Freedom to express ones self to be curtailed?
This may be the last time I am able to express freely my observations of the habits and foibles of that nice lady decorator, as she seems determined now to subscribe to this column. It is easily done if you are at all computer literate, as there is a subscribe button at the bottom of the page if you are seeing this from a desktop computer. Of course she is anything but computer literate, so there is still some hope that you will get unimpeded and uncensored reporting, as although she has many virtues, patience and awareness of how computer technology works are not amongst them. I blame the snitches amongst my readership for her proposed monitoring of my output, leaking selected and almost always out of context comments to her, for her sudden determination to find out what I am writing.
Talking of comments, I hear from my new dear beautiful Australian friend Carol (aka Cathie) who claims to be sharpening her pencil for my forthcoming nude modelling assignment. It is very good to see some Australians immersing themselves in culture, as for most of their race, culture is only found on the top of out of date yoghurt. Please feel free to add your comments below, as I am sure she will.
Back to that nice lady decorator. She has expressed an interest (admittedly after a few drinks) to join Marina Kulick’s painting classes near Valbonne. I had to point out to her that she did a lot of painting as part of her decorating duties, and our house could do with being painted, but it seems this is a different kind of painting. Marina asked if the reason was that she wanted the opportunity to study my naked form, but the snort of derision was accompanied by the assertion that she could see that at any time, it was not a sight to behold, and she certainly did not consider it worth paying for. I know she doesn’t mean it.
After guiding the mighty English cricket team destroy the world’s number one test playing nation, India, to take their place at the top of the world rankings in their place, followed by a nightmare and failed trip to Carrefour to try to locate some Pimms for my daughters birthday,I felt I deserved an evening sun downer and so it came to pass.
When eating in restaurants, it is one of my requirements that the waiter iron the tablecloths before seating me, and my picture today pays testament to the quiet care and attention to which I am accustomed in France. Can you imagine this happening at Macdonalds?
The new I-ron ensuring a comfortable table for lunch.
By the time you read this I will probably be on the golf course at The Grande Bastide being baked in the sun for the REGS golf tournament, where I see I am drawn to play with the luscious Maria Carr. I usually receive a complaint from Lin at the English Book centre in Valbonne if I describe girls as well endowed, so well stacked or voluminous in the chest department will have to suffice. I am expecting to see my resident self-confessed sheep loving friend Steve Weston for then first time in ages, and am expecting to be able to collect some gossip or innuendo to fill this column in the coming days. However, obviously my main reason for attending is to ensure that my existing Currencies Direct customers remain delighted with the service and to mop up one or two other clients who have so far managed to avoid my tender mercies.
Chris France
Shrek lives!
That nice lady decorator has a way with words, and it is not normally a nice way. As I sat in bed last night with my feet sticking out from beneath the sheets, she drew attention to my bunyans, the very slightly misshapen area by the joint of the big toe, and ventured the opinion that my feet looked like they belonged to Shrek. Having started, she decided to carry on and go the whole hog, telling me that the older I get the more I remind her of Shrek himself. Of course I agreed that he has a lovable nature and perhaps that was what she was alluding to? Given her reaction I am far from certain that I am correct.
Many of you will be aware of the expression “stir crazy”. It refers to when one is imprisoned and desperate to get out of whatever place you are stuck in, which has its origins from people being in prison. So that nice lady decorators announcement that she was stir crazy, having spent two whole evenings at home, drinking wine in the pav, was an exaggeration to say the least.
She insisted on visiting the wine bar in Valbonne, La Kavanou, and then further insisted on drinking Sancerre by the glass. One glass would have been fine, but I suspect regular readers will know that one glass is never sufficient for her needs. As we walked in we were greeted by Jeroen of Riviera Home Finders, and his beautiful and artistic partner, the teacher of art herself, Marina Kulik. Their presence made it impossible to avoid the subject of my potential as a male nude model. Luckily, discussion did not last that long, and was truncated somewhat when she got on to the subject of Franck, her regular model with a distinctly gay look on life. It seems that the most important attribute for a nude model is to remain motionless for two hours at a time. I think I would find that difficult at the best of times, but naked, and in close proximity to gay Franck? As Fagin said “I think I better think it out again”.
The good thing about Terrence the Tractor, my new toy for mowing the lawn, is that apart from saving me a great deal of graft, he scares Banjo. Not just because I often swerve off course at full speed towards him; he often barks at Terrance even when he is stationary. My picture today is of Terrance with the mangy mutt banjo on the left and the proper dog Max on the right, but only after I had switched off the engine, as Banjo would not ever been in the same camera shot if Terrance was running.
Banjo, look behind you...
So after a busy week, the weekend and a couple of days of rest, no, three days as Monday is a bank holiday in France. I shall do my best to rest after a frenetic week of playing golf and socialising in my role as Regional Coordinator for Currencies Direct, just one of the many roles vital roles I have in my working life. There is one codicil to this, I will have to break off from relaxation on Sunday to play in the REGS (the Riviera Ex Pats golf Society) golf tournament at the Grande Bastide on Sunday. At Lords last month a met a senior commercial executive from golf makers Taylor Made, a well-known golf marque owned by Adidas, and I think I talked him into sponsoring a REGS event later in the year, so yes, once again golf equals work.
