tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71620558705403795772024-02-20T02:33:44.349+01:00Tom Cupples' Riviera BlogThe thoughts and activities of Tom Cupples, a retiree from British corporate life now enjoying sunny days in the South of France.
Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.comBlogger669125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-51757343354478053692015-03-30T22:32:00.004+02:002015-03-31T18:31:58.211+02:00Boyhood Heroes<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV-g0EqM-C6IUFpQVwcRRnA7Jk6vYA7Q0d7Mo6BSbKSUBzA0tqcuN_zSoH2lAFGUXJe-w1oGHjXY5mog8Zp3O4wJIlzCM5zHfIUex-UuO2BKjELON225mUdI0t_7o_-GvkR7sdE7Dcrwqo/s1600/Stein.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV-g0EqM-C6IUFpQVwcRRnA7Jk6vYA7Q0d7Mo6BSbKSUBzA0tqcuN_zSoH2lAFGUXJe-w1oGHjXY5mog8Zp3O4wJIlzCM5zHfIUex-UuO2BKjELON225mUdI0t_7o_-GvkR7sdE7Dcrwqo/s1600/Stein.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Colin Stein</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">My first
boyhood hero was probably JF Kennedy. Even at twelve years old, I was aware of
the impact he was making in the US and the wider world and like everyone else
of that era, I know exactly where I was when his death was announced.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Around the
same time a young boxer called Cassius Clay was starting to make the news and I
remember skipping school when he fought, and beat, Sonny Liston to win the
world boxing championship.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Thereafter,
there was a bit of a gap until several years later when my team, Glasgow
Rangers made the first £100,000 signing in the history of Scottish football, a
Hibernian player called Colin Stein.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">Now, I know
jumping from a world leader and a history changing boxer to a football player
might be regarded as a bit facile, but the impact of this signing to a
fanatical Rangers supporter was just something else. Ask any boy in Glasgow at the time who his hero was and the reply would undoubtedly be a football player, so I make no apologies in changing from world famous individuals to Colin Stein.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">At Hibs,
Stein was a good centre forward scoring 41 goals in 74 appearances but as they
say in football, you are only as good as the players around you and the promise
of Stein playing in a really good Rangers side was something I was looking
forward to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Until that
time, the early sixties, I was brought up on a truly great Rangers team. A team
I can recount to this day......Ritchie, Shearer, Caldow.....Greig, Mckinnon,
Baxter.... Henderson, McMillan, Miller, Brand and Wilson. And then Stein
arrived.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The first
game he played in was an away match which I couldn’t attend and he scored a hat
trick (3 goals). The next game at Ibrox Park (Rangers Stadium) was against his
previous employers, Hibs, and I was determined to see this game, buying a
ticket to the stand, unheard of for me ,but for this game, I wanted the best
seat in the house.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As I sat in
the stand (something I always think of as an oxymoron), I watched in awe as Stein
scored his second hat-trick in a matter of days. The whole stadium was in
raptures as Rangers’ new centre forward seemed to be scoring at will. And the
fact that his latest scoring spree was against the team he’d left only a week
before, made it all the more satisfying. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In the next
game, Stein scored another two goals, making it 8 in his first three
appearances for Rangers, probably the best start to a new career ever by a
football player.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Thereafter,
I watched as Stein scored a total of 60 goals in his four years at Rangers,
however, I missed what was probably his
most infamous goal, in a match against Rangers’ most bitter rivals, Celtic, in
a match on 2<sup>nd</sup> January 1971. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It was an
equalizing goal, scored in stoppage time and which led to the Ibrox Disaster,
in which, unfortunately, I was caught up in. A tragedy which will live with me
forever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I wrote a
blog about the disaster a few years ago. It can be found here......</span><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><a href="http://tomsfrenchblog.blogspot.fr/2010/05/stairway-13.html"><span style="color: yellow;">http://tomsfrenchblog.blogspot.fr/2010/05/stairway-13.html</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Today, my
hero is quite probably enjoying a quiet retirement although last night (29<sup>th</sup>
March 2015) his phone would be ringing off the hook as his 46 year old record
as the last player to score a hat-trick for Scotland was equalled by a rather
average player, Steven Fletcher.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-62605764927481387312014-08-31T13:42:00.003+02:002014-12-25T10:48:57.738+01:00Celebrity Travel Experiences<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Well, I’m
definitely not a celebrity but I do read what other people do for holidays and
what they think. I’ve always wanted to do this, so here goes......... <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">What’s Your Next Trip?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Probably
London for a reunion with my London based pals or with ex work colleagues. These
‘reunions’ have been going on for over twenty years so it’s nice to keep them
going. It’s always nice going back to London where I worked for over twenty
years. There’s always a buzz and some of the buildings which have sprung up
since my last visit are amazing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRN_p0Py-5eag6GWv7M6CpKBvZmOdaZ8vk7czkfB_m6rTSzt6rDu66Dws7B_6L1nSbtH7TmhXHL1XpI1Qe1px2qfpAPCgm5wPukas7Ps6U20jguFG98KOn3P4O9hyyn7beapqipO1rbEuo/s1600/bahamas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRN_p0Py-5eag6GWv7M6CpKBvZmOdaZ8vk7czkfB_m6rTSzt6rDu66Dws7B_6L1nSbtH7TmhXHL1XpI1Qe1px2qfpAPCgm5wPukas7Ps6U20jguFG98KOn3P4O9hyyn7beapqipO1rbEuo/s1600/bahamas.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just as I remember it</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">Most Memorable Travel Destination?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The Bahamas without a doubt. It was a paid for
holiday by my company which made it even more memorable. The hotel was amazing
and one of the trips laid on was to a true deserted island where we were left
for the day (with food and drink). I just remember the palm trees leaning out
over the beach like you see in brochures and films and the clarity of the water
was incredible. I also remember being
told to negotiate when buying anything from the local vendors and when I tried I was told to ‘**** off honky
*******’ which was memorable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">Anywhere Else You Remember?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I also went to the Big Island of Hawaii which again
was stunning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">What Was It Like?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Very exotic
but not far from the luxury hotel was a small town which could have been
anywhere with people going about their everyday business.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7bXafFqSqOek5MkfjXhrh7QFlg9uaXqRUokzU_H5T6xmTn3bSfLcs8zvSpvibRmzUSHGigMj9mfqXnfUXUV3iLbN3leMp-lTGNdQO25Wcp6rDNe2nIE7ALdJRob8BeSoVQWCZJjRenZ3K/s1600/lava.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7bXafFqSqOek5MkfjXhrh7QFlg9uaXqRUokzU_H5T6xmTn3bSfLcs8zvSpvibRmzUSHGigMj9mfqXnfUXUV3iLbN3leMp-lTGNdQO25Wcp6rDNe2nIE7ALdJRob8BeSoVQWCZJjRenZ3K/s1600/lava.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">Recommend Three Things to Do There<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Definitely try
and swim with turtles in the sea. They are beautiful, graceful and peaceful
creatures. Go on a trip to the volacanoes where unless you are very unlucky,
you will be able to get quite close to running molten lava, an astonishing
sight, and try and do some fishing if you are in to that sort of thing as the
variety and colours of the fish is incredible.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">Your Earliest Childhood Travel Memory<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We didn’t
have much money as a family when I was young but my dad was a train driver so
got free train travel for the whole family and we used to get the train from Glasgow
down to Margate on the south coast of England. I must have been eight or nine
years old.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV8XM_qza-bC88LxLkS-aK89LnOmVbWIcHpk9sjrnyyGJBGPFAaOMAcnGIsUDV1HpCdxiJhEUIny7JM2ZQSZHy30n8a5ZuwFVRdywy7XMNzd3uDGtkXJK2YPOYdHrEwQDxSv5cJhUvfR2v/s1600/venice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV8XM_qza-bC88LxLkS-aK89LnOmVbWIcHpk9sjrnyyGJBGPFAaOMAcnGIsUDV1HpCdxiJhEUIny7JM2ZQSZHy30n8a5ZuwFVRdywy7XMNzd3uDGtkXJK2YPOYdHrEwQDxSv5cJhUvfR2v/s1600/venice.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stunning Venice</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">Does Travel Inspire You?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It can and
should do. Most of my travel was on business and the old cliché of being in
places which you cannot recall are absolutely true. I’ve been to cities where
it was airport, hotel, business meeting (in the hotel), back to the airport and
home. I still have no idea where I was! But travelling to places like Paris and
especially Venice is truly inspiring. The art and history in Paris cannot fail
to inspire you whilst being in Venice, despite the crowds is like nothing else
on earth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">Ideal Travel Companion?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Now, I’m afraid I would probably say my iPad
but when I was holidaying every year, there was nothing better than going away
with a group of friends and family. I still remember groups of ten or so all
sitting around a table in a Greek taverna, spending hours over a dinner of local
specialities.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">Where Do You Feel Most At Home?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">At home in our villa in France. It’s like a
holiday every day now I’m retired. We can see the Med, overlook a huge valley
and we have skiing only thirty minutes away. The scenery is stunning, the local
villages and restaurants are wonderful and it’s simply paradise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">What Was Your Worst Trip?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I cannot
honestly recall a ‘worst trip’ although when we went as a family on our
honeymoon (I re-married late) the plane left Nice 26 hours late. We were put up
overnight in an airport hotel which was truly awful and when we eventually
arrived in Florida at midnight, there was no hire car waiting for us and after
managing to get someone come out and get us a car, we were stopped at the first
bridge we tried to cross and a toll of $1 was demanded and the lady would not
let us cross unless I filled in reams of forms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">Best Hotel?</span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoron9GyOePYFACmpMMUrb91aHs_mPhiCXtryN1KbZK3-XtXFbNPN18PeG7At9EVAWkPsmId4fYuykBd81U2IQGNKVSrDuv7jrK8SVscsISeSX8E4apajZ6n0qrt_pHGq0gDUfkSBGlNX8/s1600/hotel-de-paris-monte.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoron9GyOePYFACmpMMUrb91aHs_mPhiCXtryN1KbZK3-XtXFbNPN18PeG7At9EVAWkPsmId4fYuykBd81U2IQGNKVSrDuv7jrK8SVscsISeSX8E4apajZ6n0qrt_pHGq0gDUfkSBGlNX8/s1600/hotel-de-paris-monte.jpg" height="171" width="320" /></a></b></div>
<b><o:p></o:p></b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I think the
Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo which most people can only dream of going to. It
was a business trip when I was a fledgling salesman and I’d been put up in the
old Lowes Hotel for a week but they became overbooked and bizarrely they moved
me to the Hotel de Paris. The room was like something out of a French palace
and the breakfast delivered to the room was to die for.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Incidentally,
on that trip when I arrived at Nice airport and had to get to Monaco, there
were two options, taxi and helicopter. I thought that the company would baulk
at a helicopter fare so endured a one hour taxi trip only to find out that the
fares for both modes of travel were the same. I’ve been kicking myself ever
since.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">Most Disappointing Travel Experience?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Can I mention two? The first was another
business reward trip for myself and my wife to Vail in Colorado for a luxury
skiing/spa trip. When I got to the airport I realised my passport was missing
and the trip was off. I got real grief from my wife but nothing like the amount
of flak I got from my directors who had paid a fortune for the holiday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">On another
reward trip, where previous years they had gone on Kenyan Safaris or to Bali,
this trip was a cruise around the Med starting from Nice! The boat, despite
being fabulous, called at all our local
ports and the road based days out were to all the places we knew well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-GB">What Do You Never Travel Without?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’m afraid
it’s my iPad. It does everything. I have my eBooks, my stored articles which I’ve
still to read and given Wifi, I can keep in touch with the family and maybe
just as importantly, my stockbroker.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-41632522306698267442014-08-29T14:51:00.001+02:002014-08-29T14:57:18.560+02:00It's A Dog's Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVbgdITWDaPjBW1CCWuzDLvRbcOWY3RF7YStoliPz_-Qqk4DQxhbOCcT4zTeLNjJg2fTvJ5npr-VJXW6OVIcE8TUTi9dK5d7F2pIewg5n__UU-qw9NjovISg0JmufpYaQUZ46ZFqwuOTXh/s1600/Elsa1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVbgdITWDaPjBW1CCWuzDLvRbcOWY3RF7YStoliPz_-Qqk4DQxhbOCcT4zTeLNjJg2fTvJ5npr-VJXW6OVIcE8TUTi9dK5d7F2pIewg5n__UU-qw9NjovISg0JmufpYaQUZ46ZFqwuOTXh/s1600/Elsa1.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Well, I’ve
been here in this new house for about 3 weeks now and boy, are things
different. </span>For a
start, there’s two furry things which I think are called ‘cats’ and they don’t
half bully me but now I’m learning how to growl, they’re backing off. All I’ve
got to do now is chase them in a direction which means they have to choose
between my fangs and the pool and I’m made. I guess they’ll choose the pool and
I can’t wait for that cause whilst my hair gets wet and I don’t mind it too
much, they’ve got fur and I’ve heard that they don’t like it when their fur
gets wet. We’ll see.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And then
there’s the food. In my last place I used to try and find scraps and indeed
visit the nearby restaurant where sympathetic diners would throw me some lamb
bones but now, I’m fed these biscuit things. The cats get biscuit things as
well and boy they must be as bored as me. I mean every time the trunk is opened
and I know it’s feeding time, all I get is a tiny portion of croquettes I think
they’re called. Don’t get me wrong, I’d rather have them than nothing – but for
every meal! Sometimes I get thrown a small piece of meat and it’s so good I
feel like my taste buds are bursting. And whilst I gobble up my dinner in
seconds, the cats merely nibble at theirs and then wander off. I’ve tried
helping them out but my master doesn’t like me eating the cats’ food and yet,
if for any reason I leave some of mine, the cats are almost encouraged to eat it
which I think is very unfair.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And I’ve
also had a smack or two. In my last place I could wee anywhere but my new
master doesn’t seem to like me doing ‘my business’ in his bedroom. Indeed, last
week he ran from the room into the toilet making strange noises and when he
came back a funny colour, he gave me a whack on my nose and said something
about not doing my business on his ‘shagpile’ whatever that is. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But whilst
he is quite strict with me; no licking on the face, no jumping up, sitting down
when he tells me etc, he does love me. I’ve heard him tell people on this thing
that rings and he talks into it that I am adorable. When I sit on his lap at
his computer thing, he’s got a picture of a big black dog which I think was
called ‘Shadow’ and I guess that must’ve been his last dog and it must’ve been
a good dog cause he looks me in the eyes and says that if I turn out to be half
the dog Shadow was that’ll do him just fine. So, I’m trying to learn everything
he tells me as quickly as I can but I am still a puppy and sometimes I get so
excited that I just have to jump up, or lick someone’s face or even do a wee on
the carpet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I think
though that my master was very proud of me last week. We went down to a river
and when he paddled across to the other side, I felt I just had to jump in and
try and join him but it was strange because as soon as I hit the water and despite
doing my doggie paddle as fast as I could I was carried away and all I could
see was my master running after me as I headed for a very deep pool.
