Waterproof, as long it doesn’t rain
That nice lady decorator is trying to kill me. “Take that waterproof jacket in the hall, then you can walk the dogs” she said from the comparatively dry place that is called England. This was after I had told her that it was a monsoon here and perhaps I should just stay in my kennel and work? Regular readers will realise that the words “choice” and “your” do not sit happily together in my household.
So I went for a walk, where I took the picture below. The label on the jacket she had suggested I wear said “waterproof” but obviously the rest of the label had been torn off; the bit that said, “unless you are stupid enough to go out in heavy rain and expect to stay dry, sucker”. By the time I got back, I needed a shower just to dry off a bit.
"Just hop over them" that nice lady decorator said. I said if Banjo goes first, then I'm there...
But it was worse than that. I was just nearing the end of the walk, dripping wet, but glad that the car was almost within sight. The picture shows where, towards the end of the walk, there are stepping-stones back over the river Brague back to the car. Clearly, the river was too high to cross, swirling over the stepping-stones normally three feet above the flow, so I had little choice but to retrace my steps all of 2 miles in a monsoon. I thought maybe Banjo could make it, but to be fair, he was not keen, even to get the ball that I helpfully tossed over to the other side of the stream as encouragement.
When I remonstrated with that nice lady decorator, sitting in her deck chair with her sunglasses on in the garden in balmy Weston Turville, near Aylesbury, she patiently (which is a rarity in itself) pointed out to me that it was I who had told her that it had been raining hard, therefore there was more water around than usual, therefore the streams might be a bit fuller than normal and therefore the river might be a raging torrent, and hadn’t I thought about that before I set off?
On the forum page at Angloinfo is an open invitation to attend a St Patricks day celebration in Valbonne Square at 6pm on Thursday, the day itself. Chris, the guy who seems to be organising it has not made clear who is buying the drinks, but I have high hopes…Perhaps all of us English should also go to start the celebrations for the Grand Slam on Saturday? I know I will be there….Look out for a beautiful, tall well endowed Irish girl clutching a litre bottle of Baileys, or perhaps pushing a supermarket trolley with several bottles, it could be Jude O Sullivan.
Of course, this is all dependent upon my ark being ready to sail by then and I think they have an ark berth outside the Kashmir Indian restaurant for later on. Perhaps I should book one. Clearly Karin, proprietor of La Kavanou, the new wine bar in Valbonne, had advanced warning of the weather and has wisely closed for the week.
Preparations are well advanced for the “year of the blog” as Al Stewart may have described it, on Tuesday, although I will be in London on that day, taking a brief respite from the interminable rain, and conducting important negotiations with Currencies Direct for the benefit of all the ex pats in the area. I was distressed to find that BA no longer offer first class on the route to London, so I suppose I will have to slum it in Club, what a bitter disappointment. Three days should be enough to get me screaming to come home.
Chris France
Irish to celebrate English win?
Glorious. That nice lady decorator and the two money draining siblings are in the UK, so, I had the freedom to do what I want when I want. At first it was a bit disorientating, but then I had it, order an Indian take-away, down then to the pub for quick one while it was being cooked, then back to scoff it in front of football on the TV, just like being back in England. A little pricey at 27 Euros (about £24 at today’s exchange rates)
I used the word disorientation there, so how do you disorientate an oriental? What happens if you run rings around him. Does that do it?
And what would you call an Indian from Indiana? Are all hungarians hungary? And whilst on the subject, is there another word for synonym?
The Kashmir is a big move forward for Valbonne but I notice La Kavanou wine bar is closed all this week, for reasons I don’t know, reopening on 19th, so I popped into the Queens Legs where I meet Matt Frost, cornish Tsunami King. A plan is hatched to try to organise an event coupling My old pal John Otway with Steve Frost, the stand up comedian who I’d best known for the Carling Black Label, who is Matt’s younger brother. Steve and John have worked together in the past. Maybe the comedy Club might be worth a try. A possible chess club is discussed< and if established will enable me more easily to tutor Cambridge graduate Bill Colegrave in the finer tecnniques of avoiding fools mate next time.
Unfortunately the weather was also very British, another massive amount of rain today must mean we have had the whole years worth already by now, so I had the great pleasure of taking flood precautions last night, there was no one left to delegate the work to.This involves raking out gravel and placing slabs, mats and towels in strategic places and the placement of sandbags, all in the pouring and and in the dark. What fun.
My picture today is another from the Brague taken before the deluge, I may take some more today if I can get down there. As you can see it is already a disaster area, if only because of the presence of that disastrous dastardly dog Banjo.
I see Jude O Sulllivan at parents evening, where I once again have to hold the fort alone. She has no bag with her, so she must have left her reserve bottle of Baileys somewhere out of sight; I am sure she would not have finished it that early. Regular readers will know that she normally carries an emergency bottle in her bag in case wherever she chooses to dine runs out, an unthinkable scenario in Valbonne where she is well known in most restaurants.
We have two social occasions with an Irish flavour approaching this weekend. Firstly, I think we will be at The Queens Legs with a large Irish contingent to celebrate England’s grand slam in the 6 Nations rugby tournament, although I am surprised that the Irish are happy to be there to help the English celebrate. The celebrations will continue on the Sunday at the Scandinavian Terrace on the seafront at Cannes, when the International Cub Of The Riviera are staging a belated St Patrick’s Day event. It is very generous of the club to further rub the noses of the Irish in it by delaying the celebrations which would normally take place on 17th March, just so the English can enjoy another day of joint celebration of winning the Grand Slam.
