I needed something to brighten my day as this was the first one of my days limited to 600 calories. Slash and burn Thornton Allan is to blame for having lost two stone in two months before we went skiing last week. My comments about his apparent anorexia were not well received and had the unfortunate effect of allowing the female contingent on holiday of making a very unfair comparisons about our respective shapes. I think they call  it bravado. Before I could stop myself I could hear myself saying “I could do that, easy”.

With that stupid challenge accepted, I suddenly realised the enormity of my blunder. That Nice Lady Decorator suddenly had a worrying and determined gleam in her eyes and it was all I could do to stop her from demanding I commenced the same regime there and then. It was only putting off the inevitable, and the inevitability came home to roost yesterday. For those of you who think that is a poor metaphor, we once owned a chicken called Inevitability, honest.

I tried everything to delay or cancel the whole idea. I even used this photo of Slash and Burn himself to show what could happen when undertaking fad diets. Nasty side effects can often result. This one needs a bit more than Savlon.

Man with nasty spot, wearing a house on his head.

And so I barely made it through the day. Even the joy of bringing smiles to the faces of several new Currencies Direct customers was not enough to take my mind off the enforced fast. Actually “fast” is a contradiction in terms; I can hardly remember a day that went by any slower, although I suspect that today I am about to find out.

To take my mind off this dreadful scenario, I need to focus on some good things that are on the horizon. The newly constituted Arundel Wednesday Luncheon Club’s second gathering will take place tomorrow, so just watch me eat and drink everything on the menu at the George and Dragon at Houghton. That is if I don’t expire before we get there.

Then on Sunday, the delicious prospect of seeing John Otway and Wild Willy Barrett at the Leicester Square Theatre in Covent Garden, having some dinner and meeting up with loads of old cronies. No doubt we will end up discussing Otway the Movie and the various guerrilla marketing techniques we have planned for the Cannes Film Festival in May.

Today will be much the same. I have not yet looked out the window as I know what it will be like; grey and cold, misty and damp. I also don’t have the energy to raise my head. 600 calories a day is not nearly enough to keep a mouse alive, let alone a man with a thrusting Adonis-like (actually in god like terms more Buddha-like) figure, one destined to be denied wine and beer again today. I now have first hand experience of what the term “nil by mouth” means.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News

Light snow of no consequence steadily worsened as we trekked north, with snow ploughs and salt gritters doing their best to keep the motorways passable,  we got to Calais at lunchtime, due mainly to most of the French making the entirely sensible decision not to venture out in their cars. I took this picture en route. It was like Yorkshire in mid summer.

Beaune to Calais on the motorway.

Arriving at the tunnel we were able to get an early departure, and after a tedious half hour in the worst terminal in the western world, we boarded and Sprog 1 immediately gave me some food for this column by saying, as the train departed, “I think I am going to get out and look through the window”. Then “oh, it’s gone dark”. I don’t know which part of the concept of a tunnel he did not understand.

Getting back to Arundel earlier that expected, and the holiday not over until tomorrow, we did what any right thinking people would do,  go to the pub next door for a pint.

I just managed to catch the climax of the Scotland versus Ireland 6 nations rugby clash in the TV, where Scotland somehow engineered a win against hot favourites Ireland, further to upset John “800 years of repression” O Sullivan. I texted him after the game to see if he had received my earlier (and entirely mythical) wager on Scotland doubling up on my winnings recently on the England Ireland game, but he did not respond immediately.

The diet starts tomorrow and beer may be a fleeting concept in the week to come, with the notable exception of Wednesday when the Arundel Wednesday Luncheon Club will reconvene, this time at the George and Dragon at Houghton.

Instead of looking out of the window this morning and looking at the magisterial snow-covered alpine mountains sparkling and glistening in the bright sunshine under azure skies, I looked out at Arundel, hazy in the drizzle and under grey skies, an unpleasant reminder that we are still in the grip of the dreariest English winter in living memory. But will I be downhearted? Well, yes, if it does not brighten up by tomorrow. The only brightness in my day today will be in the happy smiling faces of the new Currencies Direct customers who’s a lives will be transformed when they find out exactly what they could save by using this service for their foreign exchange needs.

I also need to complete some other very important music business matters, such as ordering a platinum disc for my tiny interest in a major rap artist No 1 record in USA. I know that Kanye West and Jay Z “No Church In The Wild” is unlikely to be on the play lists of any of my contemporaries, but in Sprog credibility terms I have arrived.

I am also in the process if setting up a new venture based in the rap world in which I hope to define the word “delegation”. It will involve me in a little work to begin with, after which I intend to sit at home, delegate all the work that is needed and live off the profits, much as I have through my whole music business career.  Some, less informed than I, might say that my chosen path in the commercial music world was made in order to avoid having to get a proper job. I could not possibly comment.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News

Meribel at its most beautiful.

This time the car started, and the torturous but spectacular trip down the mountain to Beaune, with all the other tourists leaving at the same time, was the expected nightmare all the way to the outskirts of Lyon, when suddenly the traffic cleared and we got to this pretty and ancient town in early afternoon, about 2 hours earlier than we expected. It was only a little warmer, still below freezing and was snowing gently as we unloaded the car. The lovely and charming La Belle Époque was once again our destination for the night.

Before venturing out in early evening, I completed, with the help of Jeroen of ABK Estate Agents, the arrangements for the launch of The Valbonne Monologues (Facebook; Valbonne Monologues) at Cafe Latin. The sponsors, so far ABK, Marina Kulik and Currencies Direct are between them supplying a glass of sparkling wine, a coffee or a glass of wine to everyone buying a book on the day, either Friday 15th or Saturday 16th March between 10.30 and 12.00. I shall be in personal attendance and will be available, if required, to sign copies of the book for lucky punters, who will in future years be able to say they were there when the book was first unveiled. Please do not forget that these valuable first editions can only increase in value in my own mind. Also, this time there are colour pictures throughout of some of your valbonnenews.com heroes, and for the richest amongst you, there is a hardback limited edition priced at a very reasonable 20 euros. For the rest of you cheapskates it is 15 euros for the paperback. I will take advance orders via paypal, cash and even those antiquated cheques.

After watching England beat France in the six nations, and studiously avoiding speaking English, not celebrating when England scored, and practising lots of Gallic shrugs and muttering “sacre bleu” as England went further and further ahead, we went out for an early dinner on order to get an early start this morning. Although the tunnel crossings are fully booked, there are bound to be people who are late or cancel, so with luck we will be back in Arundel before nightfall.

Then it will be Monday and the starvation diet will commence. Do not expect me to be upbeat, witty or amusing in the coming days. Many will say they never do, but there are a few loyal readers who admit to enjoying this daily missive, now approaching its third birthday. The week of eating and drinking at Meribel has not been sufficiently off set by the momentous skiing and energy usage involved. I would probably have to ski for a whole year to get to equilibrium, let alone a honing of my magnificent anatomy, so drastic measures have been imposed. 600 calories a day is about as close to starvation as one can get with expiring, and I have heard that it can make you grumpy.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News

Instead I spent the morning whimpering in the chalet, putting the finishing touches to the soft launch plan for my new book The Valbonne Monologues at Cafe Latin on Friday 15th March at 10.30. This is, of course, a shameless attempt to capture the regular congregation for “church”, the weekly gathering of ex-pats to worship coffee and gossip at this lovely social hub. The owners will know of my plans today so unless they have any objection, put that date in your diary. I am also planning to do the same the next day, Saturday 16th for those amongst the idle rich of Valbonne who have that rare affliction called a job.