Thankfully, he managed to grab my collar and drag me out but he said something like
‘drowned rat’ and ‘Shadow never did that’ so I don’t know if that was a good
idea of mine or not. Anyway, I didn’t get a smack so I must’ve been a brave
doggie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But I don’t
think I was a brave doggie when I got ticked off during my first week in my new
house. I mean, I’m taken away from my mummy and my sister at our farm in the
mountains. My name is changed from Blackie, which I thought was ok given I’m
black, to a poncy name like Elsa which is supposedly the name of a lion in a
film my mistress cries at a lot. I’m not allowed to chew things any more and so
when I grabbed this Birkenstock thing and chewed it up, my mistress wasn’t at
all happy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
But, on the
whole, things are a lot better here but time will tell. I’ll provide an update
when things have settled down a bit. I can’t wait to tell you about chasing the
cats into the pool.Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-77381492555129571192013-07-17T12:59:00.001+02:002013-07-18T12:07:00.398+02:00Golf and Girls and Eating Sandwiches in the Car Park<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB0cZyeyJ9dL4v6vlIkbRmHV_gxwCaRyrg6B9kL4jrNJIE7x8vYCeBQJtITYi1peIiXWaAdFO8lbE5ZDnW3LkOey48ABAt6ZHC54AGZWAK8n7uJdamhZC5EBy15E79R5cSBu3Cbnh18qQH/s1600/Muirfield1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB0cZyeyJ9dL4v6vlIkbRmHV_gxwCaRyrg6B9kL4jrNJIE7x8vYCeBQJtITYi1peIiXWaAdFO8lbE5ZDnW3LkOey48ABAt6ZHC54AGZWAK8n7uJdamhZC5EBy15E79R5cSBu3Cbnh18qQH/s320/Muirfield1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Muirfield Clubhouse</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There’s a
lot of debate going on at the moment about Muirfield Golf Club or, as it rather
grandly pronounces itself, ‘The Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers’. It
is, of course this week, the stage of the British Open Golf tournament, or
again, just as grandly titled, as we invented the game, The Open. The web site
says that a single round of golf in 2012 was £195 ! Let me say that again -
£195! What the cost is this year when it’s hosting The Open is anybody’s guess.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The debate
is over its treatment of women, and in particular, women golfers. But before
the facts which may appal the more enlightened among us, let me tell you about
the one and only time I played golf at Muirfield.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It was back
in the early eighties and I’d not long joined IBM in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Glasgow</st1:place></st1:city>. One day the office was virtually empty and when I asked the secretary where everybody was, she replied, ‘Oh they’ve
all gone off to play golf at Muirfield.’ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">That day
was a nightmare with every telephone enquiry coming in my direction and I vowed
that it would never happen again. I got myself a set of golf clubs and a trolly
and practised in the local park and the next time there was a golf outing to
Muirfield, I was up for it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Now
somebody really should have warned me that Muirfield is no place for the beginner.
I lost several balls, ended up in bunkers so deep, it was difficult to see
daylight and the rough was so rough, I even lost my trolly when I left it to go
and look for yet another lost ball.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCn7l8sLmtpc_GlueNDbbUxvJLTlvbz9mrd8Lzu640xoUs7RMpxL-f89kXDEpHB8lum8uf5uEEXCMLF0Au6zPZehVGESzXDF0MdjvXBPn8Xo1K09ToIdi0D119kG6K6oRTf8cr6KD5V6Bt/s1600/Muirfield2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCn7l8sLmtpc_GlueNDbbUxvJLTlvbz9mrd8Lzu640xoUs7RMpxL-f89kXDEpHB8lum8uf5uEEXCMLF0Au6zPZehVGESzXDF0MdjvXBPn8Xo1K09ToIdi0D119kG6K6oRTf8cr6KD5V6Bt/s320/Muirfield2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the nicer parts of the course</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">All in all,
it was a rather difficult day but I had a nice shower, changed into the
mandatory jacket and tie and settled down for a nice post-game dinner. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I had just
started to eat when I noticed that the only girl who had come along to play
(and she was a very good player) was not in the dining room. From memory her
name was Evelyn and when I asked where she was, I was told, ‘eating her sandwiches
in the car park.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I thought
this was a joke but when I enquired further, I was informed that whilst ladies
could play at Muirfield, there were no facilities for them and they were expressly
forbidden from entering the bars or the clubhouse. Poor Evelyn couldn’t even
have a shower and yes, she was sitting in her car in the car park, eating her
sandwiches.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Now, those
golfers among us will know about Augusta National Golf Club in the US where the
club's exclusive membership policies have drawn criticism, particularly its
refusal to admit black members until 1990,</span> a former policy requiring all caddies to be black and its refusal to allow
women to join. In August 2012, it admitted its first two female members, Condoleezza Rice (former US Secretary of State) and Darla Moore (a banker and philanthropist). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Now, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Augusta</st1:place></st1:city> is about as
conservative an organisation as you’ll find on this planet but Muirfield beats
it. It still does not admit lady members and despite scouring their web site,
the only reference I could find to female players is that, ‘at the west end of
the clubhouse near the entrance gates is a small, ladies' Locker Room</span>’. It
does not state that ladies will NOT be admitted to the Clubhouse.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Alex
Salmond, <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Scotland</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s
Prime Minister by any other name, will not be attending The Open castigating
the all-male clubhouse environment. Salmond, who is a keen golf fan, told the BBC: "I just think it's
indefensible in the 21st century not to have a golf club that's open to all.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
So this
week as Muirfield hosts the most prestigious golf tournament in the world, they
will accept thousands of pounds from female spectators. They will be allowed to
spend even more money in the tents and temporary eating establishments but
after The Open ends and Muirfield returns to ‘normal’, the women will have to resume
their normal place – in the car park eating their sandwiches.Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-1670530813206915032013-07-03T16:22:00.001+02:002013-07-03T16:22:12.450+02:00Strimming is Good for You<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Actually,
it’s not strimming, it’s called débroussailleusing which is quite a mouthful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">With foot
high grass growing through thick brambles and bushes galore, a normal strimmer
just wouldn’t be up to the job, so a bushcutter, which is the English term for
the tool, is called for. At £650, it’s not a cheap piece of equipment but it’s
the only way to do the job. Yes, I could get in local labour but they would
probably charge about £1,000 a time and therefore it’s good financial sense for
me to do it and, as I’ve recently found, it’s good exercise too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNanNb29-HhEsHUK2QtRi8GpRy3uJytbAuIRu8DN5xLpduspcVqzoDfrQQ0WJUOpiholUHWgmHJG1O1XEpikIIeDH5GS7Gb857E1XOx4NaeT47Vv25beu-9mO0vfW5sR3vk4_FrD1N1T-A/s358/Bushcutter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNanNb29-HhEsHUK2QtRi8GpRy3uJytbAuIRu8DN5xLpduspcVqzoDfrQQ0WJUOpiholUHWgmHJG1O1XEpikIIeDH5GS7Gb857E1XOx4NaeT47Vv25beu-9mO0vfW5sR3vk4_FrD1N1T-A/s200/Bushcutter.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Take this
morning. I was up at 4am as usual and sat on the sofa for an hour or so reading
the papers on-line. I went back to bed but when I woke at 8am my back was
killing me. It’s the sofa – I’m sure it is. It’s too wide to sit on comfortably
and so when I had had breakfast I looked forlornly at the terraces and decided
that today would be a no-bushcutting day. My back was just too sore. </span>But, an
hour later my back eased up a bit and I decided to go for it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Dressed in
long, thick jeans, a full sleeved sweater, long, woollen socks, wellingtons, a
smog mask and a tea towel wrapped around my face, it was not clothing for 25
degrees and full sun. Then I had to add the full body harness, a hard hat with
face guard and I was ready to bushcut.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Bushcutting,
I have to say, is not for the faint-hearted.
