The Restaurant

I woke up this morning and knew it was going to be a gorgeous day. The warm, orange, early morning light filtered through the gaps in the shutters and this was the sun starting to arrive. It slowly climbed over the hills behind Monaco before it arrived in its full glory in Tourrettes . This pleasure was curtailed however, as when J kicked me out of bed to make her her first morning cuppa, I couldn’t move. It was the bad back syndrome. This started 30 years ago when I lifted an IBM router weighing some 50 lbs and ‘did my back in’. I should have sued them, but as it was the first week of the ‘job of my life’, I thought better of it and soldiered on. I did go to my doctor who sent me to a specialist (after checking I had Bupa cover) and she said, ‘you can have an operation but I wouldn’t advise it – you may have to live with this for the rest of your life’. And so I’ve been living with it for the rest of my life. Some days it’s ok but I suspect that today’s pain was caused by my gardening efforts next door (they’ve gone to Italy for the weekend) and so the cure is cigarettes and drink. I keep thinking I should try cannabis but as I’ve never touched a drug in my life (recreational that is apart from Viagra – possibly the subject of a later blog) I don’t think I should start now despite its reputed healing benefits. I’m also pissed off that today you could put a router in a lady’s handbag but hey, that’s progress. If only medicine moved at the same rate as technology I’d be able to do cartwheels and somersaults. 

So to the restaurant. Not the TV programme where a bunch of total culinary incompetents battle to see who will open a restaurant in partnership with Raymond Blanc but where I had lunch today. But first the programme. There’s a Chinese guy who can’t cook rice which is the equivalent of me not being able to fry an egg. There’s the couple who used to (incredibly) run a chain of 9 restaurants where the wife (the cook) specialises in Burger, Chips and Beans, and the two gay guys who specialise in cocktails (forgive the pun) and sandwiches! But I digress again. 

Today, Kitty, our newly turned 12 year old daughter, finished school early and asked if she could go into Vence (our nearest town) for lunch with her friends. I was a bit wary of this because although Vence is a very safe place to be, even for a 12 year old, I just thought that she was a bit young but after a phone call to her father we agreed that it would be ok if I was in the vicinity. Cue lunch!  So whilst Kitty was in deepest Vence (about the size of a London market), I tried to find a restaurant with an outside eating area where I could take my medicinal cigarettes. I found one and sat down and as I was on my own (aaaah) I did two things which I love – mainly people watching and reading my newspaper without the ‘benefit’ of extraneous conversation. 

On my left there were 6 guys, average age about 25, who obviously were out to tease the waitress (a good looking 45 I would say) and whilst they engaged in some good natured banter with her when she was serving them at the table, the conversation turned totally horny as soon as she left. I could not understand what they were saying but the gestures said it all as did the fact that their tongues were hanging out! 

On my right I was sure it was an office boss taking his librarianesque secretart, sorry secretary, out to lunch. It was all going swimmingly with knowing looks and glasses of champagne to start with (it wasn’t a posh place  – a glass of champers in a cheap restaurant is only about £2) but then he knocked a glass of water all over her…. well what other word is there apart from…. crotch. She looked like a Newcastle girl on a good night out who has missed going to the loo before setting off for home! She threw a tantrum and after that she texted whilst he read his paper. Maybe it was father and daughter after all? 

Then there was the couple across from me. He, about 45 ish and she, well into her eighties. Mother and son was my conclusion but who knows in France?  After waiting for about 20 minutes to be given a menu, he disappeared inside only for the woman to take out her vanity mirror and start applying more Pollyfilla. When he returned with a couple of menus, he couldn’t recognise her and sat at another table thinking she’d gone to the loo! 

So – a nice lunch. Good food and great people watching.

The picture at the top is Le Manoir aux Quat'Saisons, Raymond Blanc's Hotel and Restaurant where I was lucky enough to go for a week-end once. Mel Gibson was dining at the same time and the rude git did not even come and say helo to me!

You Couldn’t Make It Up ……..