Chris France
Banjo strings, do I have the guts?
All the appalling images from Japan showing the tsunami flooding reminds me of an earlier flood story. A little girl was sitting on top of her house watching the flood water wash debris away. But one hat circled, went upstream, circled and went back. She asked her mother about it. Her mother told her that it was her dad who had been told “come hell or high water you will mow the lawn today”.
Subliminally I think I am worrying about the lawn needed cutting although I have high hopes of securing a used sit on mower from the wingco in the coming week.
Last night, having fed the dogs (the kind old family retainer, and the obese unpleasant cocker) , my daughter found the dogs at the back door, one of them pretending that he had not been fed. She did not believe that I had fed them, so fed them again. When I remonstrated with her that the fat fu*k was supposed to be on a diet, she said he looked hungry. So what happened at 3.30 this morning? the seriously overfull and seriously underwhelming cocker wanted to go out and defecate near my hammock. As I am the lightest sleeper in the house, and in any event, that nice lady decorator was dead to the world, having been on something of a Sancerre mission (I mean that most Sancerrely folks) and would not stir, it was down to muggins here to get up and let the barking (in both senses of the word) canine out into the garden.
This is especially galling for me, as I lose out on at least four counts, disturbed sleep, cost of extra dog food, smelly hammock area as I know exactly where he will have directed his second supper and most irritating of all, the pleased look Banjo employs when he knows he has got right up my nose. Ask not for whom the dog barks, he barks for me.
So it was with a thick head and a sleepy disposition that I headed out on my walk along the Brague, where I took this picture;
Weekend rains fuel a tributary of the Brague River near Valbonne
I was early for my meeting at Cafe Latin to sign a new affiliate for Currencies Direct, only to find that it been postponed at the last-minute. Downcast, I was about to leave when Bill and Soraya came in and in a trice I was invited to join them for lunch, and before the starters had arrived, I had signed them up instead, so when they insisted on paying as well, my cup runneth over.
Talking about runneth over, I know an animal in my household to which I would like to apply that expression literally.
Last night was my first night of freedom, the entire family having decamped in the wake of that nice lady decorator to be hectored and cajoled into the various college appointments that have been made for them. My son is also having some driving lessons, so hopefully within a short period of time I could delegate him to do some runnithing over. Banjo as road kill, what a gratifying concept.
I saw a joke today about Irish banks that had a reference to a Banjo, something to do with banjo strings being made out of arse skin….and it got me thinking, what do they make Banjo strings out of? Maybe he could be donated to musical science? If that was possible, and more than two institutions wanted him, and were prepared to fight for him, could that be described as Duelling Banjos?
And so ends the most contrived joke I have ever managed to fit into this column, which will be a year old a week today.
Chris France
Nuclear incident in Valbonne?
Radiation poisoning seems like a distinct possibility in Japan after the terrible tsunami, and after lunch yesterday at the Thornton Allens, that nice lady decorator was exhibiting similar signs, although rather than radiation, it was probably chardonnay poisoning contributing to her partial meltdown.
I imagine that if you have been exposed to radiation then you may feel a tad unwell. I think then, it is fair to say that the nice lady decorator was exhibiting some symptoms of a similar nature last night, before I sent her to bed just before there was a full nuclear incident.
The success of the mighty England rugby team in the 6 Nations Rugby Tournament against Scotland was celebrated as fully as is possible without a Scot being present. Had we had one of those celtic persons on our midst, we may have celebrated more, although some people may judge that increased celebration may have been impossible.
But, as Einstein’s law states, every action has to have a reaction, and I think it is fair to say that from what I witnessed yesterday, his law survives intact. The reaction of that nice lady decorator to the excitement of seeing Toby Flood England beating Scotland had to have a reaction, and so it came to pass.
All the signs were there, an inner core heating up, cooling systems failing, unexpected explosions, and bad vibes radiating in all directions. What was required was a complete shut down, without which a meltdown was inevitable. Thus I had to take precautions and attempt to avert a repeat of 3 Mile Island nuclear accident in USA some years ago.
For some reason mention of 3 Mike Island reminds me of a village in Suffolk that we used to pass through on our way to Norfolk from London for our annual summer holiday when I was a kid. It was called Six Mile Bottom (and probably still is). My father would always stop there and send postcards to several women, saying that the place reminded of them.
Talking of meltdowns, it is one of my jobs to write a grumpy old gits diatribe against life each Monday, entitled Happy Mondays, a blog for Angloinfo. This week I think I have surpassed myself, I am truly grumpy. I have been told that it is in the top 10 angloinfo blogs worldwide and increasing every month. Of course, they would say that, because payment for this writing activity is conspicuous by its absence.
My picture today was taken last weekend when playing golf at the Grande Bastide golf Club with the REGS, and is featured today because the weather has been so crap today, I needed something with sunshine on it to keep up my spirits.