Chris France
Lost on the golf course
How do you manage to get lost on a golf course? a nine-hole gold course at that. Yesterday at the monthly golf meeting of the International Club Of The Riviera, the second group took three and half hours to arrive back, exhausted at the clubhouse. I knew when I saw them crossing the fourth after three hours that they were lost, so we ordered some more beers and awaited their arrival for lunch.
Amongst the happy throng was a chap called Brian, whose orange shirt matched his complexion after a hot mornings golf. Another character who I had only met once before is Derek the lawyer. He was gleefully telling us that his old office in Broadwater farm in Tottenham had been burned down in the riots over the last few days, and even more gleefully remembering the riots in the 1980’s which he claims bought him his first yacht. It seems a large number of the local residents required representation under the legal aid rules after being charged with various offences. This means us tax payers funded his comfortable retirement. Talk is indeed cheap except when talking to you lawyer. Of course when talk, it is for free and I had a captive audience for my homily on the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct, thereby ensuring that I shall be submitting the bill for lunch to my accountants for the usual argument as to what is allowable as a bona fide business expense.
At least yesterday, all the intended golfers arrived on time at the correct golf course, from where my picture emanates today, a feat that appears to be beyond the wingco who on Monday called excitedly from the first tee at the Grande Bastide Golf Course to say that he was on time (a first in its own right), and where were we , only to discover the other three of us were on the tee at Opio Valbonne, Chateau Begude, the correct venue. I suppose the good news is that he did not get lost on the course, although he lost his way a little in the restaurant as we all did after that epic lunch.
View from the tee of the 6th hole at La Provencal. In the distance, you may be able to make out 4 lost golfers. those following this in the UK, please note the colour of the sky. It is called blue.
I have been ripped off. We decided to buy some new tyres for Bluebell as her old ones were cracking up a bit, which would be a fair description of its owner. we decided on white wall tyres and were excitedly looking forward to their arrival. However, the white on the wall is less than an inch wide. The tyres could be best described as white line tyres, so lets hope they add a bit of speed to the old girls performance, and I don’t mean that nice lady decorator.
Today, it will be a gradual wind down towards the weekend. It has been a busy week, two rounds of golf and two lunches, so barely a moment to myself. With various friends threatening to arrive tomorrow and over the weekend, I may find I am drawn into a little social drinking in the sunshine.
I hear from Marina Kulik about my potential nude male modelling assignment. I am distressed to hear that she would like me to interact with Franck the “professional” nude model. what kind of interaction is not clear, but I admit to a schism of unease.
Chris France
Beating with a frying pan?
It was apparently a beautiful day yesterday but I did not notice. As one gets older recovery time seems to take longer, and after Mondays epic lunch, I have been in full recovery mode, slumped on the sofa watching the test match. I spoke to Rupert Scott briefly, just to ask him when he was going back to the UK because I cannot take any more. I did venture out once, to retrieve our golf clubs which were still on the terrace of the Chateau Begude golf club restaurant.
Today’s picture was taken at the golf before that lunch, looking down towards the 6th hole, with the wingco doing his very best to ruin the shot. At least when playing he did not lose his head, as has happened to two occasions in the past when I have been playing golf with him, both the heads of the 5 iron and 7 iron departing the shafts in spectacular fashion and at least one occasion menacing other golfers.
The wingco demonstrates his more intelligent look, whilst sporting a very old-fashioned golf set
Today it is my duty once again to play golf, this time with The International Club of the Riviera, this time at the Provencal, followed, almost inevitably by lunch at the same venue. This is not for pleasure, but is part of my work requirement for Currencies Direct.
So far, I have not received the call with the date of my nude modelling assignment with Marina Kulik. I wanted to ask her about naked spooning or even naked forking, both subjects that have been the subject of some discussion recently in this column. I wanted to know where I could buy one of each, as I want to ensure I am properly equipped when the time comes. That nice lady decorator feels certain that I will embarrass myself with uncontrollable male member movements (if you get my meaning) during the sitting and if there are attractive women eyeing me up carefully, she may have a point, so I suggested that before the actual event, perhaps there was a kind service she could carry out for me, but the snort of derision that emanated from her suggested that this was not going to be a “happy ending” in quite the way I had hoped, so perhaps I should be prepared to make my own arrangements, as it were.
The Reverend Jeff, a regular reader of this column and a very old friend, is holidaying in the area, and has threatened to allow me to thrash him at golf and tennis again however, he has failed to call me and I think he is running scared. He once told me he could beat me with a frying pan, which, if this is any sort of reflection on his sexual proclivities, may give you reason to understand why I call him the Reverend. That, and he is a determined god botherer. He claims that his frying pan comment was referring to tennis, but I still have my doubts, and given his very un-Christian treatment of a number of young girls in our youth, he must still be going to confession or self flagellation classes, or whatever is his way of atoning for his sins, as they were manifold.