The device weighs 8.5 kilos (hence the body harness) and if that doesn’t
sound heavy, try humping one around for an hour at a time on ground frequently
sloping at 45 degrees. Then there’s the stones, thorns and bits of wood it
throws up, hence the hard hat and face guard.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But, and
here’s the thing, swinging it around as it cuts is exactly the same exercise a
doctor told me to do years ago when my back first started acting up. ‘You need
to stand with your legs apart and swing your arms around, swivelling at the
waist’, he said.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwCcOXuEAxcXH_XbF2eTtIwsXPE2BxHkpDCEnAbHWczJL9Bm7CBe2tfs_wWBV7fmEekX_qc_ijGU95lhiA9MESD3qHLldc6tWE1cCJoF1kFK9zbERhvT18oP8EtZCEKsoAXu8swKeS7iP1/s202/blade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwCcOXuEAxcXH_XbF2eTtIwsXPE2BxHkpDCEnAbHWczJL9Bm7CBe2tfs_wWBV7fmEekX_qc_ijGU95lhiA9MESD3qHLldc6tWE1cCJoF1kFK9zbERhvT18oP8EtZCEKsoAXu8swKeS7iP1/s200/blade.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Metal Blade</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And so now
as the thorns fly and the stones thrown up by the metal blade try to cut my
legs in two, I swing away thinking I’m saving a fortune not only on
professional gardeners but also on the osteopath all my mates go to! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-66121636508832712512013-07-01T05:03:00.003+02:002013-07-01T05:25:57.843+02:00It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As readers
of my blog will know, Tan and Angie have departed, and before the new tenants
move in, I’ve been doing up the house. Like the ‘Hotel Inspector’ on TV, I have an
unwavering belief that my tenants should move into a perfect dwelling and
should have absolutely no cause for complaint. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHwj1FMD6mZbT6Syc9WM4YIDe8mWNXodlW12F-f16qfGmy_sJNfPQ8SiivkkpToDKugmWJLAdNpFeDiv4cNJnFt4ccUWd0WnvqfUjaSeysNyNTCSsJtjeET8veOTWI5p2GOGHH9D644ZST/s358/Ballon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHwj1FMD6mZbT6Syc9WM4YIDe8mWNXodlW12F-f16qfGmy_sJNfPQ8SiivkkpToDKugmWJLAdNpFeDiv4cNJnFt4ccUWd0WnvqfUjaSeysNyNTCSsJtjeET8veOTWI5p2GOGHH9D644ZST/s200/Ballon.jpg" width="142" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Typical French Water Heater</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="EN-GB">Wandering
down into the cave for the first time in over a year (a cave is a cellar by any
other name) I noticed that the hot water boiler had sprung a leak and decided on the
spot that a new one was required. A quick review of the internet, a visit to
the DIY store and I was dragging a brand new Ballon Chaud L’eau home in my
trailer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Now, whilst
I am happy to try most DIY tasks, fitting a new hot water boiler looked
somewhat challenging but with a bag full of tools and pipe connections,
instructions in French and a confident, but delusional belief in my own
abilities, I set about removing the old boiler and fitting the new.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Actually,
fitting the new boiler was simplicity itsself compared to removing the old one which
had obviously had the house built around it. It weighed so much, even when
empty of water that the only way it could be ‘removed’ was to topple it (it’s
about 6 feet tall) and then roll it into a corner of the cave.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">New boiler
fitted, all water and electrical connections made, I went up into the house and
switched the power and water back on then rushed back downstairs to the cave to admire my work. I had asked Guy who was assisting me to cry out if anything looked amiss and he hadn't. As I descended the stairs I felt triumphant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Guy hadn't cried out because he was agog at the fact that water was
squirting everywhere and there was a serious ‘burning’ smell with the occasional spark lighting up the gloomy cellar. Eventually snapping out of his hypnotic state, he suggested in a rather understated way that something wasn’t quite
right, so everything was switched off again and a rather reluctant call to my
friendly plumber/electrician was made. I feared the worst.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Merde’ was
his first reaction. ‘Merde, merde’ was his second reaction. I got the distinct
impression not all was well. A couple of hundred euros later, everything was
fixed and apart from the old boiler still lying in the corner, the cave now
looks like a habitable room once more rather than a downstairs swimming pool! A new boiler ? It
seemed like a good idea at the time!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The next
job was the oven. I’d told Angie when she was leaving to forget about cleaning
it as I was an </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8MDXQ1m2ON1pIM9JeVfLXc6OLmVyaCDsMbWZn75bO_QjOWijJQvG7fv3sk9KCODqn0vD5gUiv3r0kBCpv0XUE85omhyphenhyphen2k6bgSeTHn42SP_lJBuGXehTYd_rqMxeI2h1p9DnL4LqXT1gvf/s320/Oven.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8MDXQ1m2ON1pIM9JeVfLXc6OLmVyaCDsMbWZn75bO_QjOWijJQvG7fv3sk9KCODqn0vD5gUiv3r0kBCpv0XUE85omhyphenhyphen2k6bgSeTHn42SP_lJBuGXehTYd_rqMxeI2h1p9DnL4LqXT1gvf/s200/Oven.png" width="200" /></a></div>
‘expert’ at removing oven doors and cleaning the glass. I was –
I’d already taken it off several months previously to give it a good clean but
this time not everything went to plan. After a litre of Mr Muscle and several hours of cleaning the
glass both internally and externally, I was refitting it when it slipped and
shattered on the stone kitchen tiles! <o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I was
amazed at my reaction – no swearing, not even a 'Merde'! It was probably stunned shock and a
realisation that I’d just dropped a couple of hundred euros, but it was worse
than that, I couldn’t get a new door/glass replacement anywhere so had to hot-foot it
down to the local electrical shop and buy a brand new oven.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Oven
fitted, I relaxed and reflected that cleaning that glass had seemed like a good
idea at the time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Then I
spotted a couple selling a brand new American fridge/freezer on the internet.
The existing fridge/freezer in ‘Angie’s’ house was working fine but at 20 years
old, it was only a matter of time before it failed and being an advocate of pre-planning
rather than post-failure panic, I contacted the vendors to enquire about the
fridge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Now this
was a brand new fridge, not even unwrapped and being sold for half price. I
couldn’t resist it but still put in a cheeky lower offer by e-mail.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The lady
who was selling it told me my offer was too low but a day later called to say I
could have it after all. She’d seen my blog, had obviously warmed to some of my
‘themes’ and was happy with my ridiculously low offer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpc1WYjwI_G85aFeG4GRxSFIXdPoDio0UJLJbebDh26QQu6K9dVOxJ01z1pmoxBXZi-4rGcowZF5SrTxReMcr7pTLw3jvpiNyIL6LSnew6d7tkkdpTnWOLp9M8MJMt5mRyp9IO41N3MdAr/s248/fridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpc1WYjwI_G85aFeG4GRxSFIXdPoDio0UJLJbebDh26QQu6K9dVOxJ01z1pmoxBXZi-4rGcowZF5SrTxReMcr7pTLw3jvpiNyIL6LSnew6d7tkkdpTnWOLp9M8MJMt5mRyp9IO41N3MdAr/s248/fridge.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Standard Size ?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">She was
selling the fridge because after buying it she realised it would not fit into
their village house which was being renovated. ‘Her loss, my gain’. I thought,
‘How can people be so stupid as to buy a major kitchen appliance and not
measure the available space’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I dragged
the 116 kilo device back home in the trailer, eventually got a couple of my
mates to move it into position and found ………………… that it wouldn’t fit! When did
kitchen appliances stop being a standard size ?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’ve now
spent the last 2 weeks dismantling half the kitchen to get the fridge to fit! Buying that fridge had seemed </span>like a good idea at the time! </div>
Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-89394657641364203392013-06-28T16:39:00.002+02:002014-11-23T12:32:04.010+01:00A Tale of Two Parties<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It’s been a
social marathon over the last few weeks. After several months of total social
isolation (because of the weather I should add, not because I’ve suddenly
become unpopular), the parties are now coming thick and fast, and from all
directions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Last
weekend was a case in point. After the party renowned for it’s coffee (see
previous blog), there were a few days grace before it started again – with a
vengeance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">First was a
‘going away do’ for Vence’s local Anglican Rector. Father Ken Letts has been doing
the business in St Hugh’s for the last 23 years and is now heading back to his
native <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Australia</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
Unfortunately, just as he announced his departure, his wife became seriously
ill and we’re all keeping our fingers crossed for her recovery nevertheless,
Father Ken was in attendance at a lunch held in his honour in Les Templiers, a
rather up-market restaurant in Vence. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZVCCkDH8hcswR4z8czzhEyKo3EzgojSVywfL0ju21FsX8dUpfYiSm7_F7rZtSATt1fqb6GrRGDeWDj13jmW0Xj6sThvbSfEWAZDeiB2Fn4whZgjr0GkhW50SexfxwkmLF4QeEjX1ouHzd/s1051/les+templiers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZVCCkDH8hcswR4z8czzhEyKo3EzgojSVywfL0ju21FsX8dUpfYiSm7_F7rZtSATt1fqb6GrRGDeWDj13jmW0Xj6sThvbSfEWAZDeiB2Fn4whZgjr0GkhW50SexfxwkmLF4QeEjX1ouHzd/s320/les+templiers.jpg" height="320" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Les Templiers Terrace </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Rather hung
over from a party the previous evening, with the location and hosts
unrecollectable, I turned up at Les Templiers looking well brushed up. It
always amazes me that when I look at myself in the mirror on the morning after
a party, I would immediately, and without argument, condemn myself to a morgue,
but after 30 minutes under a razor and a hot shower, boy, do I look good –
which is a relative term, obviously.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As soon as
I’d entered the restaurant, a glass of champers was thrust into my hand and the
booze never stopped from that moment on. For a church ‘do’, it was
amazing. A couple I know (Nigel and
Helen, who run a wine business in the area), had obviously supplied the drinks
and given the price I’d paid, they’d probably supplied it at cost. It never
stopped and they had to literally drag me away from the rosé champagne to sit
down for lunch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Now, this
might be a godly congregation with an average age of well over 70, but it seems
that all religious thoughts go out of the window when the booze flows and a
youngster like me is in attendance! I hadn’t even made it to the table before a
pair of hands were clasping my buttocks. I didn’t look round in order to spare
the miscreant embarrassment (I know who she was) but thoughts of inappropriate
rampant sexist behaviour briefly crossed my mind before I thought ’what the
hell’ and let her get on with it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Extricating
my bum from this lady’s grasp, I sat down, and as widely rumoured on the
terrace, I was to be seated next to a churchy lady, whose name shall not be
mentioned to spare her any embarrassment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Now Andrea
is a lovely lady and it appears that my faux pas with her had obviously spread
throughout the congregation and the jokers had decided to seat us together to
try and ‘get things moving’. For those not in the know, a few weeks previously I had sent my wife a rather risqué e-mail,
actually it was downright horny, but I had actually sent it to the wrong person
on my contact list and it arrived at Andrea’s inbox!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">To say I
was horrified is a complete understatement but Andrea was very understanding
and was very gracious in asking if I had any more e-mails of a similar nature!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And so
lunch continued, the booze flowed relentlessly and eulogies galore were rightly
addressed to Father Ken. Finally, after a delicious lunch we went back outside
to finish the champers which was still available and it was there that I was
‘accosted’ again. ‘If only I was 40 years younger’ was whispered into my ear by
a lady who then gave me 200 cigarettes – a bribe? An inducement? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Now, at
this juncture, I would like to point out that my wife is very understanding in
these matters, recognising that ‘the blue rinse brigade’ need a sort of outlet
for their sexual frustrations and she seems to regard it as a service to the
church to offer me up as some sort of ritual sacrifice. Anyway, I got my bum
felt, complete attention from Andrea, a nice compliment and 200 cigarettes, so
I’m not complaining. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiensIgr4kZ5hCPMZzgwKO3SKwc6woQOBYO69bhFXavUDR-fbIdoXcSmCjbAxScDX6Ds6uZ0Njr7GhOIVjFuhsoKT6K6rPIll13B2vXPT7YrC3pPOtZ8WVVijgCYu08RMfKtez9LpeMS7in/s766/bluerinse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiensIgr4kZ5hCPMZzgwKO3SKwc6woQOBYO69bhFXavUDR-fbIdoXcSmCjbAxScDX6Ds6uZ0Njr7GhOIVjFuhsoKT6K6rPIll13B2vXPT7YrC3pPOtZ8WVVijgCYu08RMfKtez9LpeMS7in/s320/bluerinse.jpg" height="320" width="264" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Blue Rinse Brigade</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The lunch
finished about 5.30pm, we went home and whilst J had a nap (she calls them
‘power’ naps !!) I went straight next door to a party being held by our Swedish
neighbours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Matz was 40
and had invited 30+ guests from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Sweden</st1:country-region></st1:place>
and had invited me and J on the basis that it would be better to invite us than
have us complain about the noise!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Now I don’t
wish to sound sexist, but if ever any of my male readers get invited to a
Swedish party – GO! The women, all of them, young and old alike were utterly
stunning. Some were so stunningly beautiful that it was difficult to look at
them when they were talking to you. Guys will know what I’m talking about.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Anyway, the
food was amazing, champers flowed (again) and the host had flown in an
apparently </span>popular Swedish rock band to play for his guests.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As I sat
down to dinner and a archetypal Swedish blonde insisted on talking to me with
her face inches from mine (quite disconcerting actually) and I was telling her
about the fact that living in France would be much better without the French
and as she was questioning my ‘neighbourliness’, the police arrived having been
called by an irate French neighbour, promptly told the band to pack up, fined
the host Matz for making too much noise and that was that! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I think