The third hole at St Donat. Conservatively I think there are 25 of my balls in this stream
I am asked by the lovely Soraya Colegrave to sleep at her house whilst my wife is away this week, and I accept readily. It has been some years since I have been similarly flattered, so that will be the case for the defence. “What about Bill, will he mind?” I ask. What she did not reveal before I accepted, was that she would in fact not be there herself. She and Bill are heading up to Geneva for a couple of days, and want someone to stay at the house whilst they are absent, so I feel I have been duped. In my mind I had a very different scenario in mind, but such are the vagaries of ego and belief in ones own sexual powers, which are no longer as strong as they once were.
Did you spot that there was no Currencies Direct plug today? I am proud of myself.
Chris France
Commuter pinch point – work needed
When ones son reaches the age of 18, as mine has today, a parent is entitled to worry about him leaving home, the worry of course being if the little bugger decides to come back.
On my birthday recently, that nice lady decorator gave me something really special, and out of the ordinary; for three hours she let me be right.
You cannot imagine what a treat this was for me. I had an extra treat today because I think it is fair to say she was not at her best, having enjoyed considerably more than her fair share of Josef’s hospitality on Friday evening at the Marco Polo. This meant that she was quieter than is normal, and sufficiently damaged not to enjoy a short diversion to the sea front to see the waves driven in by strong southerly wind.
There was also a surfeit of another kind of wind on the drive back from Theoule Sur Mer, over which I no control, but that is another story.
My picture today is another commuter shot from my trip from home to my second office. This was taken from the bridge over the Brague at the southern edge of the village, whilst I was in a traffic jam. Mme Droit, our next door neighbour, was walking the other way across the footbridge at the moment I arrived, and as it is only wide enough for one person at a time, I was forced to wait until she had crossed. I do so hate commuter delays. Perhaps I should suggest they put an extra lane on the bridge, in much the way they have done in England with the M1, otherwise I fear I shall often be delayed at this pinch point.
commuter nightmare pinch point, The bridge across the river Kwai, or the River Brague if you prefer
Today, lunch at the Thornton Allen’s across the road before settling into their “cinema room” to witness the next crushing victory for England against Scotland in the 6 Nations Rugby Tournament. Regular readers will realise that I am rather rude about this grandiose description of a large downstairs room with 90 inch high definition screen and comfy sofas seating about 16 in comfort, purely and only because I don’t have one.
After England’s boys cricket team had a slip up against Ireland recently, I received a great deal of abuse at my expense from several Irish friends on Facebook. I will not mention names, but John O Sullivan may be squirming in his chair as he reads this over his Sunday brunch. So it is with some relish that I enjoyed the game between Ireland and Wales yesterday. Given the result, I will feel justified in returning the Facebook favour today. Just in case you did not see it, Wales beat hot favourites Ireland 19-13..
Tomorrow, that nice lady decorator is heading back to England, taking my entire collection of sprogs with her to visit various educational institutions, solely it seems, to involve me in as much expense as possible for their continued education. My suggestions, that perhaps it may be time for the eldest to consider gainful employment, and to begin planning how to keep their father in a manner to which he would like to be accustomed, have so far been greeted with that withering stare of which I am so afraid. If there is an upside, it will be that I shall have the house to myself until Friday, and will have control of the kitchen. Regular readers will know that a better idea would be to shut the kitchen up completely and arrange a series of take-aways and lunches rather than allow me to create (havoc) therein.
Chris France
Jehovah’s witnesses at church? shock
Whilst commuting to work on foot, which means walking along the very agreeable lanes that run from my house into the 12th century village of Valbonne, I encounter Susie, A neighbour who is alarmed that I might be “one of those awful bible bashers! What are they called?” Jehovah’s witnesses? I ask?
This was slightly confusing to me, and clearly for her at first, as I told her I was in fact on my way to church, before having to qualify that by adding “at Cafe Latin”. She has spotted my very smart Currencies Direct briefcase that I like to take to meetings to make myself look important, but in reality contains nothing more than some sweets and a copy of The Beano.
She must have mistaken this bag for the black attach cases often sported by those infernal god botherers. At first I was appalled. The reverend Jeff, an avid follower of this column, knows I am a complete atheist despite his best efforts to convince me otherwise, and I was chagrined that my appearance could have been confused with one of these religious nuts.
Susie then went to say that she always asked the Jehovah’s Witnesses to leave a brochure in the letter box when they came a knocking at her door. It transpires that she keeps them for when she is flying Easyjet to London, to put in the middle seat between her husband and herself to try to dissuade people (there is no pre-designated seating arrangement on this redoubtable airline, it’s a free for all) from using the middle seat, and claims a 100 per cent success rate so far.
So, at last, real evidence that their writings do have some value.
I do so hate commuting. This picture is of part of the walk into Valbonne to my alternative office at Cafe Latin. I count myself lucky that I don't have to do it each way, or at peak times, I imagine the traffic is awful at rush hour
Cafe Latin is back to normal with a big turnout of all the great and good including Mr Humphreys (he was free). Amongst those in attendance were Mike Hardacre (with a K) co-founder of angloinfo sporting business like light grey crocs this time, fresh from moderating a seminar in Nice on Thursday evening. You see, he is so technologically advanced, he is unable to say chairing, or presenting, he has to say moderating.
Later in the evening at the fabulous setting of the beach side Marco Polo restaurant in Theoule Sur Mer, where a sumptuous feast of seafood was laid on by Persian fixer Joseph to celebrate his entry into his sixth decade (he hated that!), Mike again exhibited his techy nature. Most people, when buying presents for a significant birthday, buy nice books, or champagne or cuff links. Mike? He built a personal app for our host. I mean how good is that, to be able to build an Iphone app as a present. If only he spent some of his intellectual power on his dress sense, rather than being a walking advert for crocs?