Occasionally, you read something which beggars belief. Something which makes the state seem absolutely doo-lalley (or however you spell it). Things like Haringey Council giving the Over 65’s Lesbian Mothers Association a huge grant so they can conduct research into the best way to have hot sperm delivered directly to your door – Sperm R’Us so to speak. Or the Islington Rockforce Street Gang a similarly large grant to allow them to better express themselves with graffiti – all in the name of art and self expression. Or the Haringey Kebab Shop Owners Association a free supply of hand cleanser to establish if it prevents the spread of salmonella, typhoid, C-diificile and dysentery. And what is the Buenos Aires Project grant ? The mind boggles. 

It came as no surprise then to read the following article about some immigrants who seem to have cracked it yet still complain. Now, before you carry on, let me make it clear that I am a well-known right winger, an arch conservative (small c) and whilst I think that replacing all of us who dash off to the South of France with keen, enthusiastic, well-educated immigrants is a step in the right direction, there has to be a limit to the state’s largesse when it comes to supporting them and getting them settled in. So – read on and rub your eyes in disbelief. 

An immigrant mother is receiving £170,000 a year in benefits so that she can live with her family in a seven bedroom house worth £1.2 million. 

Moor Pakora Saindi, who has seven children, has been granted an estimated £400 a week in child and local tax benefits, and also receives £12,458 a month to pay her rent because there is no other suitable property available. Mrs Saindi, who has four sons and three daughters aged eight to 22, approached Ealing Council in west London  after being made homeless. The authority has a legal obligation to find her a seven-bedroom home.The mother, who came to the UK from Afghanistan seven years ago, said: "I always thought the housing benefit was a lot, but I'm told that is what it is for homes like this here." Her son, Moor Cambie Saindi, 20, said although it felt like they had won the lottery, his mother complains that the house is too big to clean. "My mum is not happy because she has to clean all of it. The first day we moved in here we got lost because it was so big."

 

The Local Housing Allowance, introduced across England on April 7, enables landlords to find out the maximum amount of money available in council coffers before a rent is agreed. Estate agents Foxtons said similar properties command rents of only about £6,000 a month but that this particular property had luxurious en-suite bathrooms and a large south-facing garden. Landlord Ajit Osama Hussein Panesar, who is acting within his rights, fixed a value for his Acton property and ‘advised’ the council what it should pay. Despite asking for £8,000 per month, the council came up with a figure of £12,458 a month.

 

End of article.

 

Apart from the fact that I would move back from the Cote D’Azure like a shot to live in a £1.2m house in London (if it was free), why does she need a seven bedroom house? As she has seven children from aged 8 to 22 – why do most of them have to have a bedroom each and we all know it obviously wont be long before she approaches the council and asks for a cleaning lady to help keep the large house clean and tidy. Where is her husband – what does he do ? He probably stays at home to work out the household finances on a council-supplied PC before studying the various grants available to allow them to have even more kids.

 

Thank god I don’t pay UK taxes. 

Onwards and Upwards

There I was sitting with my cup of coffee at about 8.30 a.m., wondering what job I would start with. Should I try and repair my car which has a rather serious water leak from the heater and which is making my Alfa smell like Guy’s dirty clothes basket or should I plant those plants I’ve had sitting in pots for about 6 weeks and which are starting to head for the border of their own accord? Should I fit next door’s security lights and make the drive look like Wembley or blast some more aliens on the X-Box? Decisions. Decisions. I asked Shadow’s advice but he just rolled over and luxuriated in the off-white shagpile which must be like lying on a dead sheep…..without all the disadvantages of the smell. Bliss – at least for Shadow. 

Then I was shaken out of my deliberations by J asking me to go for a walk with her. Sorry – did she say a walk? A walk? Where to? How far? When she explained where she wanted to go I realised that it was actually a climb. You’d have thought she’d have learned her lesson ten days ago when she had two doctors asking her to take her clothes off within 18 ours to check her sprained ankle. And here she is, still with a strapping on wanting to make the climb up to the Chapel St Raphäel, on the mountainside above our village. 

I thought about this for a moment or two. If she went on her own, there was a bloody good chance that whatever I decided to do would be interrupted at precisely the wrong moment when she phoned me to say she’d had a ‘tumble’ and could I go and rescue her. It was better for me to get my Bass walking shoes on (ten years old and used twice) and accompany her.  And so off we set. 