I’ll stick to church parties in the future! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-55452984876602183082013-06-05T22:03:00.002+02:002013-06-06T08:08:03.804+02:00And the Coffee Was Crap .......<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLyPLo7xzB-mxa72p6xjUmsGFxb5-OjttsNp4FAFBO-4TUnugNUYmkXeLr328BfFj7gp7KWxR0mWTILvJ6YEYw74q_CavkhxQANvIXkBQvMSvvlW7o2t6E6msJjOgmY6QA0hx6yq_wB_Z_/s1600/Civet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLyPLo7xzB-mxa72p6xjUmsGFxb5-OjttsNp4FAFBO-4TUnugNUYmkXeLr328BfFj7gp7KWxR0mWTILvJ6YEYw74q_CavkhxQANvIXkBQvMSvvlW7o2t6E6msJjOgmY6QA0hx6yq_wB_Z_/s1600/Civet.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Civet</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Actually,
the coffee was shit but as I now post my blog on some august sites and they
would not allow language such as I have just used in the title, we’ll stick to 'crap' for
the time being.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Now normally we’d
be in the middle of the BBQ season by now but the weather down here has been so
bad that last Saturday (1<sup>st</sup> June) was our first of the year. Inevitably,
as we sat gorging on burgers, prawns and merguez sausages and drinking lashings of champagne and rosé, the rain came down, but luckily we were sat under a canopy of oak trees so we stayed
quite dry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But as the weather is finally changing for the better and just
like <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city> buses,
the invitations are now coming in thick and fast (it’s difficult being so
popular !) and so tonight we were invited down to the house of a couple we’ve
met a couple of times. It wasn’t a BBQ but a balcony soirée in a domaine just
off the main road along the coast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">For the
uninitiated, a domaine is a guarded commune where there are gates, guards, lifts, garages and
horrendously expensive service charges and although inside, the apartment was
very nice, from the outside it was a building the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">UK</st1:place></st1:country-region> authorities would have pulled
down years ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">When you travel along the main coastal motorway (A8) from the west towards
Nice, you get to an arched bridge which crosses the autoroute. If people could stop at this point they would as the bridge majestically frames Nice, the famous
bay, the bright blue sea and encapsulates the C</span><span lang="EN-GB">ȏ</span><span lang="EN-GB">te d’Azur in a single, stunning
image. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB">However, as you pass under this bridge heading towards the most popular part of the Provence coastline and are transfixed by the view, three large,
very large blocks of flats come into focus. Huge, 13-floor anonymous, office-like buildings which in any UK town would be given over to asylum seekers, homeless 16 year olds with three
kids or drug addicts, in fact anybody who just wants a roof over their head and isn't worried about the architecture. The only thing which differentiates these
housing blocks from those in the UK are the matching sun shades on each balcony and the grounds which are immaculate,
nevertheless, the buildings are a blot on the landscape and that’s not just my view, but
also the view of the host (Steen) who hated his apartment from the outside but loved
the inside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As soon as
we arrived I could tell we were in Scandinavian company. The host, after all is
Swedish and all the guests I introduced myself to were from <st1:country-region w:st="on">Sweden</st1:country-region>, <st1:country-region w:st="on">Norway</st1:country-region>
or <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Denmark</st1:place></st1:country-region>……..
and they were all old. It’s a long time since I’ve been to a ‘do’ where I’ve
been the youngest, but here, I was the youngest almost by a generation. OK, Julie
is a few years younger than me but quite a few of the guests thought we were
the host’s kids !! Embarrassing ? Oui !<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Anyway, it turned
out a pleasant evening with the various guests asking me what school I went to,
what sort of music I listened to and whether I was old enough to be demolishing
the bottle of rosé I was getting stuck into. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Of course, being
xenophobic and stereotypical about Scandinavian fish eaters, I was waiting for
the pickled herring and smoked eel to be brought out but I was pleasantly surprised
by the normal nibbles of cheese, bread, saucisson, humous etc. It was all very
nice, especially when the hot samosas, spring rolls and prawn balls arrived.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And then,
after a couple of hours or so, the guests started to leave - one by one, or two
by two as most were couples. Then J wanted to go. I’m certain she was looking at her
watch and was working out that if we left at that point we’d get into the restaurants in
Vence for a slap-up meal but I needed a coffee and as if by magic, the coffee
cups appeared – result !<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Our hostess,
Wendy, then declared that what she was about to serve was the world’s most
expensive coffee. Working on the basis that she’d obviously been shopping in our
local Gallerie Lafayette, which only the super rich use for their weekly food
shopping, I looked forward to a Carte Noir Supreme or even a special Nescafé
but no, this WAS the world’s most expensive coffee called Kopi Luwak. Ever
heard of it ? No, neither had I.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘OK Wendy,
so what’s so special about Kopi Luwak then’, I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘It’s monkey
shit’, she replied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Nah’, said
I.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘No really,
Kopi Luwak is made from coffee beans passed through the digestive system of an
Indonesian animal, but it's more like a cat than a monkey. The digested
beans don't really get mixed with the animal’s excrement though, the animal
processes the beans and excretes them whole, unscratched, and without dung.</span>
The animal is a palm civet, a dark brown tree-dwelling cat-like creature found
throughout <st1:place w:st="on">Southeast Asia</st1:place>. The scientific name
is paradoxurus hermaphroditus.’<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">According
to the Manila Coffee House, the palm civet just happens to like to ingest the
ripest and reddest coffee beans, which also happen to be the ones best for brewing.
The cat eats the outer covering of the beans in the same way that is
accomplished by de-pulping machines. Something happens to the beans in
the journey through the cat's intestines that gives it a flavor that is
celebrated by coffee drinkers. </span> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘Another
cup Tom’ said our hostess.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘No thanks
Wendy’, I’ll stick to Carte Noir I said as I headed rapidly towards the loo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-59738285051955145732013-04-21T13:26:00.000+02:002013-04-21T13:26:18.946+02:00French ? Never, Never, Never<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZjU0K3Ll8nlOLTuWaaea86vWvdfl_m6MzBbGHoKkaSfkeT_OGD9CT7ecO723yTWMZ3q1Yga7XFtiHKvawC557aUYJ66QuLc3-87dOLs8xLAgX3beXgXjP2x4fWbQoOpaYaP2ELvLGw6Cu/s1600/House12.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZjU0K3Ll8nlOLTuWaaea86vWvdfl_m6MzBbGHoKkaSfkeT_OGD9CT7ecO723yTWMZ3q1Yga7XFtiHKvawC557aUYJ66QuLc3-87dOLs8xLAgX3beXgXjP2x4fWbQoOpaYaP2ELvLGw6Cu/s320/House12.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Well, Tan,Angie
and the kids have moved out. They’ve been renting our next door house for 6 and
a half years and it’s the end of an era.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It was back
around November time when Tan sold his house in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city> and we started discussing him buying
the house but unfortunately we couldn’t agree on the price and so they gave me
notice that they would be moving. They found a house to buy about a mile from
where we currently are and they finally moved on March 25<sup>th</sup>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In an
effort not to appear over keen to replace them with new tenants, I waited until
they gave me the keys back and then put details of the house on AngloInfo, our
local web site for people who want to buy things, rent things and look for
tradesmen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I was
inundated with replies with several people showing interest and quite a few wanting
to view. One guy even said he would be flying his wife over from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">London</st1:city></st1:place> specifically to see
the house – I’d put quite a few pictures of it on the website.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And then a
young French couple phoned me. They hadn’t seen the advert on AngloInfo but had
heard at the school gates that Tan and Angie were moving and so came round to
view on the Saturday, only a few days after Tan and his family had moved out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Now, I’d always
said I would not rent, or even sell to French people. It might sound slightly,
or even, overtly zenophobic but I’d heard that French people can be extremely
difficult to deal with, indeed, there are numerous stories about their zeal to
sue, make things difficult and generally cause trouble if there is the
slightest problem, but this couple seemed nice, reasonable, and the fact that Delphine
would look amazing in a bikini sunning herself by the pool, had absolutely no
influence on my decision and so after a quick tour of the house they said it
seemed to meet their expectations and would be in touch.. The following day,
the Sunday, they re-appeared and after another tour of the house they said they
would take it – it was ideal for their requirements.</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I was, of
course delighted. To rent the house only a few days after Tan and Angie had
moved out was a real bonus and so we shook on the deal. Eric, the husband, then
said, ‘real Frenchmen don’t shake hands on a deal, we look each other in the eyes’,
and that’s what we did. Eric then requested that I move all the furniture out
of the house as he wanted it completely empty. In response I said I would take
the house off the market, do a few things to the house and would be pleased to
welcome them next door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Then I had
the difficult job of calling prospective viewers and telling them the house had
been rented, specifically the Glaswegian guy who had flown his wife in to view
it on the Monday. It was not a nice call to make but he understood and was
gracious in defeat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Over the
next week or so, I replaced the oven and even fitted a new hot water boiler
(that’s another story), moved all the furniture out and renovated both
bathrooms and tidied up the garden. The house was looking amazing if I say so
myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"> </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And so in
the week I was expecting Eric and Delphine to move in, I got a call from them
saying they’d seen another house and had chosen that one and wouldn’t be moving
in after all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">If I had
been able to reach down the phone and grab them by the throat I would have
done. In the end, I simply cut them off and refused to take their calls. I was
spitting blood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Now I know
that circumstances change and they might have found a better, cheaper, more appropriate
house, but to stand there and request that we look each other in the eyes as we
shook on the deal, and then pull out knowing I would now have to re-advertise
and had lost a month’s rent was beyond even my widely acknowledged levels of
patience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And so,
sadly, my faith in human nature has been restored. I WILL NOT RENT TO FRENCH
people. No way! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The lesson
was that I should have taken a cheque as deposit but cheques can be easily
cancelled and I would not have been in any position to reclaim the money so I
am now re-advertising the house in the forlorn hope that the Glaswegian guy
will renew his interest. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">C’east la
vie and as I’ve said many times before, <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">France</st1:place></st1:country-region> would be a lovely place if
it wasn’t for the French !</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-67474650098082063642012-10-23T04:39:00.003+02:002013-04-21T13:42:34.254+02:00Kenyan Kids - Julie's Latest Trip You can read all about Julie's latest trip to Kenya in the Kenyan Kids website at the bottom of the 'News' section.This link should take you there - well, at least to the News section ...............<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.helpkenyankids.org/index.php/news"><span style="color: yellow;">http://www.helpkenyankids.org/index.php/news</span></a><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP4p62njIr3YVLsLlTHM_XMAJN93P6vdOVpp67aAjuNnfOxWcPAC6JqkZFaqpfZtzInhJpbfcBTcYQpT6yeWgjJikqeakKwVPt_esOdGJeNi94WbdXKefiLqMfhbFmRdGhafBMolbctD_o/s1600/KK.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP4p62njIr3YVLsLlTHM_XMAJN93P6vdOVpp67aAjuNnfOxWcPAC6JqkZFaqpfZtzInhJpbfcBTcYQpT6yeWgjJikqeakKwVPt_esOdGJeNi94WbdXKefiLqMfhbFmRdGhafBMolbctD_o/s320/KK.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-50146277666360399122012-10-12T14:44:00.000+02:002013-04-21T13:49:24.531+02:00Shadow - An Obituary<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpjIwuta_HtjY_N1cBCjaXeGpytaNMmcfBjQ51nMYvGqswSUAafE-f7Ef46g8qjy1612_0iFAokcHWW7vicHXuItXjet2FjsuNLhpaJe57le4TSZE6DnmUwQExmi6Xi7o1hGtCKMWbq4us/s1600/Shadow3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpjIwuta_HtjY_N1cBCjaXeGpytaNMmcfBjQ51nMYvGqswSUAafE-f7Ef46g8qjy1612_0iFAokcHWW7vicHXuItXjet2FjsuNLhpaJe57le4TSZE6DnmUwQExmi6Xi7o1hGtCKMWbq4us/s320/Shadow3.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shadow - in better days</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I know that obituaries usually come out very soon after the death of
someone but it’s only now, several weeks after Shadow’s death, that I can bring
myself to write this tribute to him and for those of you who are wondering why
I am writing a tribute to a dog, well Shadow touched the lives of everybody who
came into contact with him and therefore I am neither embarrassed nor being
over sentimental in penning this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I arrived in <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on">France</st1:country>
not long after Shadow had turned one. Julie had sent me a few pictures of this
straggly mutt looking through the kitchen window so I knew that as well as
taking some responsibility for a three year old girl and a five year old boy, I
would also have a dog.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until I turned up at the door, Shadow had been the alpha dog
but as soon as I appeared he settled into a lesser role respecting my new
position as head of the household. He instantly became my friend, showing me