The evening was wonderful, some of the best seafood I have ever seen or tasted, and beautifully presented, with no expense spared, so that nice lady decorator was able once again to drink her entire body weight in champagne. However, once the party finished, she insisted on buying more wine to consume back at the hotel with the Hardacres (with a K). Of course this little post soiree, soiree took place in our room as we had splashed out on the much more expensive (10 euros more, £8.20 at today’s exchange rate) sea view room, rather than the inferior mountain view room, which Mike was claiming was in fact bigger, even as his wife dragged him into the bedroom, possibly with an eye to him taking up the missionary position in his crocs.
Chris France
His crocs to bear
I see in satirical magazine Private Eye a report on how British women describing their sex lives, It seems the expression “beating around the bush” was used. What can it all mean and in what context? Where did that expression originate?
It got me thinking about other inappropriate statements, for instance, if you were gay you should perhaps not suggest you were making a good fist of it?, or a transvestite? dressed to kill? There is also an Australian expression “a sticky beak” which means to have a good look around, but again, if used by the gay community, it could have catastrophic results, and I suppose a proctologist should be careful when saying he would have a poke around.
When you think about it there are dozens. What about dentists looking down in the mouth? Or even nice lady decorators papering over cracks?
I think by now regular readers will realise that today is something of a lull between two storms. That four letter word work was much in evidence until I was distracted by warm sunshine, and watching my son work at just after 11am. This is a new concept for him as it involves being awake in the mornings and I don’t think he I’d best pleased or enjoying the activity. Another member of our household also has no idea what work is. Here he is relaxing by the pool.
Go on, jump, the lead filled tennis ball may just work.
I had high hopes that Banjo, the dodgy black and white minstrel from the rescue home would be unable to swim, and just in case, and to test his non swimming abilities to the fullest extent, I attached a very heavy weight to the tennis ball he is keen to have in his mouth at all times, but had forgotten the swimming pool leak, so he was able to retrieve the ball and survive, much to my disappointment.
Cafe Latin this morning, for “church” and meetings with the great and good. I cannot mention names but Peter Bennett from Blue Water Yachting will have made an inestimable leap forward in his business life before lunch if all goes to plan. I believe that Mike Croc (with a K) Hardacre (with a k) co-founder of Angloinfo will be a rare attendee, and given the almost religious tone of our surroundings, I will expect to see properly sanctified crocs adorning his feet, perhaps with little crocces, I mean crosses.
Tonight we shall journey to Theoule sur Mer to the Marco Polo for a birthday celebration, and I have found that Mike, and Wandy, his adoring wife, are booked in to the same hotel. Some of us decided on the sea view room for an extra 10 euros (£8 at today’s exchange rates), whilst others took a more abstemious route booking a mountain view room and saving those precious Euros. Their booking a room is a little difficult for me as I believe she is besotted with me, but we have had to keep this a secret from Mike. Please Mike, when you are reading this, gloss over this page (is that something the nice lady decorator might say?)
Yesterday afternoon I spotted Jude O Sullivan, famous for always carrying her own bottle of Bailey’s wherever she goes in case whatever establishment that she goes to has run out, in the Super U supermarket in Plascassier. True to form, she had several bottles of Bailey’s in her shopping bag, but one could not be certain whether she was intending to buy them, or had brought them in with here in the first place, in case she felt the need. We discussed things of import, such as the rugby in Dublin in a couple of weeks time, and a St Patrick’s Day event on the 20th March in Cannes being staged by the International Club Of The Riviera and cricket was not mentioned, certainly by me.
Chris France
Hurricane Scott blows in
“Is your pav open”? The dulcet tones of famous party animal Rupert Scott asked at 5 30pm on Tuesday. It was. He was referring to the Thai style pavilion in our garden, by the pool, a great party place. It nearly always is open for a social occasion, but this time it was readied for pre dinner drinks with barely 10 minutes warning before the maelstrom hit, those plans for a bit of telly and an early night having been erased in an instant.
Yesterday’s column was written before we got the call, when I was contemplating a quiet night in, which, if you know Rupert and his delectable wife Sophie, and they are in town, you will realise is a fleeting concept. I was in no fit state to update it either Tuesday night or indeed yesterday morning.
Their house in Plascassier, where Edith Piaf died, is a magnificent dwelling, but has little furniture as it is for sale, they having moved back to the UK, so they were looking for someone to come out and play, and who better than that nice lady decorator, oh, and me.
La Kavanou and the Kashmir in Valbonne suffered the most from the whirlwind, if you discount the human cost, which I am counting (rather than discounting) slowly at the moment as I write this. Always great fun at the time, always a terrible hang over in the morning. We hatched a plan to go to Lou Fassum for lunch yesterday, but thankfully remembered a school appointment, so managed to escape the clutches of Hurricane Scott, at least for now. However, hurricanes can last for a number of days and develop alarmingly, and as the Scotts are here until Saturday, it may be a case of battening down the hatches or looking for a storm shelter.
Lin Wolff from the English Book Centre in Valbonne was the first to spot yesterdays deliberate mistake. I changed my mind about which picture I was going to use without changing the text, so here is the missing “octopus of an oak tree”. I blame the Scotts, even although they had not arrived by the time I posted yesterdays column.