Already I have 3 sponsors: the lovely Marina Kulik, who’s painting classes at the Hangar just outside the Valbonne produced the painting that features on the cover, the not nearly so lovely Jeroen Zatt from ABK Properties and of course our very useful Currencies Direct, all within a day of being asked. Others have been also been approached, and I expect to hear from some of them today, Matt, Peter, Lin and Greg, you know who I mean.

It has been so cold overnight that the diesel in the car has gone waxy so I called the breakdown truck after spending half an hour trying to start it. Would you believe that the mechanic arrived, put the key in the ignition and it started. An hour and a half I waited for him, so not a happy bunny.

My picture today is of our Nice Lady Ski Tour Guide, having a week off from her Decorating duties. I did once try to read a piste map but unfortunately it did not end well. I thought those straight black lines were a little too straight, but it turns out those are ski lifts. From that day forward I have been denied maps, which suits me down to the ground.

Which way to go? Down I would say…

If the car starts and everything goes according to plan, we will have left Meribel by 10am this morning with the plan of getting to Beaune, where we will stay tonight, in time to find a bar showing the France versus England 6 nations rugby clash. I will speak French just in case England win, which they should but nothing is certain. After losing their first two games in the tournament, I think the French will come out and play. thereafter a last dinner and then the big trek home on Sunday with all the other half- termers returning to work or school.

Those of you who know Mr Clipboard will be unsurprised that to know that he left yesterday without paying his taxes de sejour, the French tourist tax. For some reason of higher mathematics that I do not understand, it became my responsibility to pay on his behalf. I am sure he will explain it to me one day, perhaps when we reconvene (as has been mooted) in Valbonne in mid March for that all important literary sensation, the launch of The Valbonne Monologues.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News

At least today I did not get lost, and although I did get the blame for Sprog 1 deciding that our exact moment of departure as a group to the slopes should be delayed by, as he put it “an urgent dump”, other than that there were no more slapping incidents, no more swearing or throwing of cigar holders into the street, in fact the day was full of sweetness and light, at least until the evening.

Some of that sweetness was engendered by the over enthusiastic ordering of Irish coffee’s, a theme developed at elevensis, again by Sprog 1, with my complete support it should be noted, at least until the bill arrived and I saw that they were 15 euros each (about £13 at today’s Currencies Direct rates).  However they were a snip compared with the prices at Les Folies Douce earlier in the week. I took a picture of their chalked wine list below.

A magnum of Champagne sir? 12,000 euros please

Last night was the final evening for Mr Clipboard and family as they are heading off this morning early (about 8 am, so in effect late last night) and he was in need of a fondue, a traditional mountain dish that had hitherto eluded us, so we went mob handed to a typical local restaurant which, having been empty every time we had walked by it during the week, was suddenly fully booked. The World Cup Downhill skiing party had obviously arrived.

We ended up at the Barometer bar across the road for, in my case,  excellent satay, far more interesting that any raclette. On the TV was a European cup game between Chelsea, supported since he was a boy by Mr Clipboard and underdogs Sparta Prague. I know that at heart I am a generous soul but I do like a wind up, so it took no time at all to make a wager against the favourites that he supports and so, although I wanted him to win – it is his last day of the holiday, there was a sneaking pleasure at half time when, having backed the underdog, they ran in 1-0 up at half time.  I take no pleasure in taking money off a public schoolboy in a bet unless, of course , it is Mr Clipboard but in the last minute they equalised, much to his relief.

Today is the last day of skiing on this particular jaunt and Mr Clipboard would have left with his tail between his legs and 20 euros poorer had Chelsea not been very lucky and scored in the final minute of the match . Of courses like the cad and a bounder that he is, he was already trying to reinterpret the bet before the lucky late score. He also stole a 10 euro note from me in an ill-advised early celebration of my victory, demonstrated in the traditional way by placing a licked bank-note on ones forehead. I do not like to use the term theft when referring to a friend, but facts are facts. I was going to suggest that, in a public schoolboy manner to  which he will be accustomed, that  I turn off the light and hope that the thief would return the money, but guiltily he did return it and I suppose gleaned some juvenile pleasure from screwing it up into a tiny ball.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News

That’s what I thought this past weekend as I waited for my favorite Italian Market to open. I wandered the streets in this sort of industrial and residential area, knowing for sure there was nothing to shoot. That’s when I stumbled upon the Girl Scout Cookie Warehouse.

I don’t know about you but if I let my mind twist in a certain direction, it could conceive of a plan to break into a Girl Scout Cookie Warehouse and not steal anything, but just grab a case of Samoas, sit on the floor and eat them till the sugar shock made me pass out. Then wake up maybe drink a tall glass of Almond Milk or sip a perfect cup of Espresso or Cappuccino and continue to feast on the gooey treats till I passed out again.

I admit my mind could go in that direction, as it has in the past, but these days I can appreciate without possessing.

I mean when you think about it… where do these cookies come from anyway? They show up at work. They show up outside department stores, grocery stores, parking lots, friends homes… but where do they come from and why is their warehouse location a secret except for the loyal scouts who seem to know where to go to pick up their crack… I mean cookies.

Are they made by aliens and find their way into our bodies under the guise of teenage girls? Thank God Andy Rooney investigated them.

Despite Rooney’s expose on their ingredients and bakers of origin, they still seem mysterious to me. After finding the warehouse just by chance, I offered the workers ridiculous sums of money to buy a box. They just replied with “we don’t accept money at this location sir… you’ll have to buy them from a girl scout.”

Well… it was time to return to the Italian Market, so I left the warehouse as the cars started lining up to pick up their orders.

The adventure at the Italian Market is a story all to itself; the way people race to secure their stool at the coffee bar or how the place gets packed in a matter of minutes after it opens. For me on this day with my camera in hand it seemed to be about odd glimpses and strange faces. I resisted processing the photos and writing the words because of how insignificant it all was.

Then I thought to myself that so much insignificance actually becomes a significantly substantial thing. In other words, nothing really is something.

Like take ravioli for instance. To some they mean nothing. To others these puffy pillows of cheesy delight are heaven’s front door. I guess that makes Samoas heaven’s back door.

Even the people who come to a market like this all look like a feast for the eyes. Colorful saucy souls stirring around a counter drooling in their mind about the drippy mess they will consume later that day. Molten melted cheeses over delicate dough cut in a variety of shapes that all turn into mush once they are consumed. Squeezing shafts of long hot crusty bread and dreaming of smothering it in Oregano wafting red or white juices….

All the shoppers secretly in their mind dreaming of their personal private eating orgies that will be held later… but for now they must remain as if they are just buying meaningless food items.

I once had pasta in Italy that was so good, it instantly disappeared after I put it in my mouth and all that was left was the memory of how it looked and the essence of its flavor.

After leaving the Italian Market I went to visit the huge Saturday Market by the bay in St. Petersburg. A lot more of nothing got found there. Nothing but people and people and more people. Booth after booth of every conceivable consumable.

In my attempt to capture as much nothing as I could, I found myself shooting into the crowd at no one. Naturally what I got was everyone.

Occasionally a canine would cross my path. I just love dogs. Who invented these creatures anyway? I mean really… they come in every shape, size, color, texture and temperament. Clearly another contribution from the extraterrestrials.

There’s always a few clever fund-raisers twisting a naughty phrase into greater awareness for spectacular causes. These ladies definitely knew how to get someone’s attention.