around the terraces where he buried his bones and the carcasses of rabbits he’d
caught. </div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But he was a strange dog. He never chased after a ball and
when we went to the river he had to be encouraged to take a swim. First thing in the morning he would wander
down to the road at the bottom of the terraces to see all his doggy pals and
invariably be led astray by them, ripping open people’s bin bags and coming back proudly holding a stale baguette in his jaws.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If this was a minor problem, it was nothing compared to when
we took in a stray husky which we called Harry. Harry immediately decided he
was now the alpha male and took to sleeping stretched out on one of the sofas
in the lounge, with Shadow copying him by lying in an identical pose on the
other sofa, something Shadow had never done in his life before. Destruction
then began with Harry ripping things apart, digging up plants in the garden and
worse of all, leading Shadow three miles along the busy road into the village
where they would run about in the traffic. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After several trips to the dog pound where the police would
deposit ‘stray’ dogs, and many euros in fines later, Harry was deposited with a
family down the coast and Shadow’s life returned to normal.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was about three years ago, when Shadow was eleven that
the symptoms of his illness first began to show. He became lethargic, never
moving from the house except when he needed to ‘go, except when Tan and Angie
had a party when he would wander over and enjoy the company of the kids who
were playing. His appetite never dimmed but he started to lose hair, he got
lesions on his nose and put on weight. The initial diagnosis by our local vet
was an under-active thyroid and so Shadow was put on a liquid medication which
had to be squirted down his throat three times a day, something which he
detested.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
A year later and with no improvement in his condition, we
took Shadow to another vet where they diagnosed the incurable dog disease
Lieshmaniosis. By this time, his back legs had started to shake as he walked
around and more lesions had appeared on his joints. Despite this, he was still
quite active although he liked nothing better than to lie in the sun inside our
lounge.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZpuEHlul__quCj_3DaNkZ2hDRixixlCd_efvtoE_elydS6hWtIxvvaN5XJPI1YV4NVZ1RFU4Mw7W6guinMJEMV6TGgMO78uWt0bcQ27U3SBWDxHpV2VQ1p-zimiPpF8lB30F1eAJ9Xlfp/s1600/P1010059.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZpuEHlul__quCj_3DaNkZ2hDRixixlCd_efvtoE_elydS6hWtIxvvaN5XJPI1YV4NVZ1RFU4Mw7W6guinMJEMV6TGgMO78uWt0bcQ27U3SBWDxHpV2VQ1p-zimiPpF8lB30F1eAJ9Xlfp/s320/P1010059.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He even loved the cats</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The vet put Shadow on a medication called Allopurinol which
is a human medicine used for the treatment of gout and he seemed to improve but
as the time passed his legs became more and more infirm and so he was then
given another treatment, this time to alleviate the arthritis which most large
dogs eventually suffer from.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was only six months ago when we took Shadow for his
latest check-up. By this time, his lesions had gone and he was now quite active,
returning to his daily routine of strolling down to see his pals. We were
encouraged by this but always with the nagging knowledge that the Liesmaniosis,
caused by the infection of sand flies,
was always present and could strike at any time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was when Julie was in <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on">Kenya</st1:country> earlier this year that Shadow
suddenly went down hill. One day he was fine, the next, the Saturday, he could
not move – his legs had gone. He simply laid in his favourite place in the
lounge and did everything there – and I mean everything! All very distressing
and looking into his eyes, I’m sure he felt he’d lost any semblance of dignity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the Sunday, he rallied and I carried him outside so he
could ‘do his business’ in the grass and he actually walked around and then
back into the house. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the Monday morning when I awoke, he was in a bad way. I
tried to make him as comfortable as possible but then he had what I can only
describe as the doggy equivalent of someone having an epileptic fit. It was
extremely distressing and I thought that he would not survive but once again he
rallied – he seemed to know that Julie and Kitty were returning from <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on">Kenya</st1:country> that
morning and he wanted to hang on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As soon as I returned from the airport, it was clear to the family that Shadow’s time had come and we lifted him into the jeep for what we all
knew would be his last journey. He used to love sitting in the back of the jeep
knowing there was some adventure in the offing, but this time, his head was on
the carpet with a resigned look in his eyes. Julie laid in the back with him
and as we passed David and Sarah’s house where his friend Charlie lived, Julie said
Shadow struggled to raise his head to look for his playmate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxcWaTdJPz86CMh-w85PiQqM0pf9vY4Ds5KLYrZN4-ZYA5zGBGAwi9zzspJQ0EynU9HEv6crfzCkpM1Z7qj7aRC243UFTy8EnskSBdyXIL2gqG9yW-z3kbWjFinNzU9kpiRyPS8KKJyfMq/s1600/Shadow1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxcWaTdJPz86CMh-w85PiQqM0pf9vY4Ds5KLYrZN4-ZYA5zGBGAwi9zzspJQ0EynU9HEv6crfzCkpM1Z7qj7aRC243UFTy8EnskSBdyXIL2gqG9yW-z3kbWjFinNzU9kpiRyPS8KKJyfMq/s320/Shadow1.JPG" width="220" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sadness in his eyes - Shadow was ill</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
At the vets the mood was sombre, even amongst those whose
lives involve euthanising beloved pets every day of the week. They couldn’t
have been more sympathetic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shadow was lifted into the surgery and the vet administered
a strong anesthetic which apparently relieved him of his final breath within
seconds, although a few minutes later his eyes were still looking at me. I’m
sure I saw a tear in the eyes of the nurse although I can’t be sure as I was
crying my eyes out at the time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The vet asked if we wanted Shadow’s ashes but when we heard
the alternative, his remains being scattered at sea, we chose that and left for
a very sad journey home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A week later, a letter of sympathy arrived from the vet. A
nice touch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We all miss you Shadow. </div>
Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-46663411342104176432012-10-09T09:54:00.001+02:002013-04-21T13:50:38.117+02:00A Fishy Tale - Actually, Two Fishy Tales<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been meaning to start my blog again, not on a daily
basis as it’s too onerous but when I’ve got something important or interesting to
say ….. so here goes…..</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My friend, Pastor Pete (he is actually a retired vicar) and
I are fishing buddies and a couple of weeks ago he took me to a restaurant
where you sit on a terrace beside the river, have lunch and watch huge chub
swimming no more than a couple of feet from the tables. As keen fishermen we
salivated over the prospect of trying to catch some of these fish but it
appeared that the only place in the river where they congregated was beside the
restaurant. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pete threw in some bread, as did quite a few of the other diners,
but the chub just pushed it around and were not at all interested. I came to
the conclusion that the fish were sick to the back gills (!!) of bread so I
took a piece of my kidney cooked in red wine sauce, threw it in and it was like
a piranha feeding frenzy – we had the solution – we had the bait!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pete suggested we go back in a week or so, on a Monday when the restaurant is closed, and
try this new bait but unfortunately I had guests (thanks Neil, Sophie et al)
and had to refuse the invitation. I’ve still to find out how Pete and his son
did that Monday. Watch this space. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The real story for the blog though is a real mystery fishy tale.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My friends have a house about a mile away and in their drive
there is a freshwater spring. In order to clear any obstructions which might
cause the spring to overflow, a foot square inspection trap has been fitted and
it was in this trap that they found a rather exotic looking fish a few months
ago. Unfortunately, the fish was dead and I didn’t get to see it but a few
weeks ago, Sarah said another, live fish was swimming about in the trap, so armed
with a net and a large container, I was down there like a shot.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I caught the fish (not too difficult when it only has a foot
square to swim in !) and was staggered. Now, I could probably recognize any
fresh or saltwater fish you put in front of me but this fish amazed me. About 2
inches long, it was yellow, with dark spots and a blueish tinge. I had an idea
what it was but my brain told me it couldn’t possibly be what I thought it was.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I took it home and after the water equalized, I let it go in
my own fish pond. I then got onto the internet to do some research.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7zjWWbp8-EQUPpcYXPLmDb6pD2iVuvkNJt5QViY9erI-J6OAD9oU8QHyDoQU2RawD4DnJXohIIthvueU8to8TPKEX76UpFJGpt1WkQk_gb6Nfd9ZkxDuUu7Mkvb-rVXUj4XqKV93q7Rts/s1600/fish1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7zjWWbp8-EQUPpcYXPLmDb6pD2iVuvkNJt5QViY9erI-J6OAD9oU8QHyDoQU2RawD4DnJXohIIthvueU8to8TPKEX76UpFJGpt1WkQk_gb6Nfd9ZkxDuUu7Mkvb-rVXUj4XqKV93q7Rts/s1600/fish1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Very similar to the mystery fish</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I looked at every possible fish which resembled the one I’d
just caught and came to the conclusion that it was a cichlid, an aquarium warm
water fish from the <st1:placename w:st="on">Rift</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Lakes</st1:placetype>
in <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on">Kenya</st1:country>,
but why would a cichlid be swimming in a cold water spring? Where had it come
from?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sarah thought a passing bird might have dropped it in the
trap as it flew past but apart from the fact about where a bird would get a cichlid
there was the inescapable view that ok, maybe one bird might drop a fish into
the trap, but two. It wasn’t possible.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I got onto Google Earth. Above Sarah’s house there is a
chateau. Not a chateau with turrets as English people would think of, just a
big fancy house, owned by a Lord Drayson – him of motor racing fame, not the
guy who designs vacuum cleaners - he's Dyson !</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In front of the house there appears to be a large ornamental
lake and it occurred to me that Lord Drayson might actually keep exotic fish in
it, and one, or two, might have escaped through a sluice or something, but warm
water cichlids ?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I found a contact point on the internet for Sarah’s
neighbour and sent him a nice e-mail explaining the situation, but when I read
it back, it sounded like a stupid joke which maybe explains why I have not had
a reply.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, the fish has not been seen since I put it into my
pond. I don’t think it has died as it would have floated to the surface so I
assume it’s down there in the depths somewhere.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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A fishy mystery indeed !</div>
Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-53303759574627909682012-02-15T22:05:00.001+01:002013-04-21T13:53:05.632+02:00Seven Meals or One ?What would you rather have, seven meals in the local village brasserie or one fancy-dan meal at a Michelin starred restaurant?<br />
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Me? I'd always have the seven meals (for two) as I regard eating out as a social event rather than a stomach-filling one and following a visit to our nearest Michelin priced restaurant, I'm still happy with the choice I'd make.<br />
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I took J to Les Bacchenales (<a href="http://lesbacchanales.com/"><span style="color: yellow;">http://lesbacchanales.com/</span></a>) for Valentines Day. Actually, I took her on the 13th as the restaurant on the night itself was fully booked. I'd been wanting to visit Bacchenales for a couple of years as Christophe, the owner/chef had had a small establishment of the same name in Tourrettes a few years ago and had moved to bigger, and pricier premises, had achieved his first star and apparently the food was very good.<br />
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The restaurant is based in a large villa just five minutes outside of Vence our nearest town and there were two things I was particularly keen to see; the decor which I was sure would be clean, modern and functional, and how Christophe presented his food. In Tourrettes, virtually every course was sprinkled with edible flower petals which gave the dishes a very colourful feel, possibly to give the impression that there was more on the plate than there actually was.<br />
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I had joked that we might have to go for a burger afterwards as my memory was that whilst his food was very good, there wasn't much of it on the plate - true nouvelle cuisine! I needn't have worried.<br />
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Christophe himself took my reservation (his wife used to be a friend of J's when they lived in the village, hence the use of his christian name) and suggested a timing of 7.30pm but when we arrived, the dining room was empty, obviously he was trying to stagger the amount of work his waiters, of whom there were many, had to do at any given time.<br />
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However, before we get to the meal itself, I had asked J to 'dress up' for dinner and true to form she appeared in her fox fur (the RSCPCA is not one of her chosen charities !). We drove into Vence and I entered our local Best Western, a small, indistinct little hotel on the edge of town.<br />
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'Oh, how nice', she said in a voice which betrayed her utter disappointment.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christophe at work</td></tr>
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After parking the car and really trying to convince her that we were indeed going out for Valentines Day in a Best Western, I relented and drove on to Les Bacchenales.<br />