About £1000 worth of firewood if I had my way
Tonight sees the Media night at the 4EDHEC Business School, 400 Promenade des Anglais, Nice, where a presentation on social networking will be given by angloinfo founder Mike Haradcre (with a k). He will of course be wearing his social media crocs (emblazoned with a TWITter logo perhaps?) and we should praise the lord that he is not lecturing on dress sense, otherwise the fashion police would be in for a busy night. Actually, I am meeting him at church in Valbonne tomorrow, so with luck he will not have seen this by then. Regular readers will know that I will expect also to see my style guru Mr Humphries (if he is free), so that I will know what to wear with my crocs this week.
On Friday evening I must journey down to Theoule Sur Mer to the wonderful Marco Polo restaurant on the beach to a birthday party bash given by my mysterious Persian friend Joseph, and I have been wondering what I should purchase as a present. I wonder if Mike Hardacre (with a k) would suggest, any guesses?
The REGS are playing on Saturday at the fantastic Four Seasons resort Terre Blanche on Saturday, but sadly I am unable to be there, so if you are reading this and you are signed up to play, take your umbrella and expect it to rain.
Chris France
The artistry of a good estate agent
Having effectively to act like an estate agent yesterday morning, I decided to dress like one, so I found a gaudy, striped shirt, a tie that did not match, some badly ironed trousers that matched neither, a black belt and brown brogues, topped off with a slightly dented Homburg hat and adopted what I thought was a winning smile, but which that nice lady decorator considered was a countenance suggesting imminent flatulence.
Next, I decided to practice some phrases that might come in handy “yes, it has a sea view, try these binoculars”, and “its a dream environment for young children, the pavement will be built by the time you move in” and “that’s not damp, I knocked over a bath full of water yesterday and it’s just drying out”.
Selling a house is an art form that sadly I have not yet mastered, having tried to sell my house in England for the last year. It often requires the ability to block out the obvious down sides whilst drawing attention to small saving graces. Surely they would have more success and fewer wasted visits, time destructive to everyone involved, the seller, the prospective buyer and the agent, if they were honest?
Sannie cottage, a period cottage in a pretty village within the catchment area for Aylesbury Grammar and High School which is STILL for sale
Take my house in England, why not say that its situation has been ruined by the construction of a modern horror in the once beautiful garden, and now there is now no access to the river, but now at least its comparatively cheap? It’s as if the agent believes he can suspend belief and persuade buyers to make often the biggest purchase of their lives, without properly assessing whether the it suited their needs. I guess their confidence in this process is fuelled by the number of clients that do exactly that.
And so yesterday, I was that agent, and by the time I had finished, I wanted to buy the house I was showing myself! That’s how good I was. Of course, there are good estate agents, the pick of whom have ben intelligent enough to affiliate to Currencies Direct. There are several in the bl
That nice lady decorator has a plan. I hate it when she has plans because she suddenly develops an ability to delegate, and that means anyone caught in that tractor beam optical stare of hers is required to be delegated upon. Sadly I did not duck the stare in time and it was my job to retrieve her cement mixer (this is not a misprint, it is she who owns a cement mixer, indeed it was her requested birthday present some years ago) from our neighbours, who had borrowed it in September for “about a week”.
Regular readers will now be thinking “I wonder if he agreed to be an estate agent to get him out of the house in order to avoid being dragged into manual labour”. I hate it when I am so transparent.
Todays picture is of a giant octopus of an oak tree, which if I had my way would be stacked in neat rows of logs ready for next winters fires, but that nice lady decorator thinks will make a nice backdrop for the outside bar area she is planning. This has required the destruction of a small retaining stone wall, the cement for which took me three days of hard work last spring mixing the cement she needed to construct it.
Don’t get me wrong, I am all in favour of an outside bar, it’s just the work required to have it built that worries me. I am happy to put it to the fullest test, once it has been constructed, it is the construction process, or rather, how much of the construction process will involve me in hard work, that worries me. There is also the small matter of cost to consider, a concept which eludes that nice lady decorator when she has a plan.
Chris France
Sunshine, skiing, lunch and a cardigan
With spring springing, and the sun getting warmer, I felt it was my duty to head up to Auron, close to Isola 2000 in the Southern Alps for what may prove to be the last ski of the season. Two reasons for this, firstly because I had never before been to Auron, and secondly because I had a chauffeur for the day.
Paul Thornton Allan may look a little askance as this description of him, but facts are facts, he was wearing a chauffeurs hat, although he claimed in was skiing hat he was in charge of driving. It was perhaps rather rude of me as we stumbled back into the car in the afternoon after a good lunch to say “home James and don’t spare the horses”. Also going to sleep on the way back was frowned upon in some quarters, those quarters inhabited mostly by that nice lady decorator, but I did not want the chauffeur worrying about ride comfort, and what better way to assure him but to feign sleep?
Remember that this column is subtitled “a day on the life of the idle rich of Valbonne”. This does not imply that I am one of those idle rich, more that I am lucky enough to be to observe them at play and report back to you. I hope that is clear.
Before that, on Sunday, with sunshine in full effect, some sun bathing was required, but please do not think that this was a day spent just relaxing, oh no, with summer rentals stacking up, all the outdoor equipment requires rigourous testing before those lucky clients arrive in summer. By the equipment I mean the pool loungers, the pavilion seating, the hammock, all are required to be in tip-top condition, and there is only one way to be certain, rigourous testing. So my Sunday was spent, not resting but testing.