And of course no array of nothing is complete without the requisite fruit and vegetable shot. Who invented these rough skinned, conical orange root tubes? I mean really… how would anyone even discover that a carrot was even edible? And who knew they originated from Afghanistan! Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Soon after recovering from being poked in the eye by hairy roots, I saw another vendor studying a pair of scissors. He was a blade sharpener and he also sharpened scissors. I took so many pictures of this guy as each glance at the scissors seemed to produce a different facial expression. This one was my favorite. Ahhh… if his customers only knew that all they had to do to sharpen scissors was cut some aluminum foil… he’d be outta business pronto.

Then there was this guy. I took a few shots of him because he looked more like a character that would be produced on a television series rather than walking around in real life. Perfectly worn woolen cap on this 75 degree day with just the right political buttons shown off-center on the cap. Dark aviator shades covering most of his Lenny Kravitz/SuperFly face. And the dreds and sport jacket… man this guy was cool.

I wonder how much actual thought went into him putting together his ensemble and how much of it was just casually thrown together?

Then there was this lady. She rode up to the Belgium Waffle booth on a bicycle in order to speak Flemish with the woman running the booth. I ordered a cinnamon waffle from the vendor and as I waited, I stared at this lady’s ring. I wondered about the whole story of who she was and what she looked like when she got married and who she married and what she had to do to get him to marry her.

I wondered why I can’t seem to find a way to get a real Belgium Waffle like the one  I once ate in Brugge. I saw that vendor pull a ball of yeasty soupy battery dough out of a bucket and eject the ball from the scooper onto the super hot super old super thick cast iron waffle iron. That waffle was like its mother might have been a waffle but its father was definitely a Pillsbury Dinner roll. I’ve never tasted anything that good in my whole life nor have I been able to find it since.

Rumor is it has something to do with Belgium water being different as well as their butter, cream, eggs and yeast. And their waffle iron costs like $2,500!

Anyway… I thought her ring was pretty magnificent as well.

Some more of nothing includes more dogs. More human than humans, this puff of pup just sat in another women’s bicycle basket and let everyone pet it. Can you imagine a being whose sole purpose on this planet is to let people pet its head?

A few steps away another woman was showing off her little black Chihuahua puppy.

As I left the market a woman with a twisted spine passed me on the street. She was eager to enjoy all the nothing that delights so many people. I imagined her being grateful for just having a twisted spine for it could always be worse. I of course was grateful for so much… even so much of nothing.

It was a late start as I had lost my reading glasses and being as blind as a bat without them, replacements were needed. There is nothing wrong with my long sight, I can read the makers instructions on a jumbo jet at 40,000 feet, but a menu at arms length? No way.  This loss meant that my hundred of readers were bereft yesterday of their favourite daily column until late morning.

A trip to the pharmacy produced a gem. I found some reading glasses with lights built-in for reading in the dark, how cool is that? So this daily report on the lives of the idle rich is being written as I speak using the light from these wonderful new specs.

Another picture from Les Folies Douce which captures a passing paraglider

I am not one to read a ski map, I leave this to more organisationally challenged individuals such as Mr Clipboard. However he left before me as he is without the daily responsibility of informing a dedicated readership about the benefits of having an account with Currencies Direct for their foreign exchange needs. Thus That Nice Lady Decorator took charge of map reading duties. That she is a better skier than me is irrefutable,  as is her irritation should anything hold her up, and that thing was me.

Struggling down what I considered to be a very tricky red slope, whilst she seemed to be skiing the same slope as a much easier blue, map in one hand ski poles in the other, I got left behind. With little idea of where we were (The Alps?), I was faced with two options at the bottom of the slope. Turn right or left.  She had, of course, skied down in the full knowledge that I would know which way to go, but I think you know what happened. I turned left, she turned right.

So, lost on the slopes and fielding regular “you are an idiot” phone calls, I was eventually guided to a meeting place but not until I had become acquainted with parts of this ski domain that I had never known existed. Thus by the time I was found, alone and shivering, it was time to meet the rest of our skiing party it was time for that lunch.

We nearly did not make it back as the lifts close at around 5pm but we had not factored in that we needed to get a couple of lifts to be able to ski back to Meribel. Catching the last ride up, we were sufficiently unsettled as to require some immediate après ski remedy. This took the shape if several. Mohito’s at the Barometer Bar.

Today is the penultimate days skiing  before the trip back to blight key commences on Saturday morning but all good things must come to an end, so a last lunch will probably ensue, last because Mr Clipboard is leaving early in order to fulfil a long standing engagement at Twickenham to watch the mighty English rugby team take the next step towards the grand slam in the 6 nations rugby tournament. It could be for nothing less that I will accept his early departure and I will be consigned to finding a bar in Beaune which is televising the match, where if the car starts, we shall again be overnighting on Saturday. I don’t even mind if the commentary is in French.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News

We had skied into the infamous Folies Douce one late afternoon a few days earlier for a drink but I for one did not appreciate the banging techno music and made this clear to our party, to the extent that I was offered the noise eradicating headphones from one member.  We did not stay long. However, after having been given a detailed run down on my short comings, my age, my stuffiness  and my inability to appreciate  youth culture of any sort, whilst staring rabbit-like into the beautiful steely eyes and listening to the razor-sharp voice if Lisa Thornton Allan, I was told that my opinion had changed.

Thus lunch was taken at the afore-mentioned Folies Douce yesterday where the cheapest bottle of wine was 30 euros (about £25 at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates), rising to 50 once the self-service restaurant had closed. So I was not looking forward to the whole experience, but to my surprise I enjoyed the whole experience. It started with some gentle interpretations of accessible music  on a stage in the centre of the outdoor restaurant with the most fabulous backdrop you can imagine, developing into a great show from which the DJ took over and it worked. The secret is to be there at the start, be prepared to pay silly prices and enjoy the atmosphere grow.

Les Folies Douce, the best backdrop in the world

During the morning, Mr Clipboard, a huge AC/DC fan, was bemoaning the fact that there was an AC/DC tribute band booked to play in Meribel the week after we leave. This enabled me to remind him of what happened a couple of years ago when we went to see the real AC/DC in Nice, and he managed to get lost in a terrible state due to an over enthusiastic smoking of something which he had acquired from our very own Trip Advisor. Need I say more? More details are available in my first book “Summer In The Cote d’Azur” which will soon be eclipsed by the launch of my second book The Valbonne Monologues, the launch of which will probably take place at a reception, perhaps at Cafe Latin on Friday 15th March in Valbonne.

Last night we discovered that there was to be a comedy night at the Meribar, just 100 metres away, so we decided to go down and were treated to two established comedians,one of whom was Eric Lampaert so it was a late finish. Hence the late post this morning.

Today will probably be the highlight of the week for me as we are going to lunch at one of my all time favourite mountain restaurants, La Soucoupe. I think the only skiing today will be up to it and back from it. It is a beautiful old wooden building with some of the finest food I have ver tasted and with a wine list to drool over. Drool only of course because I cannot afford 4300 euros for a bottle of Chateau Petrus 2003. I may push the boat out a little as we are nearing the end of this skiing odyssey.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News

The night before, discussion has turned to the tragic events in South Africa where the para Olympic champion Oscar Pistorius stands accused of shooting his girlfriend. It was noted amongst our gathering that when the case finally comes to court he won’t have a leg to stand on.

