip to New York. I am already aware of some sniggering about his man bag and choice of shirts but I need to know more. Then the weekend aproaches. It has been an exhausting period and I need some rest but I have already detected signs that there will be a lunch on Sunday, not that a great deal of detective work is required as seldom a Sunday goes by without a luncheon, but as yet I have ben unable to ascertain the venue although I know it is not at ours, glory be.
Chris France
Tennis result shock
Tennis doubles can be so exacting, even on a beautiful sunny and warm spring evening at the rather deserted Vignale Tennis Club. The problems if they arise always lie with having to rely on one’s partner. Normally I would be entirely content that the colossus at the net, my usual tennis partner, the Wingco, one half of the MOGS, the Moustachiod Old Gits would have been there as an utterly dependable stooge who, with the benefit of my tireless running and mastery of the deep lob (as opposed to the half lob which apparently refers to something completely different) usually enables us to steer to victory.
With the Wingco unavailable, a new partnership needed to be forged. If I had cared to focus the warning signs were there immediately. Our leader and organiser dancing Greg Harris head honcho at Cote d’Azur Villa Rentals and a Currencies Direct affiliate, likes to win almost as much as I, and hates to lose almost as much as I as well. I should have known when there was clear collusion between dancing Greg and Blind drunk Lemon Milsted to play together, so to speak. An incomprehensible partner selection charade then took place to confirm that I was to be left with Nick Goult as my partner for the evening with whom I had not played before. It was a partnership destined to end in a quickie divorce. Nick was previously an unknown quantity to me (and in tennis terms I wished it had stayed that way) but clearly not to the others, and if I am frank, it is not a quantity with any quality. Fine architect he may be but he is as suited to tennis as well as I imagine Twiggy would be suited to weight lifting. His serving was an art form. Perfect little lobs, most of which hit the net ensured that each of his service games was lost, mainly to love and despite my courageous and athletic efforts the nominal result may have gone against us as a team whilst personally I triumphed. I have a picture today of another tennis playing entity whom I suspect may have contributed more on the court that my partner.
Anyone for tennis?
I did not make this point about this victory last night in La Source where we adjourned for a couple of beers afterwards as frankly I had not thought of it then, so had to endure some rather vulgar exhibitions of triumphalism from Dancing Greg and Blind Drunk Lemon. How can this be I hear you ask, how can I actually have won personally? Simple, we played two sets losing 6-4, 6-4, but as I was individually responsible for all 8 games we won out of the total of 20 played, on a pro-rata basis I won more games than anyone. I know this will be a bitter pill for my opponents to swallow but life can be harsh, although not that harsh now I am back in the benign embrace of the south of France.
Master Mariner Mundell sailed into view at La Source still claiming that he is personally responsible for 8% of world-wide sales of my book at the Premier Mardi event last month. He was very excited to discover that the next Premier Mardi event will be on April 3rd, again at La Pomme Rouge Deli in Valbonne when once again I shall be in attendance. I hope that those poor women who were strong armed into parting with 10 Euros for a copy of my book (or in one notable case 10 Euros for him to go away) will forgive me. He has been dismissed as my sales manager so you are safe.
Chris France
Cupcake lunacy
Taking time out from my activities with Currencies Direct I was on the way to the tip in my continuing role as white van man, the driver from hell, me, the guv, was listening to the delights of 3 Counties Radio, an audio offering from the BBC in Buckinghamshire. Once again I was piloting a large white van full of rubbish and “quality items for storage” before flying back to France last night. As is required by law when in charge of such a machine my language had degenerated into east end Wayne Brown speak which in normal circumstances I find utterly incomprehensible. It is amazing what powers you inherit when hiring a big white van. One can cut up other motorists with impunity, well, one does not notice the opprobrium directed at one as a result, previously unknown swear words appear and expel from one’s mouth without warning, one’s driving abilities are reduced to Neanderthal level, one’s middle finger takes on a life of its own and seems to be permanently erect and the ability to park badly in inappropriate places is honed to perfection. That reminds me, I must make a note to pay that parking ticket tomorrow.
Anyway, it was on the BBC, on the radio whilst I was driving about swearing, with my middle finger-pointing to the sky that I heard on the news a story about some poor girl for some unexplained reason being taken up the Ridgeway. The Ridgeway of course is a famous ancient track, now a footpath and bridleway that runs through the countryside of Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire, much loved by walkers or ramblers. Personally I have never been taken up the Ridgeway but hope it will come to pass at some stage.
The packing thing is not something with which I would normally be involved. Leaving England with as much of that aforementioned quality merchandise, on top of the genuinely exciting items purchased in Havana, such as my new Cohiba embossed humidor, I was faced with the unwelcome prospect of packing. That nice lady decorator normally takes care of all that irksome stuff, but even I was keenly aware that the vital purchase of this new humidor as a home for my cigar supply has had the effect of reducing luggage space for those normal things one normally packs in suitcases, like clothes. What does one do when one has insufficient room for one’s purchases and necessities? Get a bigger suitcase, therefore I sent that nice lady decorator out with exactly that in mind. My photograph today records the result.
Cupcake heaven
Don’t get me wrong, I like cupcakes. I am very partial to the cupcakes made both by Karen Krazycakes and Lucy from Red Radish, I just did not necessarily want my traveling valises to be adorned with them. An open and shut (suit)case proving that you cannot always have your cake and eat it.
We arrived a Heathrow terminal 5 at lunchtime whereupon that nice lady decorator told me she was going to treat me to a no expenses spared slap up lunch at the caviar and seafood bar in recognition of my white van heroics. No expense spared that is until I asked for a third glass of Sancerre.
As we boarded the plane we bumped into Valbonne resident Captain Custard as we have come to know my occasional tennis foe, BA captain John Coward, who was famously in the pilot’s seat when that Boeing 777 pancaked at Heathrow a few years back. He said he was on his way home, but I must admit I breathed a sigh of relief when our plane actually reached the runway at Nice Airport.
Chris France
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