Today, I am fulfilling my estate agent role for Mr Gurdon, which in his language will mean guide the client away from the bad features and over emphasise the good features. If you see him, please ask why it is important that one puts the ornamental fountain on before prospective purchasers arrive. Of course, one good deed deserves another, and the good deed I shall be seeking in return is lunch at Lou Fassum, however he probably has in mind lunch at Auberge St Donat.
Which way is the restaurant?
Spring skiing can be a delight, as long as it is sunny and a good lunch is on the horizon, and a very good lunch it was as well, at Grizzley’s on the slopes above St Etienne. As my picture shows, the slopes were pretty deserted, and so was I, at least after lunch. A magret de canard in a morille ( a french mushroom) sauce was one of the best mountain meals I have ever had, accompanied by the most divine chips, of which I also have a picture.
The best chips in the world, soaked in olive oil, sprinkled with Provencal herbs
On the way home, I heard a story about John Cleese who reputedly had once been to Marks and Spencers to collect some new trousers. It seems on the way home on the train that he had rather a nasty bout of dihorrea whilst on the train, so, to put it rather more tastsefully than it was put to me, having ruined the clothing he was wearing, decided to throw it out of the train window and put on his new clothing. Sadly though, once he opened the package, he found that it did not contain his trousers but instead it contained a lady’s cardigan…
In case you were worried, there is no link today to Currencies Direct.
The law according to the decorator
I should have known. Rules are rules even if you don’t know about them. It seems that there is a rule, that applies only to me, that I should be home in time to have a sun-downer with that nice lady decorator before the sun has, in fact, gone down, if she decides to enforce that rule.
This usually only happens if she herself is not busy with something, and so it is often a difficult rule to interpret. Punishment for any indiscretion is at the same time swift and lingering. By that I mean that it starts immediately and lingers on, sometimes for days.
Part of understanding the “law of the decorator” requires intimate meteorological knowledge, in real time, of whether the sun is out and shining into our pavilion at the correct angle in Valbonne. No account is taken of whether the round of golf took longer then expected or if play started later than expected, or if shopping was required on the way back or if there was traffic. I am not saying that any or all of those occurred, the fact remains that if, and it is a significant if, the nice lady decorator has decreed a sun-downer, and even if one has not received the message issuing said decree, one must comply or expect the punishment.
English law states that ignorance of the law is no excuse and the nice lady decorator enforces that sentiment with a rod of iron. What makes it so peculiarly difficult is that this kind of legislation is a constantly developing animal; laws can be made at the drop of a hat and without warning, so my normal ignorance is then exacerbated in her eyes continually.
And so, it was with this backdrop that we tried again at the Indian restaurant in Valbonne, the Kashmir, and I am very glad we did, with the kitchen this time functioning smoothly, it was excellent. All we need now in the village is a Thai restaurant of similar quality, a pub serving London Pride on draught, and I will never need to leave.
Luckily several friends had a similar idea to try it out, so the effect of the punishment, which was still lingering, was dulled by the fact that at least my friends were talking to me.
Back to the golf. It was all going so badly that at halfway, I struck a bet with one of my playing partners, the follically challenged financial whizz kid Mike Lorimer. Whilst he may be at the top of his game when it comes to financial structuring and investments, as a betting man, he will be today ruing the bet with me as to who would finish last between us. Modesty precludes me from revealing the result of this wager, but regular readers may know the signs, and my dampened forehead supporting a bank-note in the bar after the event may lead the more astute amongst my readers as to the result of this wager.
Golfing partners Bob Jones on the right and Nick Kail on the left. Mile Lorimer the last of our quartet is here being impersonated by a duck.
Yesterday was the first sunbathing opportunity of the year, so who am I to deny myself this possibility. It was perhaps inevitable then, that a lunch time beer would reawaken the rose taste buds. Rose wine can of course only be consumed properly when the sun is on your back, and luckily I had sufficient foresight to purchase the customary 6 different bottles of rose (total cost 21 euros) under £18 at today’s exchange rates, less than £3 a bottle) in order to decide which particular win will be selected as the summer bench mark. As usual in these tasting ceremonies, decisions are taken, but seldom recalled the next day, necessitating a re-run of the tasting ceremony time and time again until the remember button works.
Finally my new grumpy old git blog on angloinfo, Happy Mondays, posts this morning, and is particularly vicious. I like it!
Chris France
Indian in Valbonne? order early
How was the new The Indian restaurant, the Kashmir, in Valbonne? Answer, still don’t know because of desperately slow service.
Patience, and that nice lady decorator, are not two expressions that one uses lightly in the same sentence. Add to this the extra volatility that is in evidence when she is hungry and you have the (nearly) human equivalent of an explosive unstable compound. To add further to the blue touch-paper dimension to this mix, sprinkle a manic dribble (this is a collective noun I have just invented to describe of young children being allowed to run around shrieking unsupervised in a small restaurant) of under 5’s, and you have a recipe for, well, no recipe at all.