There was a mishap before we went down to the lifts to commence yesterday’s skiing. Mr Clipboard, usually so organised and, of course, an organiser of some repute in his own mind, indeed some might say anally preoccupied with detail, walked down to the departure point but had forgotten something pretty vital for skiing, his skis. His hang-dog expression said it all once he had caught up, but I did suggest I would not mention it in this  column, which as you now know I have because he never reads it, but if  you see him on the slopes today, please keep this minor aberration to yourselves.

For me, skiing is all about building up an appetite for lunch.  Starting  late with aching limbs did nothing to dent that appetite, but the physical rigours of the day had two effects; firstly to delay the start of skiing and secondly to bring forward lunch, which was taken at Roc Des Marches at 2703 metres above sea level atop a fantastic panorama of snowy mountains. Personally, I always find that one bottle is never enough, and so it proved at the 6 of us managed to lay to rest about 6 bottles of wine before the descent.

The route towards Val Thorens

There was a minor altercation after a late toilet stop for my good self on the way back. Thinking that the party had become bored waiting for my ablutions to be completed and had departed,  I skied alone back to the chalet only to receive a call to say that they had stopped for a drink at a bar in the way back.

Last night, too exhausted to venture out, we stayed in and ate a Thai green curry. Some of us enjoyed the cheese course, even to the extent of mistaking the coasters for cheese biscuits. I am sure with some To give you an idea if how well things went, That Nice Lady Decorator was once again dancing on the table well before midnight. It was during the evening that I was told I it looked like I had received a parking ticket but having imbibed freely decided I would wait until this morning to move the car. Big mistake.

Awaking this morning to more blue skies, and having forgotten about the parking ticket, it seemed as everything was perfect. I looked out the window to see what all the activity was about and saw that there was a market being set up across the road. How nice I thought until I realised that our car was no longer parked where it was. Parking is at a bit of a premium in Meribel, but just how much of a premium I will hopefully discover today when I go and reclaim it from the police pound, probably at the expense of a big fine. I am so glad that I used the services if Currencies Direct to move some money to euros ahead of the trip. At least this will enable me to give my aching limbs the morning off from skiing.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News

The most fantastic skiing had me, a fair weather skier, quite happy to venture out early and go high, even considering a black run at one stage just after a coffee and cognac stop, but in the end sense prevailed and we reached lunchtime with out further incident.

Lunch was taken at the vastly overpriced (even at Currencies Direct exchange rates)  but still decent Panoramic restaurant where I had an excellent rosti with reblechon. Mr Clipboard described it as a it like eating nag pole, a reference I think to the recent ridiculous furore about horse meat entering the food chain. If the burger eaters of Essex, who are all apparently up in arms about the very idea, had any idea of exactly which parts of the cow were being minced up for their working class delight, burger sales would plummet. nostrils, intestines, testicles, ears, in fact any part of a cow that is not chopped up for steaks and the like are routinely used for burgers, so to object to eating horse is laughable, the real issue is the deception in the meat supply industry. Should the culprits ever be brought before a judge I do hope their defence would revolve around horsing about. I also hope that they don’t flee the country, otherwise the police may be accused of shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted.

Over lunch of horse rosti, discussion turned to the Pope ans his recent decision to resign. I don’t know how the theme of the discussion turned to what he might have for breakfast but the best call was Eggs Benedict.

Public schoolboy has assignation with a cock

My picture today is of my public schoolboy friend Mr Clipboard kissing a cock. I suggested that it was just like being back at a school for him, where this kind of activity was seen as recreation when he was at Wellington, and took the opportunity to remind him of his part in the dreadful episode of bullying some 15 months earlier, when I had been held down by him and four of his public schoolboy compatriots and been subjected to a physical assault, having my luxuriant beard forcibly slashed to within an inch of its life. Whilst he has never denied his ring leading role in this assault, He refuted the charge of bullying on the basis that, had it been bullying I would have been tied naked on the roundabout outside the Auberge St Donat in Plascassier and be buggered repeatedly. No, he exclaimed, this was nothing like bullying, just a little horse-play. Oops, there I go again. In inappropriate horse gags. I must remember to be a little more precise in my subject matter being discussed one might say. Perhaps I should consider blinkers ?

Chris France
@Valbonne_News

The 4 hour journey down to Meribel which should have taken 4 hours took 6 due to the appalling traffic. I have sworn an oath that I shall never again be talked into going to the Alps at half term. It could have been worse however, with our chalet sharing companions electing to get the first Channel Tunnel crossing yesterday morning, only to run into half the cars in Europe all heading for the same valley. Also, Meribel is the venue for a skiing World Cup race during the week. Had it been this weekend then I think I would have turned the car around and headed back to Arundel.

So arriving in late afternoon and organising all those irksome tasks such as ski passes (an astonishing 245 euros per person for the 6 days.  With insurance the cost went over 1000 euros ( about £850 at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates) I was talked into a quick beer at the Barometer Bar, owned by a charming chap called Clive whom I had met before in Valbonne on several occasions.

Heading for Meribel

As we were the first to arrive, I was told that we had to make all the beds. Given the exorbitant cost of renting the chalet, I was a bit miffed at this and asked if they had supplied hammer and nails. But it was worse than that, I was expected to put duvet covers onto duvets, a ridiculously difficult task, best suited to women. So now I know why the Thornton Allan’s and Mr and Mrs Clipboard were so happy for us to arrive first.

I should mention here that I have already won 10 euros from Mr Clipboard, a wager about who would arrive first between himself and the Thornton Allan’s. It should make no difference that the result was fixed as I had sensibly laid off the bet by offering Slash and Burn a bribe of 5 euros to ensure victory, but it is fair to say that Mr Clipboard saw things differently. Eventually, after much cajoling, he did pay up but in bad grace. I now have a bank-note which was torn in half, but Sellotape will come to the rescue, and will contribute to the family budget for the week. He is a cad and a bounder and he knows it, and furthermore he knows he will be reminded regularly of this fact in the week to come.

Discussion turned to the linked resort to Meribel of Mottaret, more “cost conscious” part of Les Trois valleys ski area. It is a concrete jungle built by the French in the sixties which whilst being skier friendly exhibits all the charm of a concentration camp on a wet day in February. It does, however, provide a usable habitat for those renegades from Essex who can afford to travel to the Alps for skiing.  This particular species is easily identified by the habitual wearing of ski suits and apparel made by Woolworths. It was a sad day when this renowned UK retailer bit the dust a few years ago, but their creations live on and are a favourite amongst the Essex fraternity.

And, so the great skiiing debacle is about to begin, and as you read this  shall be swishing down the slopes looking for a suitable place for a morning coffee and cognac.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News

I am happy to report that contrary to popular belief (mine) it was not dark at this ungodly hour, in fact Arundel was bathed in bright sunshine for at least 10 minutes before the customary and omnipresent greyness returned. What is the point of cloud without rain? Perhaps the Reverend Jeff has the answer?

Look how pretty Arundel can be when its not grey.

We traversed the snowfields of northern France (ok, that is a bit of an exaggeration, but we did see evidence of recent heavy snowfall in terms of large drifts in the corners of fields) in remarkably good time, arriving at Beaune at around 5.30. I cannot tell you which time we left Calais as this may be incriminating in terms if the local traffic police. I was told later that I had slept through the fog, which makes a change to sleeping in a fog.

Talking of fog, I have brought with me on this trip (along with some very nice Currencies Direct brochures) a fine collection of Havana’s best export and duly intend, outside weather conditions permitting, to create a very decent cigar smelling fog of my own in the company of Slash and Burn Thornton Allan, a fellow connoisseur of one of Sir Walter Raleigh’s better discoveries, during this coming week. I do not believe there is any rule about not smoking whilst skiing and intend to find out just how satisfying that will be.