We took the Honda up to the base camp, parked, got our sticks (some old bits of tree) and ropes (a couple of stretchie spider things) and set off up the treacherous path in the direction of St Raphäel. A sherpa called Shadow went ahead but he kept stopping at every horse dropping and rabbit hole and started to slow us down. At 10.00am, 20 minutes after leaving base camp we’d only made about 100 yards progress when we realised that the lead climber (me) had taken the wrong turn. All we had to do was follow the yellow markers but it’s difficult to see them when they are at eye level when you’re climbing with your head down. We retraced our steps and set off again, hopefully, this time in the right direction. The new route was even steeper! 

Progress was slow as J stopped and had a latte (coffee) from her flask every 100 metres or so. I forged ahead but conscious that she could plunge off the side of the mountain at any second and I wouldn’t see it, I slowed and waited  for her to come into view. About the same time, our sherpa had heard the sounds of hunters with their dogs and he lay down on the mountainside with his paws over his ears trying to drown out the sounds of wild boar being torn to bits by the savage dogs. 

Onwards and upwards. J was now having to stop and take oxygen every 100 metres or so as she was becoming confused – she hadn’t seen a shop since base camp. She was becoming delirious, talking to trees and plants. She looked at her toes which had turned black and decided she’d got frostbite but I reminded her that she hadn’t had a shower this morning. Onwards and upwards. We were in sight of the summit. It was only a few thousand feet more but then we stopped in our tracks as a familiar sound echoed round the mountainside. It was J’s mobile phone – Angie was calling to ask her to pop round for a glass of rosé this afternoon. And so – in the proximity of the snow capped summit where the Chapel St Raphael and the ruins of the Chateau St Jeanne dominate the skyline, we lay down on the grass and had a picnic and decided we’d gone far enough for one day. 

The photo is the chateau St Jeanne which we reached on a previous occasion. 

http://www.vence.fr/Wildlife-and-hiking-from-Vence.html

A Tale of Two Books

A couple of years ago, J and I were invited to John and Sandie’s for dinner, only 5 minutes away from us by car so very convenient. I knew John was an accountant to some celebrity clients and as usual I was quite keen to ‘work the room’ to see if I could find any. 

Anyway, when we arrived, a group of people, none of whom I knew, were sitting in the garden sipping cocktails and as John went off to get more champers, he left us to do our own  introductions.  As always, as people introduced themselves to me I formed immediate and very judgemental views about them. Like him, don’t like her. He’s ok, she’s going to be a pain etc etc. 

We were called in to dinner and I was seated next to a rather attractive lady to whom I’d been introduced and who I knew was called Susan. Not long after we started eating I asked her what she did. Before she could say anything, somebody across the table butted in and said, ‘this is Susan Lewis – she’s a best selling author’. Anyway, to cut a long story short I spent quite a lot of time talking to Susan (multiple best sellers apparently – you see them at airports) and said I’d really like to read one of her books. ‘But it’s Chick Lit’ somebody added who was quite clearly eavesdropping on my intimate conversation with Susan. ‘I don’t care – I’ll read anything’ was the rather unfortunate reply I made. Anyway, she produced one of her books titled, ‘Intimate Strangers’, which made J choke on her beef fillet. The dinner ended, I took the book home and started to read it. 

Well, I have to say, it made War and Peace seem like a short story, not in length but in it’s ability to get my interest. I just could not get into it – reading it was like sitting watching a 5 day cricket match. You think it’s going to be interesting and sometimes it is but generally the first 4 days are anything but. I tried and tried to read that book but had to admit failure.I dread the next party where she’ll ask me how I liked her book!!! 

So – fast forward a couple of years and I’m at my mate Max’s house. Now close your eyes and picture this (ooops sorry – if you close your eyes you wont be able to read!) ….. It’s 5.30am. You run your fingers around your gorgeous, blonde partner’s waist and kiss her gently on the small of her back before you slip quietly out of bed. You take a quick shower before getting into your midnight-blue Mercedes and drive down to the coast where the sun has just left the hills behind Monaco and is starting to throw its sumptuous light over the shimmering Med. You park the car and climb aboard a gleaming, brand new, white and chrome, £30m super-yacht. The crew of 12 welcome their captain aboard, the owner flies in from New York and work starts for the day. Should we just cruise down the Croatian coast for the next couple of weeks or shall we toodle off down to Malta for a £250k fill-up of the fuel tanks? 