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A nice log fire was burning and as soon as we were seated, a waiter presented a bottle of sparkling water, persuaded us to have the house cocktail (apple juice, champagne and candied rose petals) and pointed out the menu which was fixed and which I was reluctant to look at it as I was sure, fish would feature prominently. And it did.<br />
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Another waiter appeared and produced hot bread sticks with a dish of parsley pesto and parmesan which was a nice appetiser. Then another waiter provided us with two small bowls (like sake bowls) and announced that the three minute white specs were a special type of lard. He then proceeded to pour a thick beef soup into the bowls and pointed out that the accompanying spoons had a black truffle butter on them which should be stirred into the soup. <br />
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Then the confusion began. The spoons were almost flat and any attempt to try and 'spoon' the soup out of the bowls ended with dribbles going everywhere. Should we just drink out of the bowls? I did, and J followed my lead but it was clear later on when other diners started their meal that the spoons should indeed have been used!<br />
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Neither of these dishes (according to J) were on the menu which I still hadn't looked at - there was no point. What was going to be served, would be served. If fish arrived, I would do my best to eat it, after all it was costing me a small fortune.<br />
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Then the fish arrived. A melange (mixture) of monkfish, prawn meat and clams, surrounded by sweet red onion petals and a small amount of salad leaves. Now I have eaten monkfish and prawns before but generally I choose not to. I also adore clam chowder but have never eaten a clam out of its shell.<br />
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The monkfish and prawn seemed hardly cooked but I ate it and I even tried a clam before depositing the rest on J's plate. Thankfully I was able to wash down the clam taste with some nice white wine. As my cousin Sue would say, 'what are you like'.<br />
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I sat back enjoying the log fire and the quiet, reserved ambience thinking that I could now relax - the fish course was gone, but Christophe appeared at the table and proudly announced that the next course was Corsican Sea Bream. Aaaaaagh!<br />
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Actually, it wasn't at all bad. A meaty fish sprinkled with small cubed radish. I ate it. I wasn't too keen, I have to say, but I ate it. It's amazing what you'll do when you know it's costing the equivalent of a monthly wage of one of J's teachers in Kenya.<br />
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More white wine and then the main course was produced - a small piece of fillet steak poached in beetroot stock and resting on beetroot crisps and something else I didn't recognise the look or taste of. The meat looked distinctly uncooked but it was the colour of the beetroot which had made it look raw. Despite the fact that the knives were so blunt they were unable to cut the meat cleanly, it was so tender that the merest pressure caused it to fall apart - it was delicious, especially when washed down with a nice glass of claret.<br />
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A long wait then ensued before dessert arrived and I have to say, I have absolutely no idea what it was. J didn't know either - even after we'd eaten it. It tasted like a toffee base with cream and more flowery 'stuff' but whilst I quite liked the taste of it, my enthusiasm was tempered by the fact that I had no idea what I was eating.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flower petals !!!</td></tr>
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Finally, we refused coffee but petit fours were placed on the table - ah, something I could recognise - chocolate truffles and apple candy.<br />
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As we drove home, I reflected on the fact that I am quite obviously a total pleb. I love good food but given a choice of a homemade quiche and frites in the Midi or a meal at Les Bacchenales, I know which I would go for, every time. Seven times actually!<br />
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Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-23364037164942929772012-01-23T17:03:00.000+01:002013-04-21T16:22:54.765+02:00Orange - A One Man band<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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So I’m doing some remedial work on a villa that I, sorry, J, looks after (see blog post ‘The Anal Banker’ <span style="color: yellow;">(<a href="http://tomsfrenchblog.blogspot.com/2011/07/anal-banker-and-i-said-banker.html"><span style="color: yellow;">http://tomsfrenchblog.blogspot.com/2011/07/anal-banker-and-i-said-banker.html</span></a>)</span>. I go round at 7.45am as <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Orange</st1:place></st1:city> (France Telecom to you and me) have said they’ll be there between 8am and 1pm to fix the faulty telephone line.</div>
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Nobody there so I start clearing up after a flood a few weeks ago - a bit of painting, scrubbing and washing and then I notice a guy wandering around outside. ‘France Telecom ?’, I ask him.</div>
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‘No’ was the answer, so I left him to it but I did notice that he was paying particular attention to the telephone pole straight across from the front door. I went back to my scrubbing.</div>
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A few minutes later there was a knock at the door. ‘I am here to fix your telephone’, he said and with that he jumped back in his van and I didn’t see him again for 20 minutes. </div>
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I was intrigued but it turned out that <st1:city w:st="on">Orange</st1:city> must sub-contract faults to another company and here he was – <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Orange</st1:place></st1:city> by any other name!</div>
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Once he came back, he asked me how many ‘prises’ (telephone sockets) there were in the house. ‘No idea’, I said. ‘I’m only the handyman.’ He looked around then went back outside, moved his truck into position and got himself on one of these little hoist platforms, moved up the pole, had a good look around and then, not to my surprise, said, ‘no faults out here.’<br />
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Back into the house he asked if ‘we’ had a loft space. ‘No idea, I’m only the handyman’, I said once again, but looking around I spotted a panel in the ceiling at the end of the hall. </div>
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‘Have you got any ladders’, he asked. </div>
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As it happened I had picked up some ladders from the garage earlier to paint the ceiling, so I showed them to him. </div>
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‘No use’, he said.</div>
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I thought that was it but he went outside and came back in with a set of really high-tech ladders and asked me to open the loft, which I did only to be covered by multiple rat droppings and a rat-poison block!</div>
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I looked at him and he looked at me. I got the distinct impression there was something wrong. ‘What’s the problem’, I asked him.</div>
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‘I can’t climb the ladders unless you hold them’, he said.</div>
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So, as I was thinking why they send single people out (note: not sexist) to fix things which are generally high up when they are not allowed to climb ladders but then remembering we’re in France, he convinced me to hold the ladders whilst he climbed up into the loft space.</div>
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There then followed what I assumed to be a string of profanities before he climbed back down the ladders. ‘Not good’, he said.</div>
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He took his ladders outside, put them up against the guttering (with me holding them) and wandered around the roof before exclaiming, ‘I’ve found it’.</div>
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He was almost beside himself with self-satisfaction. I could see from the ground that the telephone wire had chaffed itself against the chimney and that was the problem.</div>
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Back down the ladder, into his van and a 50 metre length of cable appeared.</div>
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After a long Franglais conversation, I worked out that he now wanted me to go into the loft space and wait whilst he threaded the new cable through the roof tiles. I felt like I should say that he needed to hold the ladders for me but as he was now bounding up his own set outside I let it pass and climbed into the loft.</div>
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He had instructed me where to go but with no visible floor (it was under 6 inches of insulation), I was a bit tentative in case I ended up going through the ceiling (floor – whatever) but I could hear him shouting at me so I scurried across, throwing up clouds of fibres which started me off sneezing and scratching.</div>
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Eventually, we got the new cable to the correct place and he carried on with his work whilst I went back down to ground level.</div>
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Rather than come back down from the loft he proceeded to ask me something in (technical ) French which later transpired to be, ‘could you take my test meter and see if there is a current on the two wires which are for the phone.’</div>
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Now, my French might be ok in a bistro but this was a bit much for me so he had to lower himself down from the loft and do his own test.</div>
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It worked! He even phoned the house number to prove it and such was the look of self satisfaction on his little face that I felt compelled to congratulate him.</div>
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Then it was the paperwork.</div>
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J had already warned me that if the fault was deemed to be the house owners, there would be a hefty bill so I tentatively asked whose fault it was.</div>
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‘50/50’ was the response.</div>
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‘Ah, OK – here’s a bottle of Chablis for you’, I said, using the old trick of seducing a Frenchman with a decent bottle of plonk.</div>
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‘Ah, that’s very good of you’, he said, ‘but I am not allowed to accept gifts but thinking about it, it’s not your fault at all – the bill will be zero.’</div>
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Result! I put the Chablis back in my bag, said goodbye and went and had a shower (I was still scratching like mad), but not before he said, ‘you have a three week (three weeks !!!!) guarantee on my work – call this number if there’s a problem.’</div>
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The moral of the story – say you’re afraid of heights, allergic to loft insulation and always offer bottle of wine to a tradesman! </div>
Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-90814312901827734932011-12-23T18:14:00.001+01:002013-04-21T16:25:53.014+02:00Boy's Lunches<div class="MsoNormal">
Despite having retired over four years ago, I still attend the traditional boy’s festive lunches for the companies I used to work for, IBM and BT.</div>
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The BT South of France Xmas Lunch comprises three or four attendees (it was only three this year) and is traditionally held in the New Punjab curry house in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Grasse</st1:place></st1:city>. </div>
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Now before you cry ‘sacrilege’, I suspect, Ashley, Ian and myself are so fed up with French food by the time Christmas comes around, we deserve something a little more ‘piquant’. </div>
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Normally, the three of us are the only diners in the New Punjab apart from maybe a visiting British couple who happen to stumble across the restaurant which is very well hidden, but this year, the place was full – full of French Xmas partygoers. I say ‘partygoers’, but in fact, it was all very sedate with the nearest the lunchtime revelers got to anything approaching a normal, dare I say, British company do, was when they ordered a round of non-alcoholic cocktails! Vive la difference!</div>
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My next festive outing was somewhat further afield, in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city> for the traditional IBM Boy’s Lunch. There’s a couple of points to make about this; (a) it is most definitely a ‘Boy’s Lunch’ and although the behaviour has ‘settled down’ over the last few years, females would find the constant chatter about sport, economics and fine wines, difficult to cope with, and (b) the lunches have been going strong for thirty years or more so it is a well established routine – meet up, drinks, lunch, more drinks, sometimes dinner and then, strangely enough, more drinks. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Famous Long Room at Lords</td></tr>
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I didn’t make it last year, as paying around £500-£600 for a lunch (including flights and hotels) is extravagant even by a London banker’s standards, but this year, I decided that the venue simply could not be missed – it was being held in the historic and iconic Long Room at Lords Cricket Ground.</div>
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My mate Mick who was organizing the tickets had sent an e-mail saying the dress code was ‘lounge suits’ but dragging a suit all the way to London was a non-starter as far as I was concerned and so I turned up in a smart, but nevertheless, non-dress code sports jacket and slacks which was a bit of a faux pas on my part as I reckon I was the only one in the room not dressed to the required code.</div>
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You might be getting the impression at this point that it was a rather posh do and indeed I got that impression myself, as almost as soon as we had sat down to eat, after a champagne welcoming, there was a short speech and a request for ‘my Lords, ladies and gentlemen’ to stand for the loyal toast.<br />
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Lunch itself was a fairly standard affair with various members of our table trying to ‘seduce’ the waitress into bringing us more than our allocated wine ration which she steadfastly refused to do and so copious additional bottles were ordered at an exorbitant price.</div>
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Once lunch had finished, Mick took us on a tour of the Pavillion and even managed to get us into the player’s dressing rooms which is where I made quite a discovery, well, for me at least.</div>