As usual, when you own a house the fabulous south of France, you find that during the summer months you have a number of friends who seem to be in the area. You hear not a word from them when the weather is cold, but as soon as the swimming pool comes back into use, suddenly there is a massive and constant influx of people who mysteriously remember your invitation to visit. the influx has begun and will continue until late August…
Chris France
Middle aged spread – the band
What has been very enlightening, and rewarding is the number of people who were interested in exactly when I was likely to be the nude male model in Marina Kulik’s painting class. I am surprised and delighted at the number of girls who were very keen to come and see me in all my glory, but that there were two males who have allegedly been enquiring I have to say was less well received, however I will not mention names, but John O Sullivan and Mr Humpheys (if he is free) may be reading this and feeling a little uncomfortable at the moment.
So 9 holes of golf yesterday morning was followed by lunch, as night follows day in these parts. That nice lady decorator was as usual magnificent off the tee, striking the ball some 180 yards on occasions, but the niceties of chipping and putting, requiring the more subtle touch leave her cold, a theme that runs through other activities in which she is sometimes involved.
How can a quiet lunch at the golf course last until 8pm? After winning by the 5th of the 9 holes, I managed to get trapped into a double or quits bet and failed to take the money, which meant my compatriots were not treated to the customary wearing of bank notes on the forehead in the traditional and triumphant manner for which I am justly loathed. That nice lady decorator had earlier dug out her golf bag and I am not saying she has not played in a long while, but the holes chewed by mice tell their own story, as my picture today shows.
Most of that nice lady decorators golf bag
My headache this morning is of biblical proportions, and all the jobs I needed to get done yesterday will have to wait until today (sorry Ken Poodle) and those lucky people waiting to discover the merits of Currencies Direct will have to wait a little longer. It was so bad that I thought I might call The Samaritans, but I heard that they have moved all their call centres to Pakistan. Nowadays if you tell them you are feeling suicidal, they get quite excited and ask if you can drive a truck.
The excitement was caused I think by the idea of putting the band back together. A couple of years ago I guided a motley collection of middle-aged rockers, who should know better, into a number of rehearsals, and even threatened to play a gig before it all collapsed in a heap. If I remember correctly the reason for the split was “musical indifference”. Anyway, time heals and with the discovery Jereon Zaat, of Riviera Home Finders, he with the rock n roll name and appearance, is actually an accomplished harp player and also knows a bassist, a gathering took place at lunch with original band members Rupert Scott and the wingco where outlandish plans were discussed, becoming ever more outlandish as more and more bottles of wine came to the table.
There was some confusion at the outset as Rupert, the vocalist (I cannot in all honesty call his croaking, gravelly, narrow range vocal delivery singing) was far from convinced that a harp player would fit into the blues and rock n roll song list he had in mind, but when he it was pointed out that he played harmonica and that a harp player is rock slang for a harmonica player, he seemed to relax.
Obviously a name for the band is very important and several were mooted, some very funny but which I cannot remember, but I do recall one suggestion “Middle Aged Spread”.
Chris France
Nude model shock
For a few short minutes, I thought I had managed to get myself invited to a girls Friday night drinks club up at Chateauneuf, but Carol, the organiser asked the deadly question; am I a boy or a girl. Having the name Chris can be nicely androgynous at times, but I have been found out, so o girls party for me.
Monday is traditionally hangover day and yesterday was no exception. The best antidote if one cannot face a bloody Mary or a greasy breakfast, is a swift walk along The Brague, made stiffer by that nice lady decorator being determined to explore a deep gorge hitherto unknown to man, well certainly this man, from where, severely lacerated by brambles, I took this picture.
The Brague, but the other side of the stream. John O Sullivan will know of this concept
But back to Sunday. After John O Sullivan’s revelations of his apparent attraction to the gay community, and his graphic practical examples illustrating why he had come to that conclusion, I am happy to be able to report on a more heterosexual theme, involving myself.
It was to the surprise of everyone except myself that I have been cultivated to be a nude male model. Also present at Roly and Lesley’s barbecue was Marina Kulik, whom I had not met before but runs painting courses, teaching people how to paint, from that weird little building behind the Vignale tennis club. If you have ever seen the wooden aeroplane which has been built outside you will know where I mean. I have always known that I have the body of a god, although that nice lady decorator complains that the god is Buddha, but a few manly curves in the right places is usually enough to send most pulses racing. However, praise of this nature was tempered by her comments on what was expected. Apparently, the more wrinkly and the less well-formed the body, the more interesting it is to paint, so her fulsome encouragement that I would make an excellent subject was a double-edged sword, a metaphorical slap in the face. Now talking of swords, I had to warn her that certain of my physical attributes are out of scale with the rest of my body, but she said it didn’t matter how small it was, it would still be interesting study for her painting class. I don’t think she quite understood what I meant.