The town if Beaune is beautiful and historic and The Hotel Belle Époque is a splendid and wonderful hotel. It is just a pity that the idea of customer service is an undiscovered art. Arriving a little earlier than expected because of a tail wind (and here nothing should read into my rather unfortunate affliction over the past few days, now mercifully abating) we headed out for a drink on the way to dinner. It was when we returned later for a nightcap we were told we could not drink in the bar (why?) and could not have a drink in our room but the lady in charge told us we could buy a drink and sit outside. We declined. What a shame to have a good impression of the hotel so fatally undermined by insensitive service.

On the way into town earlier, the Sprogs had spotted a bar called The Publican selling draft Guinness and cider, and before I could say Gevrey Chambertin I was sat in the bar with a pint of overpriced Irish stout. It was over these aperitifs that Sprog 1 admitted to downloading the Trip Advisor app. It seems it was not quite the advice he was looking for. His defence, that their logo has an owl with what he considered to be drug-crazed eyes was met with the correct response, a torrent of scorn and mirth.

But even better was to come. As the second pint of Guinness settled inside that Nice Lady Decorator, and when the waiter failed on the first occasion to understand my perfect French (clearly I have developed a Côte d’Azur accent having lived there for so long until M Sarkozy invented a tax to drive me back to the UK), I learned that in order properly to communicate with the French one should speak French in an English accent. I was told that if one does then they can’t look at you and repeat it as if they can’t understand, because they cannot do the accent, thus better to speak French with an Oxford or even a Cockney accent. This is according to that expert on language skills, that Nice Lady Decorator, who the proceeded to demonstrate successfully.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News

The skiies are laid out in the garden, and but for a shopping trip to Brighton, would have been strapped onto the ski rack by lunchtime yesterday, had I not pointed out that driving around Brighton with skis in a ski rack might cause some comment. I know there has been some snow locally recently but I think that would be stretching the point.

So by the time you read this, I shall be in the car heading for the Channel Tunnel on our way to Meribel for a weeks skiing. All those black, red and blue runs could well be joined by a brown run, as pointed out yesterday by the Reverend Jeff, should my current ailment not improve somewhat. The first point at which I felt human the evening before was when I reluctantly ordered and drank a pint of Harvey’s, concluding that it was a kill or cure and miraculously, it was more of a cure and I was not dead yesterday morning. I think the brewery are missing a trick here in their marketing as this was close to a miracle cure. Billy brown tail banished (nearly).

By tonight then, I shall be tucked up in bed in Beaune. Give the dog a bone they say, and this dog would love to find some of Beaune’s finest red wine this evening, something which should not be hard to find in this pretty town. We are staying a charming hotel, right in the centre called Hotel Belle Epoque once we arrive after an exhausting 6 hour drive across France. I have sensibly used the wonderful services of Currencies Direct to get the best rates for euros for our trip, and will need a substantial quantity as we have both impecunious Sprogs in tow.

Elmer Sands, grey sky, grey sea, grey sand. Boy am I looking forward to some colour and sunshine

The cover print for The Valbonne Monologues has arrived and been approved and so production has commenced with books due to be delivered to me in early March. Flights have been booked and I shall be in Valbonne from 14th March to satisfy demand for my presence or, if I am honest, to whip up some enthusiasm for the launch, whatever shape it may take. This time, not only a paperback, but a hardback version are being printed. I would like to think that this represents another rung up the ladder to the tower of literature, but cynics might believe that with a limited market, one should try to extract as much cash out of each sale as possible. What I had not considered is that printing in colour, and adding pictures, which caused the pixie problem, causes the price to be much higher per copy, so my break even on the last book of 120 sales (almost doubled – giving my the opportunity to call myself a successful author), will be much harder to achieve this time around. The good news is that under the new ISBN regulations, the new one will be available to order from any book store!

Chris France
@Valbonne_News

After an unfortunate run in with, I think, a dodgy peanut yesterday, I am afraid I was not at my best, indeed I spent more time than usual in the bathroom reliving err.. the evacuation, even retiring to my bed in the afternoon. I emerged after Sprog had arrived hot foot (in a cloud of putrid smoke) in his Citroen Saxo Mischief from college at Guildford. My second shock of the day was to catch him watching ghastly TV series Miss Marple with that Nice Lady Decorator. Whilst I have come to accept that this futile ridiculous excuse for proper TV will often be given house room on dreary afternoons in England,  I was astonished that a 19-year-old exhibiting all the usual traits associated with the student fraternity, trousers perched half way over his buttocks, rolling tobacco and a healthy interest in the opposite sex, might be seduced by Joan Higson, the actress responsible for this aberration. I came to believe that I was delirious.  Later Sprog 2 arrived and a family reunion took place.

It won’t take long before these start disappearing and end up in dubious cigarettes

So I spent much of the afternoon considering how best to continue to reach out to people with foreign exchange needs, admirably handled by Currencies Direct, now the official partner for the soon to be Oscar nomination winning John Otway, who will need some euros for his Cannes events at the Film Festival. Who better than I to be on the spot as their faithful representative to ensure that everything goes according to plan?

Today will be the last day of preparations before the skiing trip, which we depart on Friday morning. Due to my malaise I managed to remount the temperance wagon, mainly because I did not want to vomit over everything in sight. This lasted until Sprog 2 arrived home quite late demanding a pint of cider. She has her mothers genes.

I must recover today, and to help ignite excitement for the skiing trip I had a conversation with Mr Clipboard who, along with Slash and Burn Thornton Allan and respective families will comprise the whole skiing party. Rather unkindly Mr Clipbeard is bringing some oven gloves with him, a rather cruel but amusing reference to an oven, broken by Sprog 1 in juvenile New Years Eve party, trying to reenact a scene from a Film called Project X in which a dwarf is inserted into an oven. I rather suspect that there will be a few more jokes “cooked up” over the forthcoming week of skiing at Meribel. It would all be very amusing except for the many hundreds of pounds it has cost to replace said cooker. However, us Brits laugh at adversity, and joke about disaster and anyway, he will pay us back one day. I have told him to consider it his very own student loan.

So my beloved France will be in sight tomorrow, the delights of the channel tunnel and after a  burn down the motorways of northern France, I shall, gloriously, be ensconced in the centre of Beaune, savouring some of the local produce I hope, as long as the squits have left me, and I don’t mean the Sprogs.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News

So a trek around all 6 shops in the town came to an end when we found that The Kings Arms was open and serving, as I may have mentioned before, the worlds best beer, London Pride. So what was a man to do? Having cycled furiously in the morning, gaining some kudos and doubtless losing several kilos en route, I was undone by a late afternoon decision, to which I was not a part, which I have to say undermined my resolve to be thin and fit before skiing.

Whilst communing with ale we met a chap at the bar who invited us to attend quiz night at the Kings Arms, so at that point, the whole evening was a temperance right off.

Whilst the publication of my picture yesterday of someone, who may or may not have been Mr Clipboard in a state of undress in a snow storm, was an attempt at humour, his publication on his Facebook page of a picture purporting to be me, in a similar state of undress and lying a sled  in a snowstorm was not funny, not me, and a fabrication amounting to libel. My lawyers, Downhill, Frozen and Innocent are looking at this aberration at the moment so as to decide upon what grounds proceedings can be issued.