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At Lords, the acknowledged ‘home of cricket’, when a batsmen scores over 99 runs his name is etched onto a board and bowlers who take five or more wickets or ten or more wickets also have their names etched onto a board. Now these boards containing the names of the greatest cricketers who have graced Lords are frequently shown on TV but I was amazed to find that the boards are actually on the walls of the respective dressing rooms. What an inspiration for those cricketers going out to bat or bowl to see the names of their countrymen on the walls of the greatest cricket ground in the world.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alistair Cook and the Boards</td></tr>
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After staggering out of Lords and into a cab, it was off into the City to find a pub where my mates could drink ales and stouts whilst I stuck to my white wine.</div>
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At some stage in the evening, remembering J was alone in the hotel back in Kilburn, I said my goodbyes and the next thing I remember was sleeping on the floor of the hotel bedroom with a king size bed nearby – what a waste!</div>
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It was a great trip, made all the more special by being able to wander around the Lords Pavillion where cricket officiandos would give their right arm to be. </div>
Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-84375746273998524412011-12-09T14:02:00.005+01:002013-04-21T16:28:48.393+02:00Julie's Latest Trip To Kenya<div class="MsoNormal">
I am including a Newsletter which Julie sent out to her friends and donors. You may not have seen it.</div>
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Kenyan Kids News – November 2011</div>
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This newsletter aims to give an account of how some of your generous donations were used on my latest trip to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Kenya</st1:place></st1:country-region>. I apologise in advance for its length but I wanted to portray how seriously I take the stewardship of each and every one of your donations. Big or small, every centime does count and makes a huge difference to the life of one or many. Whether your money has been used for a small hand out or a larger hand up, the details are all below. Please accept a big personal, thank you and a warm hug from everyone mentioned in the newsletter.</div>
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Monday, 31st October</div>
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My plan today was to try and find a bank that would consider giving me an account – just as I had wanted to be legally registered in <st1:country-region w:st="on">France</st1:country-region> I wanted to have similar ‘accountability’ in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Kenya</st1:place></st1:country-region> too. However, as we were waiting in the queue, Moses glanced down at my leg and remarked that the mozzies had made a meal of me last night. As I glanced down to look at my legs, the first thing that came to mind was a dot-to-dot page in a children's colouring book except these little red dots were too numerous to count. He looked at me - I looked at him. "It's bed bugs, isn't it?" I said. So, with all thoughts of banking forgotten, we returned back to Covenant Home and set about spraying my room with enough poison to kill a small elephant. In spite of being provided with a new mattress and even new sheets (thank you Pat), these little blighters hide in skirting boards and any dark little crevice during the day, only to come out at night, climb into bed with you and yum, you know the rest. Oh it's nice to be accepted – I feel like a proper visitor now, not just a tourist!</div>
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Tuesday, 1st November was spent visiting some of the Standard Eight (i.e. end of primary years) kids in schools who are getting ready to take their exams in a week’s time.</div>
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In the picture on the right is Jackson, one of the many kids the Isaiah Trust support, gratefully accepting a giant greetings card wishing everyone success in their forthcoming exams.<br />
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For those in boarding school, we took some ‘presents’ to help get them through until the end of term. Gifts ranged from toiletries for the girls, weetabix, bread, hot chocolate powder, soap, toothpaste and brushes, shoe polish, pencils and washing soap. It means a great deal to these kids that we take the time to visit them especially as most of their friends have parents who visit on a regular basis and they do not.</div>
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That evening, it was wonderful to see old friends again at the Isaiah Trust Kachok Outreach programme next to the rubbish tips. How I love cuddling the smallest children - their little hands full of bread (and biscuits if they are lucky) clutching on to a mug of sweet, milky African tea or juice. This always costs a little money but is so worthwhile as the photo below shows – thank you to all who donated.</div>
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We went back to Covenant <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: yellow;">(<a href="http://www.covenanthome.co.uk/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: yellow;">http://www.covenanthome.co.uk</span></a>)</span> to meet with Moses’s little daughter Vashni who had developed a serious case of malaria. Usually with Malaria, all that is needed is a three day course of tablets but whatever the strain of malaria poor Vashni got, it was not giving up easily.</div>
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Vashni is like any talkative 2-year-old, running around rather than walking, smiling, singing, reaching up your leg for a cuddle. It was obvious how poorly she was - she didn’t speak, she didn’t even whinge, she just flopped about, fell asleep anywhere she could, in a lap, a chair and refused even the slightest drink of water. As her mum gave her paracetamol to try and bring her temperature down, she just vomited it back up. Not responding to anything at home, she was taken to hospital where they diagnosed Malaria and also Septicaemia.<br />
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A 3-day course of intravenous injections was recommended and when she came back to the Covenant I was amazed to see my bedroom turned efficiently into a hospital room. Fortunately, we have a qualified Doctor who lives here. Collins is one of Pat’s original boys of whom she is enormously proud and with one phone call he agreed to come to help at the end of his usual fourteen hour day (of a 7 day week).<br />
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Collins prepared the vaccination and then hung the drip from the curtain rail while I held little Vashni and tried to calm her. Most of us know what hysterical 2 year olds can be like and for me it brought back memories from a long time ago. The crying is okay but it’s the sobs that upset me. Anyway, like any child of her age, exhaustion set in after approximately 60 seconds and she fell asleep across my lap. Still sitting on the edge of the chair, not daring to move in case I disturbed her, I recalled those days of nighttime childhood illnesses and how much mummies sacrifice their own sleep and wellbeing for the sake of their child.</div>
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As you can see Vashni (left) was one of the lucky ones – she has both parents and they were able to get the treatment she needed but, for the majority of families I see, any medication cost equates to approximately half a day’s salary and is unaffordable.</div>
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This wasn’t the only time I was able to help just during this short trip - one of the boys came to find me at Covenant Home, worried about his 10 year old sister who’d been ill and unresponsive for two days. We were able to get her medical help and a routine test for Typhoid, which, if left untreated could easily have caused her premature death.</div>
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Towards the end of the first week, we handed out the first batch of football shirts donated by my stepson Steve’s friends on his Face Book page, Footie Kits for Kenyan Kids. Fourteen year old Philip and Washington were delighted with their shirts. Philip in particular is football mad and Captain of the school team at the local Catholic run primary school. Unfortunately we couldn’t take any photos of them wearing the shirts as the nun drew the line at them getting undressed in her office. The rest of the shirts were put to one side to take up to the village children in Namatotoa as shown in the first photo in the newsletter. I hope those of you who donated clothes can recognise some of them in the first photo in this newsletter.</div>
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Home visits have always been an important part of my trip and this time I had been invited to visit Phoebe who is a widow living in one room in the Nyalenda slums. We visited her to see if we could help repair her roof as rainwater was streaming in. The side of the bed is just visible behind the curtain - she shares this space with three of her surviving children and her 7-year-old orphaned granddaughter. Phoebe lost another three of her children during infancy and her eldest daughter died of HIV when she was 28. Phoebe is only 51.</div>
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Ramanos was the next family on our list. Ramanos used to have a little business but he can no longer afford to purchase items of stock to sell out of this tiny room.</div>
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Constantly in arrears with his rent (the equivalent of £10 per month), he and his children are regular attendees at Kachok where they benefit from the bread and juice available. Widowed a few years ago, Ramanos searches to find any work he can but struggles to care for and feed his 5 children.</div>
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Saturday, 5th November saw us on our way to Siaya to visit Cosmas’s (an ex homeless tip dweller who is rehabilitated now) home village with a view to checking out his little land plot to see if we could put a little structure up for him so he could resettle there.</div>
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Whenever we head North West from Kisumu, we usually pass through Luanda and have the opportunity to stop off at its street market where we buy fresh pineapples, water melons, tiny bananas and some sesame seeds, which are mixed with brown sugar and shaped into small rounds - sticky burnt sugar flavour and delicious. Always on the lookout for a bargain, I stepped forward to see what was being sold by the cup full - it was that local delicacy, white ants (left). With no time to shout, 'I'm a Celebrity, get me out of here', I had little choice as some were poured into the palm of my hand to try them...salty, and a bit like tiny chewy potato chips. The wings do stick in your teeth though...</div>
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Sunday evening, 6th November and I need to write an overdue letter to my husband:</div>
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Darling Thomas, missing you like mad but just thought I’d let you know that I am going to do what I do best tomorrow – shopping! Now before you get too worried, I do have to say that it’s not the usual designer shopping spree of old, in fact, I could do with your help. Please advise where can I get 2 lorry loads of red soil? And then there is the rest; 2 wheelbarrows, 2 spades, 3 trowels, 1 broom, 2 watering cans, 1 oil can, 2 litres of lubricating oil, 2 hoe (what is the plural of hoe, hoes? – any more and it will sound like Christmas has come early, ho ho ho), 5 pairs of gum boots (non designer and men’s sizes), 5 protective helmets, 5 pairs of overalls, enough polythene roll to cover a small house (shall we get ever fashionable black or see thru?), 20 litres of ‘dirty’ oil (where is your brother Robert when we need a delivery) and last but not least 40 bags of cement. And if the shop even thinks of charging me for carrier bags, then I will throw a wobbly! Your ever loving wife xxx </div>
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This is the brick-making machine that has been funded by Kenyan Kids donors. You can see that all the guys were very excited about it and continued working on the bricks even as it grew dark. As I understand it, you mix a bit of cement with a bit of red soil, attach a lever (a bit like one half of a seesaw), then compress it and hey presto, a brick comes out the other end. This machine is our first big purchase. When I first saw it, I was keen to ask Moses, 'Do you really think it will build a house?' He looked at me, shook his head in his serious way and said, “No, Julie, it will not build a house.” I took a sharp intake of breath thinking about my donor’s hard-earned contributions. He continued: “I believe it will build a city”!</div>
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Wednesday 9th November</div>
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The saddest part of this trip was learning the news about Easter Lily. After my last visit, I shared with you the story of the abandoned Easter baby (left) that came to our notice whilst visiting the maternity unit of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">District</st1:placetype> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype></st1:place>. At the time, I asked Pat who runs Covenant Home if she would be willing to take the baby in and she agreed immediately. However about two weeks later, I received an email from Pat telling me, "Baby Lily's parents turned up and claimed her. What the story was we don't know, we were just told it was a domestic problem which has now been sorted."</div>
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During those intervening weeks and touched by Lily's story Angela, of Le Petit Cabanon, knitted Lily the most beautiful blanket (right) which I had brought with me this trip. Moses was very keen that we should find Lily's parents and take the blanket (inscribed with her name) to her even though several weeks had passed. Sadly, it wasn't meant to be and as we sat in the Sister's office she explained that she checked her files and Easter Lily had again been admitted. "It seems the parents split up again but this time, the mother brought her in." There was a pause: "I am sorry, we lost her".</div>
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Perhaps we'll never know what really happened in Easter Lily's short life. I could only compare her to Moses’s daughter Vashni who had been desperately ill earlier on in the week. Some families can afford medication and some cannot. Easter Lily had slipped through the net. As we walked back to the car I not only wept for her, but for all the children whose lives are lost in situations that would be unthinkable to us within our ‘comfortable’ existence.</div>