Her consort, the impossibly handsome rock n roll estate agent Jeroen Zatt (he ever has a rock n roll name) head honcho of Riviera Home Finders was also there, complaining bitterly that I never invite him to La Kavanou, the wine bar in Valbonne. He is wrong, I always invite him, but on nights when I am not going to be there. Of course I am joking, and yes I promise to call the next time I will be there.
Today, despite avoiding calls from one Rupert Scott all morning, he finally caught me and I am now committed to play golf and have lunch at Chateau Begude tomorrow. Joining us, although almost certainly late, will be the wingco, and also I have been informed, by that nice lady decorator. She was not invited you see, but took it upon herself to extend herself an invitation, which she accepted without recourse to us chaps.
This will almost certainly end in tears and recriminations, and I shall be blamed for all of that and more. Before all that kicks off, I shall just make small mention of Currencies Direct and their wonderful services, but not too much mention, just enough to be effective.
Chris France
Golf lessons and a broomstick
The Bufton barbecue was a resounding success. Roly’s marinated butterfly lamb was sensational, as was the content of the conversation, which, although rather polite at the outset, gradually descended to the normal dank depths of innuendo and gossip palpably appreciated by readers of this column.
First in the line of fire, even although he was not invited, or if he was, did not appear, was our resident magistrate, the man without visible means; Mr Humphreys. Had he been there, I am sure he would have been free. The trigger for his involvement in the discussion was sartorial style. I ventured the opinion that he was my style guru, and was prepared to defend that assertion to the hilt. Anyway, after the laughter had died down, I was asked if I had thought about the concept, “does he dress himself?” Now he is a grown man, so I am certain that he does, but the females amongst us were of the firm opinion that actually he was dressed (literally)by his wife, the delectable and artistic local painter Helen Humphrey.
The suggestion was that he could not even do up his shoelaces, but I suspect that is a terrible untruth. Suffice to say there was a good deal of discussion about mauve, purple and other colours in the same spectrum, all beloved by our friendly neighbourhood J. P.
Included in the guests invited was the wonderfully well endowed (sorry Lin) Jude O Sullivan who claimed that she loved things that were tasteless. I am sure that is true, and I am sure also that she loves her husband, John, indeed she was toasting from here secret stash of Baileys kept in her handbag.
John, who was full of his usual vitriol about the English (800 years of repressing the Irish, etc etc) then began rambling on about how gay men always seemed to find him attractive. When asked to provide an example, he cited a recent golf lesson (John, forget it, it’s too little too late) where the gay professional told him he was gripping his club too tight, an obvious jumping off point for some rather basic and lurid comments, mainly from the girls it should be said. It seems that Johns “admirer” wanted to show him exactly how to grip the club, and there was some rather lingering touching going on, and a very touching moment of gazing into each others eyes, followed by the expert standing very close behind him demonstrating to him precisely how it should be gripped. I suggested that after ten minutes in such a position, perhaps he should have tried to break free? Perhaps John was secretly enjoying the broomstick sensation from behind?
With my phone camera again letting me down, my picture today was taken the day before from the train into Cannes for lunch.
La Bocca beach from the train
Eventually that nice lady decorator tired to the point of sleeping and then snoring ever so gently at the table, having hoovered up as much white wine as her tiny frame can hold, and so I had to break off from a detailed explanation of the mechanics of the benefits of opening an account with Currencies Direct and take her home.
Monday is traditionally recovery day and I fully intend to use it wisely, and at least part of the day will be spent in the recovery position, which in my house means the hammock will see some usage.
There is talk to golf on Tuesday, and if it takes place then I do hope I will not have to restrain Rupert Scott from attacking fellow players with a 5 iron as so nearly happened last year.
Chris France
Odour eater failure
For weeks there has been a nasty smell in the hallway where the dogs sleep. Naturally I blame the heinous hound Banjo because he is always to blame, he is the smelliest dog in Christendom. For the last week I have been trying to feed him odour eaters but he has, as usual, been entirely uncooperative. I tried hiding them in slices of ham, chopping them up with his food, but he is clever, evil and clever, so far he has not eaten a single piece. The worst thing about it is that he has managed to transfer the smell into my tennis shoes. That nice lady decorator had the audacity to suggest that perhaps it is my tennis shoes which have been stinking out the hall, and that odour eaters might be best applied to them, but she is being stupid, how on earth would tennis shoes eat odour eaters?
Another stiff walk in the beautiful Valmasque forest was required yesterday morning to continue to counter the effects of all that northern food I was forced to consume last week, and to set up a thirst and an appetite for lunch on the beach at Cannes. This time of year it is pointless to take the car because parking is a nightmare, so we take the train, which gets from nearby Mouans Sartoux to Cannes centre in 17 minutes.
We lunched at Plage des Festivals in Cannes which was excellent and surprisingly not that busy for a weekend in August. I had planned to take a picture but the technicalities of taking a picture on my phone and storing it to place in this column seem to have eluded me, at least yesterday, and as the weather was slightly disappointing I have used a photo taken at the Poisson Rouge in Port Vendres on the French/Spanish border on our recent camping trip.