A much more sedate photo today, after that of yesterday, Arundel castle in the gloom

Quiz night was a triumph, at least for one of the teams but I know not which, but at least we avoided the booby prize of 4 Kit Kats, traditionally awarded to the team with the least number of points. Had I known in advance the prize situation for the least competitive, perhaps the result would have been different. That Nice Lady Decorator is partial to a Kit Kat, and I have always liked Marianne Faithful, or perhaps I am mixing up my confectionery   Suffice to say that a great deal of wisdom and knowledge passed me by during the evening in a wonderful warm blast of beer and wine.

But the genie is out of the bag. The plan for three days of abstinence is in tatters and with Sprogs arriving today, I do not see the programme continuing past about 5pm this evening. I love them both dearly but dearly is the operative word. They will be costing me dear for the next 10 days, especially given the current collapse of the value of the £ against the euro. We head for the Channel Tunnel on Friday morning at 8am sharp, with a hotel booked in Beaune on the way down to Meribel. As the chalet is self catering, I decided it would be advisable to stop in one of the better French wine areas, to provision up for the forthcoming week. This is purely a cost saving exercise, and will be a welcome change from the other more enforced form of exercise.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News

There is no excuse, the weather gods have dropped sufficient moisture on this green and unpleasant land to keep every plant secure in the knowledge that drought will not be problem for the forseeable future. Faced with such a horrible day, there was nothing else for it, after attempting a walk at Clymping beach in absolutely ridiculously unpleasant conditions, what else can one to do than retire to a traditional English pub for sustenance?

So faced with no choice, we headed for the George and Dragon at Houghton, but with the car park rammed and the rain still going sideways, and desperate for a good pint and a good feed, we settled on the Bridge at Amberley. We got neither. The Timothy Taylors Landlord, the second best beer in the world was once again not well-kept, watery and too flat, all the specials of the day had sold out, forcing me into unnatural territory, a traditional English roast. Not being able to face the beef, having an aversion to over cooked thinly sliced cardboard bereft of any taste and smothered in gravy of a dubious nature, I reluctantly decided on the roast pork because at least there might be some crackling. What I got was thinly sliced overcooked tasteless pork swimming in gravy of dubious provenance. So to summarise (should that not be winterise?) I was the unlucky recipient of flat beer, poor food, sitting on an uncomfortable chair in the draft by the door watching the rain sheet down.

A photo of a very different day in Australia a few short months ago

The omens for the afternoons rugby were thus not good and I had a nasty vision of a smiling and happy John “802 and a half years of repression” O Sullivan licking his lips as he took the 10 euro note (about £8 at today’s Currencies Direct exchange rates) and in a very juvenile fashion, lick it and stick it on his forehead. It was in a state of some trepidation (possibly something to do with that roast pork) that we returned to the White Hart in Arundel to watch the game. But god took pity on me. He forsook the Catholic route and rewarded a fine disciplined display by England with a famous victory in Dublin over the Irish in the 6 nations rugby. Thus when I next see him, I shall be able, triumphantly and nobly, to celebrate this great victory with a crisp new 10 euro note sticking to my forehead in a very grown up sort of way. I made a call to him straight after the match but surprisingly he did not answer his phone. I left a message saying I had missed the game and did he know the result? Astonishingly, as I write this on Monday morning, he has not yet returned my call.

The temperance wagon is set to roll again over the next three days as preparations for the forthcoming skiing reach a crescendo. I say three days because after that the Sprogs will begin returning from their various student abodes, emerging hungry and broke and ready to fleece their poor parents for as much as they possibly can. They will no doubt insist on being taken to the pub and who am I, a doting father, to deny them? Particularly as it gives me an excuse to go myself.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News

We had just returned from another mountainous trek across the South Downs in cold and partly sunny weather, sufficiently cool for the ground, which was mud yesterday, to be pleasingly firm, and she was looking at the garden with that spring-like zeal that I know is going to cost me money. Perhaps that was the reason, when I was at my most vulnerable (i.e. when I must get my wallet out), that I misinterpreted who was due for a decking.

Last night then, into Arundel with the great man himself, John Otway. On the one hand it was rather rude for this to be described as “like the mountain coming to Mohammed” but then I realised that in this context I was not the mountain. For a moment I thought that perhaps those days of temperance and fasting were beginning to have some effect. Some may believe that the reason John came to see me was finally to sort out his account with Currencies Direct. Others, more sensible in outlook, will surmise that this is just an excuse for a gratuitous mention of their wonderful foreign exchange services, and I suspect the latter opinion carries more weight (a bit like me).

Anyway, an early pint at the White Hart was followed by several more at the Kings Arms, where we availed ourselves of the very sensible offer to have a take away delivered, with the pub supplying plates, knives, forks and serviettes, a most splendidly far-sighted arrangement. Of course discussions were all about Otway. When he himself is the subject then he is very attentive and animated, but if the talk meanders away from his favourite subject he is much quieter. Luckily he was recognised in all 3 pubs we went to so we were able to remain on message. After his first hit single in 1978, the memorable “Cor Baby That’s Really Free” and subsequent appearance on Top Of The Pops, he was once accused of refusing to go on the underground in London in case he was not recognised.

Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor takes the sign on the wall rather too seriously

Later on, after finalising the outline plan for the Otway fans assault on this years Cannes Film Festival,  I deposited John at the station for his return trip to London and left that Nice Lady  Decorator in the very competent hands of Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor, whom we has run into at each if the pubs we had gone into.  The last stop was at The Red Lion, being on the way to the station from the Kings Arms. His competence however was brought into some doubt, when I returned to the pub, by his misguided decision, illustrated by my picture today, to pick up the guitar on open mike night (an event that Mr Otway would have found very hard to resist had he not consumed 5 pints if beer by then). He was to the blues guitar what Darcy Bussell is to potato picking. Thank god he did not try to sing.

Today has dawned bright sunny and frosty so a perfect day to venture once again into the hills of The South Downs and throw of the effects if too much beer and wine, and the rather different effects of the Chinese takeaway we had delivered to the pub. It is amazing how hard a night out hits you after three days of temperance and I take that as a warning not to try such a thing again.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News

Indeed I shall be working again this evening, but in a much more efficient way, this time with a glass of beer and then wine in my hand. Enigmatic pop star, top songwriter (according to a rigged poll by the BBC) and now film star, albeit in his own film about himself, John Otway is being transported to Arundel this evening courtesy of National Rail.

There are two reasons why he would let the train take the strain; firstly the boy does like a beer which would preclude him from driving, and secondly he does not drive. Anyone who has ever witnessed his chaotic live shows will know why it was a wise decision for him at an early age to decide not to learn. Falling off a motorbike 9 times on the way from Aylesbury to Luton in his teens was sufficient, even for him, to heed the advice he has received from  his friends, never to venture onto the road under his own steam ever again.

As if more compulsive evidence of his unsuitability to take charge of a motorised vehicle was required, there was one episode in my youth that underlined the wisdom if this decision. The Reverend Jeff, another contemporary of the time, had spent some months restoring a lambretta  scooter and had painted it pink. Otway decided to show the good Reverend how to do a wheelie. I need hardly mention that this episode did not end well. The scooter never went again.

It is true that John’s first taste of fame went to his head sufficiently for him to purchase a Bentley. I encouraged him of course, in fact it was I who went to complete the purchase, mainly due to the fact that I would get a chance to drive it.  Anyway, Mr Otway and I have serious business to discuss. That is the delusion under which we labour. We shall in fact be enjoying ourselves hugely planning yet another Otway scam, this time involving a guerrilla promotional attack on the Cannes Film Festival should they be unwise enough not to allow Otway The Movie to be screened during the film Festival market.