We decided to go earlyish, on Friday, before 8pm and were immediately confronted by a plethora of shrieking hyper-active infants, and, after sitting down for 2 minutes, that nice lady decorator snorted loudly and made some far from under her breath comments about kindergartens and e numbers and badly behaved children, so I decided that perhaps a short hiatus before eating might be in order. We thus adjourned to La Kavanou close by, with the idea of returning a little later when the nasty little dervishes had exhausted themselves. We entered the wine bar to find it buzzing.
Amongst those buzzing were Viv and Matt “Cornish tsunami” Frost (use the search option below if you still haven’t read of his publicly stated sexual experience at the seaside in his youth), Matt having a purple patch (on his shirt) having already spilled a glass of red wine down himself, before 8pm. Not entirely unexpectedly, Viv, his long-suffering wife, remembers nothing of this amorous seaside adventure when his recent headline was discussed, even intimating that perhaps it was all a fantasy.
Anyway, after a bottle of chenin blanc, we felt ready to try again with the Kashmir, and when we arrived it was filling up nicely, indeed it was full when we left some 45 minutes later, having failed even to place our order. They say that dynamite, just before it is going to explode sweats profusely, but this is what I was doing as I sat in front of a female, impersonating a volcano, on the point of exploding as the waiting continued. Matt Frost, who is transpires has a brother called Steve Frost, a stand up comedian and well known for his Carling Black Label advert (whom I had met at Glastonbury a few years ago with old pal John Otway), came in to distract her for 10 minutes, having ordered a take-away, which was just being readied as we left. Given the sloth of the kitchen staff (in fact, were there any kitchen staff? At least 20 of the 30 diners had empty plates in front of them as we departed, hungry) I think he must have ordered it about last Wednesday. Thus in my occasional role as human bomb disposal officer, I gently guided her out of the restaurant up to the Valbonnaise, where we had menus within 30 seconds, and quite decent food on the table in under 10 minutes, proving that it can be done.
Saturday dawned bright and sunny, so golf clubs were dusted off and I went in search of the perfect round of golf with the landlubbers, or more likely, some juicy gossip for this column. However, they have got wise,they know that I am waiting for the smallest slip, the slightest indication of something untoward and so there is nothing much to reveal, except to say that I have confirmation that purple or mauve are still in, as evidenced by my picture today, below:
The man in purple recommends, well, purple. I am so relieved to have this comfirmed
Chris France
Purple is in
Even a surprise visit to church at Cafe Latin looked as if it would be fruitless. Normally on market day there will be a few ex pats with loose tongues prepared to dish the dirt and gossip about their compatriots. I like to consider that they have been scared away by the power of this blog, but was beginning to consider the fact that maybe nobody likes me. It looked as if even my style guru Mr Humphries was absent, probably giving his advice on what to wear to some other poor unfortunates.
But then it happened, he and others emerged from a private table in the corner where they had been hiding (I think I stayed long enough to make them realise that hiding was not an option), and to prove it, here is a picture he refused to pose for, but I took when he was distracted by a phone call (surely that calls for a fine, accepting a phone call whilst in church?, the reverend Jeff would be mortified). I am pleased to see that the colour purple features strongly in his wardrobe.
Purple reign, note the rather effeminate cigarette....
With the sun returning, and rejuvenated by 24 hours without a drink, lunch on the beach seemed to be a very sensible option, and as regular readers will know by now, I always select the sensible option, particularly if there is a glass of wine or two in it, but at the last moment some clouds appeared, and with that nice lady decorator in the middle of plastering a wall (I kid you not) lunch was postponed.
A year of blogging is approaching, the big day is 22nd March when I shall celebrate with a special feature, maybe featuring my favourite photos of the year. Those that have embarrassed themselves whilst I have been around and in possession of a camera be warned! Bribes happily accepted to keep those that wish to avoid a further high-profile publication of dodgy photos (Bill Colegrave in particular, please take note – money will do well although I feel lunch at Lou Fassum should do it).
Last night I made a decision. This is not normal, as obviously in my household, I am not judged at being good at decision-making when it comes to social occasions. I decided that I would like to check out the new Indian restaurant in Valbonne. Luckily that nice lady decorator agreed with me, so obviously it became her decision with which I readily concurred. As I am posting this before we got there, due to not wanting to get up at 7.30 am on a Saturday, you will have to wait until tomorrow for my verdict, unless I get the urge to report further this evening (that’s last night to you). Clearly, the restaurant in question will be hanging on to my every word of praise or otherwise as this column can make or break a new establishment in the village. This is what I would like to believe, but increased delusion arrives with age, and I have plenty of both.
I have decided to risk the weather forecast and play golf with the Landlubbers tomorrow at Grande Bastide, mainly, it has to be said, because of an email I received from stand-in organiser and sheep fancier Steve “Dolly the Sheep” Weston, praying for rain. The reason for his prayers was to provide him with some hope that I would not play and therefore he would be able to enjoy a week without ribbing (do sheep have ribs?), an outcome which would be welcomed with open arms by Steve, in much the way I am sure he greets his favourite sheep.
Mushy peas or guacamole? its hard to tell
When the northerner amongst us asked whether she should order more of those mushy peas when referring to the guacamole, I knew that I was entering a material rich environment.
At La Kavanou midweek, the event was a fast breaking (as in breaking a fast) escape to Valbonne’s only proper wine bar due to the flying visit of token Lancastrian Jo Caston. The sheer variety and for me, reportability, of comments and asides was so fetid with material for this column that inspiration will hardly be required today.