The Red Fish at Port Vendres
I managed to steer that nice lady decorator away from her customary requirement for a pint of Guinness on the way back to the station, which is something of a first, and was looking forward to a siesta, but one phone call destroyed that idea. The call was from Rupert Scott, and before I knew it I was hearing that familiar refrain “Is the pav open?”. This is fairly simple code for can I come round for a drink. It is not as if we have any choice because usually the call is made from his car parked outside our gates, so pretending we are not at home was not an option. Suffice to say that when I went to bed at midnight, there was a scene of utter carnage in the web and the pav. This was not entirely Rupert’s fault, although I dud say I thought the vodka was a bad idea, but was compounded by the arrival of at least a dozen teenagers who thought there was a party going on, and they were right.
It turns out that they were friends of my children, en route to somewhere else, so they only stayed long enough to empty my drinks fridge like a horde of locusts. I attempted to use this opportunity to explain to them the value of opening an account to trade foreign exchange with Currencies Direct, but I fear most of this missionary zeal fell on stony ground.
Today, although in desperate need of a rest we are invited to a barbecue in nearby Plascassier, where no doubt once again we will be forced to take strong drink. This is of course against my better judgement but hey ho..
Chris France
If the future is orange, I am a banana
One of my least favourite expeditions is to change mobile phones. It does not matter whether you are in UK or in France , it is always a terrible rigmarole, and such was my fate yesterday morning as I had to spend what seemed like most of the summer at the Orange shop. It was a triple whammy as both children’s phones developed faults within a day of each other and mine stopped texting, possible in sympathy with the French summer holidays, which start in earnest tomorrow thus denying me a full gamut of technological marvels with which to promote the services of Currencies Direct. Thus duty called
A visit to an Orange shop used to be a treat when I was a kid, loads of nice coloured fruit to choose from and a couple of minutes later the job was done. No such luck nowadays, in fact over an hour was spent remonstrating with various orange people with limited satisfaction. Thereafter, a light lunch at home and a swing in the hammock in the sunshine, not resting you understand, but planning.
Earlier, due to the massive swelling that seems to have occurred around my stomach after my recent trip to England for bad stodgy food, and thus the need for rigourous exercise, we partook of a stiff march up and down the hills of the Valmasque forest and along the Brague river where I took this photo.
A bridge across the river Bruguet, a tributary of the Brague
The swelling stomach syndrome began when I was in the north of England with Peachy Butterfield last week. He has developed this syndrome to a far greater extent that I would dare, and he also looks a bit orange as well now I come to think of it. My regular diatribes against life in the north have polarised opinion. There are those that agree with me that polarised is exactly the right adjective to describe this northern hell and the sub polar temperatures that we endured in mid summer, and the ubiquitous tundra, and with little option but to eat and drink to keep out the cold, Peachy has taken to this like, well I was doing to use the metaphor “like a duck to water”, but its more like a pig to its sty (in the nicest possible way). After that tumultuous put down, I suppose I am duty bound to plug his new Facebook and internet phenomenon; Dreembox. It is a website where you can let people know what you might like as a gift, and can be very useful when it comes to birthdays and the like when you have no idea what to get someone. Just search Dreembox on Facebook, or click on the link above, it’s a really good idea.
It was Friday night, and I did not think it would be possible for that nice lady decorator to stay in another night, and so it came to pass. So the quiet evening in turned into drinks at the Menthe Deuce, more drinks at La Kavanou, the wine bar in Valbonne and then an Indian at The Kashmir next door, so not very quiet then. I was uncertain if eating Indian food outside on a warm evening would work, as normally its the kind of meal you seek when its a bit cold, but I can report that it worked well. The plan had been to take it a bit easy before going into to Cannes today to have lunch on the beach, but once that nice lady decorator has started, she has to finish, so I left her in the web clutching a glass of wine at midnight when the more sensible of us headed to bed.
Chris France
Garden forking
Garden forking. That is the new theme for today following on from naked spooning and naked forking, which have featured rather too much over the past few days. I would have loved to do some garden forking, but the bad back that I predicted yesterday when faced with the dire possibility of doing some digging arrived with a vengeance, just as I had planned, suspected. That nice lady decorator decided she wanted to fatten up one of our hedges by adding a few (try 25) Laurier roses to it. The mere thought of digging in the hard stone infested soil in the summer heat was enough for my back to start playing up the day before and luckily my son wanted to go out last night and was desperate for money, so the perfect storm, he did the digging and that nice lady decorator paid. At first I naively thought that he just wanted to help out his dear old dad, but I quickly realised that he has that finely honed France mercenary streak, and was thus only in it for the money. I do like to see that he is a chip off the old block.
Of course with my work for Currencies Direct, I am only in it for the money, actually that’s not true, now I think of it I am only in it for the money.
The night before last I took this picture post sunset from my bedroom window. It reminded me of the sunsets we experienced when we were up north last week, the only differences being that there it was twenty degrees colder, sleeting and cloudy so you could not see the suns rays. so almost the same then.