South Downs south of Arundel

Yesterday in preparation, I took once again to the West Sussex Downs in some rather splendid sunshine in search of exercise. Cold, certainly, but bracingly pleasant with wonderful views down to Arundel as my picture today depicts. The training is for the forthcoming skiing in the Alps.

Thereafter the weekend will be on the horizon and I have cause to believe that we are invited to a sushi evening. I discovered this by chance when popping to The White Hart to borrow some ice for my Virgin Mary. Note the will power that would have been required to go into a pub and not order a drink . Anyway, whilst there I was told that I was invited to, and had accepted, an invitation on Friday evening. It is often the case that I am the last to know about a social occasion.  Clearly I am not on that Nice Lady Decorator’s “need to know” list.  She believes that too much information is bad for me although exactly why has never been duly explained. Perhaps she is always keeping her options (of going without me) open.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News

A gruelling day yesterday, up and down the motorway and around the biggest car park in the world, the M25, represented a very busy day for me. However business was done, another soon to be successful music enterprise was launched and I even think I may have a couple of new customers for Currencies Direct.

On the return to Arundel at dusk I was struck by just how Spooky Arundel Castle looked just after sunset so I took this photo.

Arundel Castle, aka Hogwarts  at sunset in winter

The spat goes on with the Reverend Jeff, aided and abetted by contributor Howzatt who concludes, wrongly,  that the Reverend had held his own. In fact that is exactly how I remember him, so at least this time he is not holding anyone else’s, but I digress. As cricketers the world over will be aware, the exclamation “how’s that” is an appeal to the umpire for a batsman to be given out. Cricketers the world over also know that DRS (Direct Referral System – effectively a review of the umpire’s decision when a mistaken decision is suspected) was introduced into international cricket because of the number of poor decisions made by umpires. I am afraid that the analogy holds true for Howzaat’s interpretation of the war of words. Perhaps he is also an avid reader of the Daily Mail?

Another teetotal day yesterday, the second of an unprecedented planned 3 in succession, a feat not managed for some years, was successfully negotiated,  so just one more day to go and then, in celebration of this will power, we shall head into Arundel on Thursday night with old pal John Otway, with whom I expect to down a few pints whilst we plan his guerilla warfare for and on the Cannes Film Festival in May. Of course, it may not come to that but just in case Otway The Movie is not selected for the festival and market itself, we have to have contingency plans in place. So what better way to discuss this than during a pub crawl in the village.

I love it when I am funny (which is a trait sadly lacking in Benny  Hill and the Carry On team). Sprog 1 has a wreck if a car which, before the rust and mud took over was called a Citroen Saxo Mischief. As a result he has named the car Mischief and recently the driver’s door became jammed so the only way has to get into it is via the passenger door. I suggested that this might be construed as a good thing. When he asked why I told him it was now going to be more difficult for him to get into mischief. He did not laugh. Maybe he is a Benny Hill fan.

Last night then was spent in front if the TV enjoying some episodes of Mrs Brown’s Boys and Miranda and thoroughly enjoyable they were too. Tonight looks like being a re-run as the temperance bites deeply into my soul but with my fast reducing waistline and newly toned muscles rippling beneath my shirt (at least I think it was they that were rippling) the training for the skiing trip is going well. Of course once the fitness part is taken care of, the training for the drinking and eating will need to be attended to and I am looking forward to that part of the training a great deal more.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News

He was reacting yesterday to my comments about the puerile humour of Benny Hill and seeking to elevate the status of this “comic” to a higher plane than normal people could possibly contemplate. I have known the Reverend for some 40 years during which time he has provided me with a great deal of entertainment, through chasing girls together in our teens, providing sporting rivalry on the tennis court, golf course and squash court as he hates to lose as much as I, but the most humour has always been gleaned by challenging his belief in god.

The good Reverend believes the bible, implicitly and without question. all of it, every last dot and scintilla, and whilst on one level I admire the dogmatic clinging to beliefs even as they are undermined and eroded by modern discoveries and common sense, I confess that I have laughed at him. Darwinism to him does not exist, the human race began with Adam and Eve.  He probably believes the world is flat.

So yesterday’s little outburst was another amusing spat but once again I have triumphed. As if proof were needed, he writes poetry for free for the Daily Mail. I write for reward for the Daily Telegraph. That should goad him into some response today, that and the fact that I must venture north to Milton Keynes. Why so? I hear you fail to ask.  I once managed an artist called Eddie Stanton who, apart from writing a song called “Milton Keynes We Love You” was also responsible  for a little ditty called “Please Don’t Throw Me To The Christians”. Quite. Reverend Jeff , what say you?

Gin and tonic?

I now turn my attention to the photograph above which exhibits an alarmingly imaginative creation of a gin and tonic. I can hear you mumbling that it looks like nothing of the sort and you may be forgiven for thinking there is a sausage in the glass. That is because there is. It is frozen, but what is a girl (in this case that Nice Lady Decorator) to do when it is the weekend and she develops a sudden craving for a drink and then finds that there is no ice in the freezer? Why,  use something else that is frozen of course.

But back to Milton Keynes, so-called city of the trees, but for several winters when I lived nearby known as city of the sticks after an enterprising thief sold the council 4000 ash trees, which look like sticks in winter, and remained sticks thereafter and well after he had pocketed the cash and disappeared to the Caribbean.  I am going back for the first time in decades as, strange as it may seem, there is an interesting business opportunity which does not involve Currencies Direct, to explore. Trust me to choose a day with an amber alert for snow showers.

With no exercise today, I took the opportunity yesterday to flog up some more hills on the Sussex Downs to try to sweat out the weekends excess over several miles of uphill murder. Worse, I did not have a drink and worse still I did not even feel like one. I must have a couple of weeks quiet contemplation before a weeks skiing at Meribel for half term with Mr Clipboard, Slash and Burn Thornton Allan and respective wives plus a rake (old Buckinghamshire collective noun) of Sprogs. To say that this might be a frenzied party for a week would be an understatement.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News

I reckon that Nagasaki must be Japanese for nag city. This was my conclusion after I was subjected yesterday morning to a stream of “correctional briefings” which ranged in subject from drinking too much beer, eating too much cheese and drinking too much wine.  It also encompassed putting my clothes in the wrong place, placing my shoes incorrectly and of course, that most cardinal of sins, wearing a jacket over my sweaters causing them to bobble.  I am not nagging she said, when challenged, I am just telling you (very forcefully) what you are doing wrong. This was after I complained that her torrent of complaints, or suggested incremental guidelines, as she would be more likely to describe the stream of nagging yesterday, amounted to nagging. I pointed out that I did not nag her when she used my razor to shave off the bobbles on my new woolly sweather, despite my face looking like a baby’s bottom covered in nappy rash as a result of trying to shave with it, nor did I take major issue with her when the devil dog, Banjo, chewed a hole in the cupboard to get at the dog food.

The watery wastes of Arundel

With rain promised later in the day, we had taken a trip over to Graffham in the South Downs after I had stupidly said that it was too flat locally for a proper walk and I needed some hills to get the red corpuscles moving.  She found me a hill. Heart attack hill. It was very however beautiful in a steep wintery way and walking up it had the effect of generating an enormous thirst. It seemed to be too much of an opportunity not to try out the local pubs in the village in a vain search for potential Currencies Direct clients.