The mushy pea comment was in respect of one of the tapas that must be served at La Kavanou to respect their peculiar Cave Aux Vins licence which the owner Karin, is trying to upgrade as we speak. One of the tapas is guacamole, and this started opening the taps of potential blog material.
Next, when describing an old friend who has now returned to England (and I really cannot name him) Jo described him as being able to “laugh people into bed” but went on to express the personal opinion that nothing was that funny.
I am not sure how the subject came up, but dogging was discussed. I think my feigned naiveté spurred Jo and her friends who included Suzanne from La Tasse de Couleur, the do it yourself pottery cafe in Biot, on to very descriptive heights. When the particular venue where this pastime allegedly takes place was mentioned, I casually suggested that I also took my dogs walking in that area, and could they let me know when the next dogging session was scheduled as I would like to meet some other dog owners locally.
There are occasions when that feigned naïvety can work wonders for amusement levels. Subsequently I was lucky enough to be regaled by three girls all trying to out do each other with their knowledge of and descriptions of the practice. Notably, they were not joined by that nice lady decorator who knew exactly what I was up to and refused to be drawn into it. Suffice to say that I learned a great deal more about it, and the expression “giving the dog for a bone” will be forever tainted for me from now on.
From that promising start, discussions turned to cottaging which, I explained, I did know about; I expressed the pinion that the practice of buying an old cottage and doing it up to sell for a profit was becoming more difficult in the current housing market.
Oh for the blondes amongst us. I cannot name names here, but for argument’s sake I shall call her Lindsey. By now the others had twigged what I was up to and had gone quiet but she who should not be named kept going on about the finer details of cottaging in graphic detail until I could no longer hold onto my shocked and appalled expression, whereupon she began to realise the truth.
I made some notes at the time but upon re-reading them yesterday morning I cannot for the life of me work out the connection between double fisting, peanut butter and Mr Ed, the horse. I do remember what a monkey bath is though; it’s where the bath water is too hot and you go “oh ah ey ah” as you get in.
Doing a spot of dogging this morning
My picture today was taken on my early morning walk in the Valmasque, along the Brague, after which some business in Antibes where lunch was taken at the Indian Cheemati, and very good it was too. My only complaint, 5.50 Euros for a small Kingfisher (the beer not the bird), that’s nearly £5 at today’s exchange rates Then with the last of the winter rain setting in yesterday afternoon I failed ignominiously to attend the free book give away at the English Book Centre, perhaps fundamentally I dislike the idea of giving books away, now that I am approaching a career as an author.
Wolff in sheeps clothing?
After yesterdays piece about Brian Blessed and the Palm Pilot, I get a message from Lin Wolff at the English Book Centre in Valbonne reporting that on Irish television she heard a woman saying if it fitted into her palm, you can keep it. I had no idea that Irish Television could be so high brow and illuminating, and the question must be asked, why would someone living in the south of France with Sky TV at her disposal choose to view Irish TV? Her husband, Marc Wollf, has already received serious ribbing in this column for not yet having High Definition TV, despite his glittering career in the film world where his credits include all the Harry Potter films and all recent James Bond in a ridiculously long list of cinematic offerings on which he has worked (and is currently working on the new Johnny English film with Rowan Atkinson), so perhaps it so something to do with low picture quality that attracts Lin to Irish TV?
It got me thinking about what type of programme you might find there? Perhaps an in-depth look at peat bogs? or “Irish Wolffhounds”, (sorry Lin and Marc, that was too good a joke to leave out!) or what about “Irish Intellectuals”? perhaps not enough material for a series but, if padded, one might be able to get half an hour’s TV out of it?
My picture today is of an old shop in Valbonne, dunno why, I just liked it! very Provencal.
A typical Provencal shop front in Valbonne
I have decided to commit to playing golf on Saturday at Grande Bastide with the landlubbers solely on the basis of an absolute assurance from Steve Weston, our esteemed reserve organiser, that the weather will be sunny. If Dave the Fade (away having more treatment on his fade; this time he’s trying chemotherapy) was in charge then I could rely on his assurance, but Steve is different, when one looks him in the eye there is something that makes me consider him as perhaps having an unreliable streak. It is based, I suppose, on his past admitted animalistic preferences. However, he has been very diffident about this fetish recently and I suspect that he now regrets his previous candour, so it would be unfair of me to reveal its exact nature (however if you use my new search icon below and input “Steve Weston and Sheep”, you may get an idea of my thinking).
Last night, as often happens, the self-imposed week long embargo on wine and alcohol in general was broken as Singapore resident, Jo Caston, was in town for just a couple of days, and that nice lady decorator could not resist seeing her. Of course, as usual, my attendance was required in order to pay. Starting at Cafe des Arcades in Valbonne, by the time these two had filtered down to the wine bar, those northern vowels were audible from Cannes. I should explain that Jo is from Lancashire, and that nice lady decorator spent a large number of her uninformative years up north in Wakefield and near Leeds. Therefore there is an accent problem which she develops whenever she is in the presence of anyone with any kind of northern Accent. I have tried to beat it out of her over the years, but as soon as she gets with another with a latent northern drawl, it returns with a vengeance. Add alcohol, and the result is not pretty to behold. Coronation Street meets Valbonne is such a mismatch, its like Rudolf Nureyev turning his hand to sheet metal welding, nothing good can come of it.
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