Note the colour of the sky, also note the colour that nice lady decorator has chosen for our bedroom
Last night, well yesterday afternoon, I once again resisted the temptation to allow more than a beer-a- clock cold one to touch my lips, at least until 4pm, and then it did not touch my lips, I glugged it down. The reason?,a visit from our friendly neighbourhood naked forker Debs Frost. No seriously, a quiet week was the decision made, and after the full on party lifestyle of the past few weeks, it seemed a sensible one but it is so difficult not to open the fridge and blow the froth off a couple of beers when faced with a visit from the naked forker herself and a beautiful sunset in Provence.
The weekend is approaching, and as of this moment I know of only one social occasion, a barbecue on Sunday and I am perturbed. It is high summer and usually there is a full on social diary, or perhaps I have not yet been told? Perhaps the presence of the circus in Valbonne makes everyone nervous of leaving home for fear of being robbed, but they rob you enough if you actually go, as they are charging some 35 Euros a ticket, nearly £30 at today’s exchange rates and for that they take up all the parking in the village.
I hear from John O Sullivan, chuntering on about that fine Englishman Manu Tuilagi being picked for the English rugby team against Wales this weekend. He seems to imply that Manu is something less than a died in the wool Englishman, which is clearly preposterous as I am certain one of his ancestors must have some connection somewhere with England. John is clearly chagrined that Ireland have never won a world cup at either rugby, football or cricket as of course England have. I also had the good fortune to be able to tell him recently that the much vaunted Irish writer James Joyce held an English passport for his entire life and actually refused the offer of an Irish one.
Chris France
The forking debate
The forking debate continues unabated. Since my introduction to naked spooning and then naked forking, I have been receiving a number of emails and messages, some absolutely unrepeatable for a family column such as this. I must thank one of my friends who shall remain nameless who made reference to the classic Ronnie Barker sketch concerning four candles (or was it fork handles ?). I have learned a great deal about the assimilation of hitherto innocent kitchen utensils into that murky world beyond the bedroom doors, and frankly I think I must have led a sheltered life, that, or I have missed out on a great deal since puberty. I will have to leave this subject now, but a passing mention must be made for the humble whisk. I would never have thought of doing that with it.
Yesterday, I promised a picture of the Menthe Deuce in Mougins and so this is today’s photo. We did not eat there but have several recommendations from friends who have, not to do so again. Notably a comment from man mountain Peachy “I will eat anything even kitchen utensils” Butterfield who in the northern vernacular for which he is justly renowned described the food as “shite”. Nobody should be under any illusions, we are talking about a man here who likes tripe, has lard on his toast, black pudding and Mancunian Merlot, loves raw pigeons for breakfast, and loves them so much he even went to the extent of showing me his pigeon feeding area,
The Menthe Deuce in Mougins
Back to work then, so with a clear conscience I can mention Currencies Direct and how we can help people now that my vacation is over and my self-imposed moratorium of mentioning their services is as an end, but I do not want to labour the point. That nice lady decorator has developed a thing about banana palms. She has seen then growing in Valbonne and wants one. I pointed out that we have a perfectly serviceable plastic one, which despite a bit of mildew due to over zealous watering by Janie Savin the house guest last year, looks very presentable. I should have know that with such a comment that laser beam stare was brought to bear, and I quickly changed my mind and agreed that a banana palm, or even several were just what we wanted. Thus we trekked around some garden centres, with my attempts to look interested wearing a bit thin, and I suspect tomorrow we shall reap the benefit of today’s research and buy some. Planting these little babies is not something I am looking forward to, so in preparation I “developed” a sore back today and I am almost certain it will deteriorate overnight and remain sore until after my son has dug the holes and planted the little, or rather big blighters. It will be my son, as he was not privy to the news that banana palms and the planting thereof were a possibility, and anyway he is young an does not have the cunning, I mean the bad back that I do.
The agreed alcohol famine lasted until well after seven o clock last night, but with the sun out, a days work under my belt (not to mention about three kilos extra I collected and ingested in the north of England and am wearing around my midriff), it seemed fitting and right to enjoy a beer at beer o clock. with a quiet week head, at least as far as I have been told, a couple of beers can’t do much harm, can they?
Chris France
500th blog
Milestones are coming thick and fast, the 500th column today and over 30,000 visitors to this site in total. Talking of thick and fast, I think that could be an apt description of this blog, written fast by someone who is a bit thick.
Some reaction, mostly on Facebook, to my piece about naked spooning yesterday. The mother of the child involved in revealing details of this mystifying activity, the wife of Charles the spy- whose phone number goes some way to confirming his work as it ends in 007 as I discovered yesterday- is the subject of my picture today. This seems to be the best way to read a menu. She has often been accused of seeing things through rose-coloured spectacles, and the rose in this case is the wine not the plant. i think she knows the difference but cannot be sure.