The Foresters Arms is a charming pub, beams and an open fire and Doom Bar on draft made for a happy experience and I had settled in with a pint before a roaring log fire, but that Nice Lady Decorator was determined to try the other pub in the village, the White Horse, which although cozy was a far less enthralling prospect. At first look it is a lovely old building but as soon as you get through the door I knew it was not for me. The entrance was ruined by being confronted almost immediately by a fruit machine and a pool table. Not my idea of what to expect from a traditional English pub.

Returning to Arundel in time to see Italy beat France in the 6 Nations rugby was a delight but that is it, the weekend is over and a bleak week lies ahead. I even have to venture north as far north as Milton Keynes this week, for some meetings designed to further the development of the music industry. Yes, work. A four letter word ending in k. I shall need bull bars fitted to the Merc, to lay in provisions,  blankets and a shovel to dig my way out of snowdrifts. I imagine that at midday we may get some twilight to light up the tundra but as long as the roads are open palm an escape the same day back down to the relative civilisation of West Sussex.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News

So with the day’s plans abandoned we decided that, as it was the only nice day of the winter, we would have a drive around and see what we could find to amuse ourselves.  We had been told that Bosham, just the other side of Chichester, was pretty so went to take a look. A charming estuary surrounded by some pretty houses in reasonable although rather cold conditions provided a nice walk and it would have been churlish not to go into the only pub, the Anchor Bleu, curiously a French name for a quintessentially English pub.

The trouble started at the next stop, The Black Rabbit. If I tell you that my car is still there and we staggered home you may get an inkling that things progressed rather differently to expectations.

A rare sunset in Arundel

The problem was that they had run out of proper beers as they were closing that very evening for a 7 week refurbishment. They warned us as we arrived but before we could cancel our reservation mentioned that they had some of “that wine you like that we got in specially”. There was little choice but to continue with the planned lunch. Some months before, I had remonstrated with the excellent management about the lack if a decent wine in their offering and had been urged by them to write to owners, Hall and Woodhouse, as their hands were tied. In the letter I had drawn myself up to my true literary height; author, writer of articles for The Daily Telegraph etc. and lo and behold there was an excellent Grand Cru St Emilion waiting for us on our next visit. So you see our conundrum; as this wine had been specially ordered in for us, we had to eschew the one pint of beer I had planned and proceed to drink it.

With the refurbishment will come a new wine list, so they had a couple of other bottles left over which they generously gave us, so you can see that it would have been churlish not to have drink at least one of them. That concludes the case for the defence.

Walking back to Arundel, I took a right turn to the Kings Arms to watch the rugby, whilst that Nice Lady Copout went home. At least that was what I was told she said she had planned, but I got a text saying she was watching it at the White Hart, having been intercepted by Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor. It was on the way back for the second half that I took this photo of an Arundel sunset. It seemed to capture the moment when coherence left me for the day. Again, that is the case for the defence.

Chris France

Thinking the brakes had seized up or the gears were suffering after an ill-judged cycle on the beach before leaving for MIDEM, I spent ten minutes fiddling with the back wheel, the chain and gears before I realised the problem was with the front one.  As if to remind me that I have now entered my 60th  year, as I was struggling with the salt encrusted contraption a lady came up to me to ask if  I was OK and if I needed any help. It was a kind thought but it was not the offer of help, but the way she offered that help that stung , it was in that obsequious and concerned way that is often adopted when one is talking to older people, but it is the first time I have been on the receiving  end. Usually I dish it out.

From that you will understand that yesterday was also not a good day. I had just reached the bridge on the way to the Black Rabbit to book it for lunch tomorrow, and had stopped to take this picture because I was struck by the green tinge of growth under the water, when the problem started.  I know this is a tad highbrow for my readership but stay with me. I was also struck by the strange macabre  beauty of the water in front if the mill.

Green bloom in Arundel

I know what you are thinking; he’s been at the juice again but in fact the exact opposite is the case. Another almost teetotal day, being mistaken for an old person in trouble, sideways rain and then the message that Slash and Burn Thornton Allan is not well and there is a chance my day of fun tomorrow will not take place, together conspired to make yesterday memorable for all the wrong reasons.

There were good parts to the day; the sun came out for about ten minutes late in the afternoon, I am going to help a Currencies Direct customer to save over a thousand pounds in a house purchase by saving on the exchange rates and best of all Banjo, the disaster dog owned by that Nice Lady Decorator,  has been muzzled for most of the day. He had clawed and bitten his way through a wooden cupboard door to steal food from the doggy larder, no doubt whilst the properly behaved dog, Max, the aristocratic and obedient well-mannered family pet loved by all, no doubt sat in his basket tutting.  Banjo is the cabine equivalent, and as popular as, an Al Qaeda supporter in a hoody with a dose, and that  is being generous.

So today might not be the fun interlude in a teetotal lock down that I had hoped. As I write I do not know if our visitors are still coming. Man flu is of course very serious, surpassing childbirth in terms of pain, distress and debilitation on most occasions but I know my friend realises my predicament and if he can come then he will. On the other hand there may be an ulterior motive. Cigars. He has promised to bring some so if he fails to arrive then I will smell a rat, instead of the aroma of Havana.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News

From the beaches of the Cote d’Azur to the beaches of Sussex represented a similar difference in the quality of life. On Wednesday we enjoyed a lazy drink on the beach in shirtsleeves before going to the airport and donning all the clothes in our suitcases. By way of utter contrast, yesterday we went to the beaches of Rustington and Clymping. Although there was a rare glimpse of English sun, the wind was close to gale force, I was wearing 6 layers of clothing, woolly hat and Wellington boots and I did not get a nice glass of champagne whilst sitting in my shirtsleeves in the sun. Had I tried that then hypothermia would have been a certainty and the bubbles would have been strewn Across the county.

Not that it was not exciting. The wind had whipped up large waves and with a spring tide there was even more damage to the sea defences. In the south of France the only damage inflicted by a walk at the sea-side would have been to one’s Gucci loafers on a stroll in the soft golden sand.

Sea defences get a battering

Back to work with a vengeance and with that Nice Lady Decorator determined to spend a couple of days without a drink which, by enforced association, is a position I am expected I have had to adopt. There was not even any solace to be had in a glass of crushed fruit, as Peachy likes to refer to red wine. Horlicks she said, as I had my face glued to a computer checking out the latest Currencies Direct exchange rates, and for a few milli-seconds as I had not heard here clearly , my face lit up, but she meant what she had said: Horlicks, nothing whatever to do with any licking of any sort by anyone and no association with loose women.

Today will be slightly better, well it had better be better having had a night off, and in any event it is the last day before Saturday, when Slash and Burn Thornton Allan arrives. To start with he will be in the thrall of those steely eyes owned by his wife and trained on him in much the way of a machine gun tower. However, we both know that after a couple of glasses of prosecco she becomes a pussy cat, full of sweetness and light (OK, we are pushing at the boundaries of belief here) and he can then relax, take string drunk (strong drink) smoke cigars with me.

So last night, after I could take no more Midsomers Murders, and in the absence of anything to dull that particular pain, I immersed myself in yet more work. I need to research where we will go for Easter, that Nice Lady Decorator having generously told the Sprogs that she would take then somewhere warm to celebrate the death of Jesus. I thought it was supposed to be hell where it was hot? Gas ovens are warm but regular readers will know that I am on dangerous ground here, given Sprog 1′s unfortunate “dwarf in the oven Project X” debacle. Anyway, in regard to the intended holiday, I am hoping that if I can come up with a good deal then she will take me too.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News