Nope – not my attempt at a novel but my way of introducing Max and his owner – Mr SlimFast, S Daniel Abraham. I have not met Mr Abraham (yet) but was fascinated enough by his rise to fame and fortune (invented Slimfast and then sold it to Unilever for $2.6 billion) to have done some research on the internet. Turns out that this guy (Abraham) is a real mover and shaker in the quest for peace in the Middle East and is keen not only to see the Jews settled in their own territory (he’s Jewish) but that the Palestinians also have their own defined and recognised homeland.  Anyway, my interest must have impressed Max because yesterday, a book written by Mr SlimFast (as I and quite a few of the world leaders call him – how’s that for pretetiousness?) arrived in the post and I’ve started reading it. You never know – he might just invite me onto his ‘little boat’ one day and ask me what I thought of the book. Needless to say, a book detailing all the Middle East peace meetings is like reading the telephone directory, but I will persevere. It has more bearing on life than a couple of ‘Intimate Strangers’. 

http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/l/susan-lewis/intimate-strangers.htm 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/S._Daniel_Abraham   

Antonio – The Italian Stallion

A couple of weeks ago when J and I went off to Italy for the day we asked Angie next door if she’d like us to bring anything back for her. Poor Angie. She was having a bad time with a sprained ankle that week and although I tried to keep her spirits up by saying regularly that her crutch looked good, she was a bit down in the dumps and so she replied – ‘an Italian Stallion with a Ferrari’. 

Well, hard as we looked in the miniscule supermarket at Latte (just over the border into Italy) we couldn’t find anything resembling an Italian Stallion. It was mainly old geezers (like me) raiding the shelves of every bottle of alcohol which they could get into their trolleys and then with their equally old ladies, heading into the car park to drive off in old bangers. No Ferraris here! 

So poor Angie was disappointed and then yesterday I found the solution to her problem – an Italian Stallion, maybe a bit older than she would like and he doesn’t have a Ferrari (he drives an Audi) but he does have some good contacts….. wink wink nod nod if you know what I mean.  

Let me explain. Yesterday was Antonio’s 70^th birthday party and honour of honour our family were invited. Antonio was the guy who painstakingly, over 5 years, built our new house and during those 5 years became a friend rather than just a builder. We’ve celebrated many drinks and cigarettes over the years and J has previously made birthday cakes for him and his workers and supplied them with copious amounts of chilled water during the hot summers. The local police have marched him off the site (of our new house) and we’ve crashed our cars into each others. Shadow regularly used to pinch his lunch sandwiches from the builder’s hut and there were times when my money wasn’t coming through quickly enough from the UK and Antonio would patiently wait several weeks to be paid. But in a large, 5 year project there were bound to be some ‘little irritants’ and I’m sure Antonio had come across them many times before. But now he’s retired – at 70 ! Our house was his last major housebuilding project and what a way to go out. Everybody marvels at the quality of his work. The amazing attention to detail. The beautiful provencal stonework. 

So yesterday, Martine his wife, invited us to their house for a surprise birthday party. Antonio was dragged off to Italy in the morning on some excuse and when he returned at 1pm, his whole family were there along with many of his friends for whom he had also built houses. The red, white and green bunting was up and a huge, long table was laid, ready for lunch. Birthday parties in France tend to take the form of an outdoor lunch with 20-30 people all sitting down for a long, happy day of eating and drinking and this was the first one I’d been invited to since coming to France. 

It was quite an honour to be invited and it was probably a unique event as most Brits are suing their French builders rather than having lunch with them! Anyway, it was a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon with delicious Italian food and plentiful supplies of wine. Fortunately, (or unfortunately ?), I was sitting next to a French chap who said he needed to drink lots of red wine to alleviate the problems of his heart complaint so every time he poured one for himself he filled my glass too! ‘C’est mon coeur. C’est mon coeur’.  ‘It’s my heart. It’s my heart’, he would say as he emptied yet another bottle of red wine into our glasses.   

It was a great afternoon. The weather held up and I longed to bring Angie home her Italian Stallion but he was off digging his garden with all the new tools he received as presents. From building dream homes to digging his garden – what a change for this remarkable man.