It's all a rose-tinted haze, especially when you have two pairs of glasses on
I hear from Debs Frost that she prefers “naked forking” rather than naked spooning, neither expressions of which I had previously been aware and I am afraid this is now a slippery slope; I fear the debate is about to descend to the usual Stygian depths of innuendo and smut regularly associated with this column. So to get in first what type of activity could be associated with naked corkscrewing? How would one enjoy a naked garlic crush? and where would a naked salad spinner fit in? Naked pestle and mortar? Questions, questions, but I want answers. You can always reply below with any thoughts or suggestions. In fact if you enjoy this daily skewed look at the life of the idle rich of Valbonne you could always subscribe, there is a subscribe button down below, you would be surprised at the number of fine upstanding members of the community have subscribed already, but if you have subscribed, do not worry, your guilty secret is safe with me.
So the dust settled, and I was looking forward to an alcohol free, nose to the grindstone working week until Sunday when we are invited to a barbecue in Valbonne. However, what I am looking forward to and what actually happens may be two very different animals, as that nice lady decorator does not do “leisure” or “relaxing” very well, hence my fingers were crossed without much expectation. And so it came to pass, by early evening, I had turned down two requests to join her in a sun-downer, but when I agreed to take my daughter to Mougins, she decided to come along and I knew she was angling to stop for a beer on the way home, and so it came to pass.
We stopped off at Le Menthe Deuce in Mougins, which as looked a rather unprepossessing establishment from the outside but the interior outdoor area was a revelation as my picture tomorrow will show. Moroccan feel, great swathes of Moroccan chic on the outside, a wonderful environment. It’s such a pity that I don’t get Moroccan food because the place was so nice that I would have stayed for dinner if I had found anything on the menu that I liked, frankly tajines and couscous leave me cold, and after the hardships of eating all the northern fayre in the last week or so, I am afraid I need something to eat that is a; nice, b; does not clog my veins with cholesterol and fat
So today, more work catching upon my commitments to Currencies Direct, which I can now mention with impunity, now that I am back ar work. I have not mentioned them for three whole weeks, so if you are thinking if transferring currency shortly and want a great deal, click here
Chris France
Naked spooning?
Winning at golf is important, and winning 10 euros at the same time is also rewarding. It is a feeling that I know well, but for Charles the spy, our current house guest, it is something he has not experienced in the recent past unlike my good self. Modesty forbids me revealing the scale of the victory, or indeed formally identifying the winner but I think there are sufficient clues for the more intuitive amongst you to work it out. In fact the very mention of a result should be sufficient for most regular readers to know who won.
So after a very successful morning, where it was technically not required to play the last 3 holes (a clue to the scale of the possible defeat suffered by a house guest?), lunch was taken at Chateau Begude, and very good it was too, with the mignons de porc receiving much praise and my “loup entire” also of top quality.
Could you call a drink in Valbonne after lunch a lunch cap? Or maybe a lunch box? If so, then we had a lunch cap or box before our guests retired to the pool and I retired to watch a dominant England destroy India in the 2nd test at Nottingham’s Trent Bridge on Sky TV.
So today I will recommence my commercial work for Currencies Direct, which partly involves rescuing people from their banks when making foreign exchange transfers. As I have been on vacation until today I have not mentioned them at all recently, but as of today this may change.
My picture today is the final one from my trip up north last week. It is once again from a pub called, it seems The Marlbororough. Yes, that is the spelling used. It seems the sign writer went to lunch half way through making the sign and when he returned he forgot about the last two letters he had made before lunch. Perhaps he had lunched well in that very pub?
The sign writers worst nightmare, The Marlbororough pub in Chester
After a very brief siesta, out guests expressed the urge to visit the picturesque square at the centre of Valbonne’s charm, but it was teeming with tourists and so after a brief look, the younger element headed for a snifter at The Queens Legs whilst the older contingent settled on a couple of bottle of something refreshing at La Kavanou, the wine bar in Valbonne. It may be possible that my readers want to know whether I was in the younger contingent, but I confess I felt it was my duty to guide the older folk to the wine bar.
That nice lady decorator had decided to cook. I had pre knowledge of this and had stocked upon crisps and nibbles in expectation, but surprisingly, she had done quite well, and had held off from putting absurd amounts of chilli in everything thereby rendering it inedible. I suspect that she had run out of chillies, so for me it was a merciful release, and for my blissfully ignorant guests, a lucky escape.
Over dinner, of the themes discussed, I have some notes about a practice called “naked spooning”. I had not previously heard this expression and it conjured up a number of rather alarming images. It was young, beautiful and perfectly proportioned Kate, daughter of Charley the spy who first uttered this expression, accusing her travelling companion, the lovely Amy (known as Cogs for some strange reason) of this deed. If I had more space today, I would have discussed this activity in more detail; for instance, where do cogs ft into this and what exactly are the mechanics? Thankfully 600 words is up, so maybe tomorrow?
Chris France
Painting, and decorating
Clearly, after a summer of usage , well three weeks, of all the garden equipment by rental clients, it is important to check rigorously to ensure that everything is in working order. Yesterday morning I decided to give the hammock a full work out and I am pleased to report that despite a few marks, it is operating well, quite up to expectations.
Today, after an early round of golf and I fully expect, the collection of 10 Euros from Charles the spy, followed by lunch at Chateau Begude, I have singled out some of the pool loungers for special attention. I was going to return to work, promoting the services of Currencies Direct, but the sudden arrival of friends on their way to a holiday in France has delayed my return to work for a day, so I will not be mentioning their wonderful services until Tuesday at the earliest.
I still have a few photographs from our trip to the north of England and I show one of them today. It is off a pub called Off The Wall, where one of the letters has fallen off the wall, as if in silent illustration of its name.
This must be a very off the wall pub. Note the up to the minute northern architecture
So back into Valbonne life and I have an email from Mr Humphreys, who is free, as he usually is, having eschewed gainful employment, and enjoying his stature as a magistrate (although how he manages to ply his “trade” whilst living in France is a bit of a mystery). He tells me that his gorgeous wife Helen has a new exhibition of her paintings in Valbonne. Some of her pictures can be seen in advance on her website.
It seems that we have something in common, Mr Humphreys and I; we have both sent our respective partners back to work to try to keep us in the manner to which we would like to become accustomed with painting as a theme. In my case I have added “and decorating” to that nice lady decorators title.
Last night after the arrival of Charles the spy and his entourage, it was necessary to check out if the web and the pav had suffered any ill effects, and to check that the rose wine had not deteriorated or changed character whilst we had been away.
Charles the spy, and his delectable wife Lizzy duly descended upon us at around 5pm and were immediately enticed into a glass of rose. Accompanied as they were by teenage children, who made an immediate bond with our teenage children, together, fuelled by copious amounts of rose, they took to the pool, which seemed to give them an extra thirst. This of course had to be satisfied, to the extent that my entire stock of rose, some 20 bottles, were no longer in existence by midnight, by which time that occasional darkening of mood so renowned in that nice lady decorator was in full evidence. Thus I retired to bed before the darkening became too pronounced.
It is essential that I am on top form today to ensure I collect the 10 euros from Charles the spy, so-called because no one understands what he does and the explanations are so boring that they seem designed to ensure that no one ever asks a question, thus it is fairly certain that he is a spy. We will be playing at Chateau Begude and I have spent last evening trying to persuade Charles to take a driver with him. He is so aristocratic, he thought I meant a chauffeur.
Chris France
Thunderboxes found in the north
The bad news about being home in France is the return from prison of Banjo, the worst dog ever born, who has somehow been given solace in our family unit. against my better judgement, no, my express wishes. He had been in prison for three weeks since we left Valbonne, and I had thoroughly enjoyed his absence and he seemed to know that. He announced his return to the house with a slimy deposit within two metres of my hammock, within twenty minutes of his arrival back on parole. For me it was a clear breach of the terms of his parole so I was all for sending him back to prison, and throwing away the key, but that nice lady decorator did not concur.
Today, as if we had not had enough sociliasing,some renegades from eastern England are about to descend upon us for a couple of days en route to their holiday home in Castelnou, where we once had a holiday home of our own before moving to France permanently, to drink my rose and in the case of Charles, give me 10 euros on the golf course on Monday. I have asked him over the years what he does but the answer is so utterly boring and incomprehensible that I am certain he is a spy, but then after Tuesday, nothing, what bliss!
Having to get up at 4.45am in order to escape from the frozen north of England yesterday morning, and this after being Peachied again at a dinner party the night before, it is fair to say that I was not at my best yesterday, so the hammock looked a good bet until the manic mutt decided to do his best to spoil it.
I had just begun to remember and reminisce about some of the lowlights of my trip up north and there are so many. One that was especially rewarding surrounded technology in the toilet. To pick up the theme of the hygienic improvements that I spotted over the last few days, I have noticed whilst communing with these salt of the earth but primitive people, a distinct move forward in the toilet department. Instead of the hole in the ground technology widely employed elsewhere in the north, I came across an example of a mechanical device being employed which has dragged at least one household into the 19th century and feature it as my picture today.
Remarkable move forward in technology up north
Of course, us who lived in the south have had sensible toilet facilities for the last century consider these items to be antiques as these kind of mechanisms will have been replaced in the last hundred years or so with modern facilities not seen in the north. I believe these were called thunderboxes, and i suspect that when first employed the locals may have been as afraid of it as thunder itself, given the excessive gurgling associated with its operation. Luckily it does not require electricity, otherwise it would have been a white elephant.
Yesterday then was an exciting prospect, the prospect of being able to put shorts on and enjoy the sun on my back, but the combined effects of three weeks of camping and partying has had its effect and a very quiet day ensued followed by a quiet evening with just a small glass of wine to send me to sleep. I was determined not to dream about Currencies Direct, being still on vacation, but was not successful, so good is their service, but as I have resolved not to mention it whilst on holiday I will move swiftly on.
Chris France
Chris France's Blog 