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Shortly afterwards, Angela of Le Petit Cabanon <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: yellow;">(<a href="http://www.justgiving.com/kraftedforkenyankids2/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: yellow;">http://www.justgiving.com/kraftedforkenyankids2</span></a>)</span> apologised on Facebook that her Saturday Krafted for Kenyan Kids Fair fund raising had only secured a meagre amount. I had to remind her that it certainly wasn't meagre by African standards; just 50 centimes, 50 pence worth of medication could possibly have saved that child's life. In our Western world, losing a child becomes a statistic that we cannot/don't want to absorb. For me, the reality of losing that precious child drives me on to help the next one and the next one so please help where you can.</div>
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It’s impossible to stay sad for too long as one situation quickly moves into another. Immediately after hearing the sad news about Easter Lily, we visited Dorcas, an elderly grandmother who cares for seven orphaned grandchildren. It's always a pleasure to visit Dorcas who is always full of smiles. This woman usually has tremendous energy but since last time, I noticed that she appeared to be slowing down and getting more tired. One of the problems Dorcas faces is having to walk over 50 minutes, each way, to collect clean water. Perhaps to some that doesn’t sound all that bad but consider that the last 20 minutes of her road has the steepness of our road leading up to the Courmettes and that’s a difficult steep path for any of us to walk.</div>
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I regularly complain about the time my son spends in the shower but imagine when every drop of water for use in the house has to be carried. Dorcas can manage to carry around 10 litres of water at a time. Think how you struggle with a 6-pack of water bottles, transferring it from supermarket trolley to car boot yet Dorcas (aged 70+) manages to carry more than that and up a steep hill in 32 degree heat.</div>
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As we sat chatting, we wondered how we could help when the heavens suddenly opened. As if by magic, we were prompted to wonder if there was some way we could harvest the rainwater from the roof and channel it into gutters and on into the house. This huge amount of rainfall would more than provide her and her family with a source of clean water. We came away feeling pleased that we had managed to find and fund a solution that would be a huge help to Dorcas and her family in the future.</div>
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Thursday evening, 10th November was our regular trip to the Kachok Outreach programme and we were able to provide a nutritious meal of chapatis and beans to more than 50 children and adults. There is rarely a better sight than a hungry child with a plateful of nutritious food in front of them.</div>
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The rain stayed away and were concerned that so many of the little ones arrive barefoot so we also handed out more than twenty pairs of flip flops – everyone was so grateful and we are reminded yet again how the smallest item can help.</div>
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Friday, 11th November</div>
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Originally we were planning to leave for Namatotoa on Thursday but as Moses is always so busy we had to delay the trip to Friday giving me a few free hours. We eventually got on the road at 6:00 pm for the two hour journey, north to Namatotoa. The car was packed with Nakumat (supermarket) shopping, Moses’s guitar, my bedding, camping lights, mosquito repellent, disinfectant and microbe activators for the African loo, snacks for the journey, biscuits and sweeties for the many kids we would see in the tiny rural village and a defrosting chicken for our one-pan risotto supper.</div>
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The journey always takes me back to family holidays when so many are uncomfortably packed into the car but we sang and giggled and bumped along the uneven road surfaces until we eventually arrived and were greeted in pitch blackness by Pastor Pete and his wife, Moses’s sister Agneta and his half brother, Vincent who had both travelled 3 hours by Matatu (mini bus) from Kitale.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Happy faces on the road under Pat’s best new quilt</span></td></tr>
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It must have been well after midnight by the time the ‘risotto’ had been prepared for all of us on the single ring gas stove. In the simple three-roomed house, the two girls shared the smallest room, Moses, Anton and Vincent slept on the living room floor and I shared the double bed with Agneta.</div>
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It was only during my second trip that I was invited to visit Moses’s home village. That first morning as I walked along the narrow, rutted paths through the sugar cane and maize fields, I felt a strong sense of ‘coming home’. It was a strange sensation to experience, especially to someone who loves her home comforts but I simply felt enveloped in a peace and tranquillity that I have rarely experienced before.</div>
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Each time I visit Namatotoa, I am struck by more details. This morning as I passed by the straw mud huts, I saw the smoke curling from charcoal being cured in mud bonfires and many barefoot ragged children, bare bottomed babies being carried by children who were 4 or maybe 5 years old themselves.</div>
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If a child cried, the mother would lift the child to her breast and anyone who has breast fed their own child could not fail to be moved by what I saw. In the Western developed world, the mother’s breast is full, rounded and nurturing to the child. The breasts these children were trying to latch on to resembled empty sacks yet still the child would grasp and pull at the nipple with both hands receiving little but a small amount of comfort.</div>
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The majority of the children hung back shyly hiding around corners or behind their mother’s legs in the doorway to the darkened interior. Maybe this kind of poverty does exist in Kisumu town but I hadn’t noticed it. Here the poverty of a whole village was presented to me in bright sunlight. A 2 year old’s feet hardened through lack of shoes having learnt to walk on maize and sugar cane husks, strange markings on their scalps which I later found out to be ring worm. Swollen bellies and distended tummy buttons, skin rashes and ingrained dirt on both mothers and their children.</div>
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Still, they came outside to see who the Mzungu (foreigner) was. For many, there appears to be no hope in their spirit. Their eyes were glassy as if fixed on something (or nothing) a long way off in the distance.</div>
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On my last Sunday as I sat amongst these villagers and we shared a meal of meat and rice, I knew the time was perfect to begin our project. We shouldn’t wait a minute longer.</div>
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Before my departure the next day, I stood amongst the sugar cane and spread out the blue print of our nursery. I was joined by some small children whose mother had no choice but to leave them alone for the whole day whilst she’d gone in search of work. Who was feeding these children while she was away? I thought of 7 year old Rosa who had lost the sight of one eye whilst play fighting in the sugar cane fields. Who was looking after these little ones in the absence of any adults?</div>
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<st1:place w:st="on">Rosa (left)</st1:place> still has a happy smile following the operation which Kenyan Kids helped to fund.</div>
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The trip from which I returned on the 17th November had been my fourth visit to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Kenya</st1:place></st1:country-region> in just over 18 months. During those visits my time has been spent exploring the different areas with an objective of trying to get an understanding of the impact poverty has on this particular region. To me the challenge of <st1:place w:st="on">Africa</st1:place> is its diversity of problems and trying to get to the root causes is confusing. All too easily, you can become so overwhelmed that you then, quite probably, decide to do nothing. For me, each visit unearthed yet another issue. It could be street boys living rough and high on glue, young girls being trafficked at bus stations - having little choice but to turn to prostitution, families destroyed and decimated by HIV/Aids which has taken away a generation of young parents. No education, no care and certainly not a glimmer of hope in this wasted society. All too often, it is the elderly grandparents, barely able to look after themselves, who attempt to become the carers of orphan children.</div>
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Sickness is rife everywhere. I remember the first time I came across a child with malaria. I was shocked but became even more horrified when I realised the pittance it would cost to actually cure that child simply by administering a three-day course of tablets. Illnesses we rarely hear about in our world, like Typhoid and TB, lost some of their fear to me as they are a daily and commonplace reality for the people around me.</div>
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I felt the ‘root’ cause of all problems could be positively impacted with education.</div>
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When I was introduced to the inhabitants of Namatotoa, it soon became apparent that children were being left by the wayside, both physically in terms of abandonment and neglect through lack of schooling. It is these children who, uneducated, run away to the big towns. There they arrive at the bus depots and end up on the streets either victims of trafficking or addicted to glue (because this takes away the pain of hunger and cold).</div>
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A previous attempt to start a nursery school in the village was thwarted because funds were too scarce but that was before I met Moses and before Kenyan Kids came into existence, Now, if we can provide a simple structure of a school building these village kids can start to be educated and their carers can go out and find local employment.</div>
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Coincidentally I met a pastor friend of our Moses, a Bishop Sebastian who lives close by Namatotoa. As he was speaking to me he showed me a small, wispy seedling and said: "Julie, this is like your ministry. Things start small." Then he took his shovel and carefully unearthed the huge heart of the plant below (right). “I want you to transplant this in your village and always remember, as this seedling grows so will your ministry.” At the time, I was too choked up to make any kind of response other than a hurried thank you.</div>
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The next day, as I poured over the blueprints for the nursery school, I knew that what we were looking at was real and achievable so the school is now our top priority. How we will raise funds for the school is still a bit of a mystery but then isn’t that the fun of it? Thanks to your generosity we already have purchased a brick-making machine. Now I know we can progress brick by brick and when we have enough bricks, we will buy a door or a window. </div>
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Local labour will be used to build it, parents who can’t pay towards school fees will be asked to prepare food for the children or bring in wood for the kitchen fire. It’s not all about money but bringing a community together – both the African community and the community of people here in the South of France, in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Cyprus</st1:country-region>, the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">UK</st1:place></st1:country-region> and anywhere caring people, who really want to make a difference are located. The vision is there. Help us by being part of it, whether by buying one brick at a time or by providing one mug of porridge for a malnourished child. Let’s try and give these children what we give our own children - ‘A chance for a lifetime’. With heartfelt thanks - Julie</div>
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Standing in the small sugar cane field I know our dreams can become a reality if we all work together.</div>
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Siege Social: 1646 Ch de St Arnoux 06140 Tourrettes sur <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Loup</st1:city>, <st1:country-region w:st="on">France</st1:country-region></st1:place></div>
<b><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span></b>Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-65697437629011538162011-11-08T10:53:00.000+01:002013-04-21T16:33:57.317+02:00Nature - What's Going On ?<div style="text-align: left;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgil-KxMeceEEM-r8vyMSYADlqsPmqPqzUQRdecSwTTjl_UsUwWDql8xD_wnQBWYKiXUg1Dm782NtCRwrBHvBi1NvcJUHLsm5ZAxmADB1xxg5xGa8GPY0nmJSDUfDllLjhY64fYJYgbtOjR/s1600/flood1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgil-KxMeceEEM-r8vyMSYADlqsPmqPqzUQRdecSwTTjl_UsUwWDql8xD_wnQBWYKiXUg1Dm782NtCRwrBHvBi1NvcJUHLsm5ZAxmADB1xxg5xGa8GPY0nmJSDUfDllLjhY64fYJYgbtOjR/s1600/flood1.jpg" /></a></div>
We’ve had a torrent of rain over the weekend. Reports of flooding and many properties being inundated with water are remote from our thinking as, being on the side of a mountain, the water just disappears down the hill with our only evidence of the floods being the fact that the gravel pile at the top of my drive eventually ends up at the bottom of the slope, but this is nothing compared to the fact that the aftermath of six months of rain falling in less than 24 hours is that at least 20 people have died and many thousands of householders are left without homes.</div>
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It was forecast that we’d have about 1.5 inches per day but in fact according to the water level in Tan’s pool, we actually had more than 6 inches over Saturday and Sunday, and as I sit on the terrace, particularly at midday when it is quiet, I can hear the river Loup about 2 miles away, raging through the valley.</div>
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It’s been a strange old year with regard to nature. My long dead pear tree burst back into life last year and was covered in fruit this summer until our visiting deer decided that they would make a tasty dessert and stripped the tree of every single pear, completely ignoring the quinces on the adjacent tree.<br />
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My treasured magnolia trees also did strange things. The large one in the garden did not burst into flower in Spring as it is supposed to do, whilst the one on the terrace, which again only ever flowers once a year, decided to produce beautiful flowers in February and also in September, and even stranger is my Brazilian vine, which bought as a pure white flowering plant, has now decided that it will produce both pink and white flowers – on the same stem!<br />
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The rain has started to make the grass grow on my newly ‘strimmed’ terraces and I suppose after ten years of neglect, it is delighted to be able to poke its head above the perennial weeds.</div>
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The oak trees down on the terraces, which by now are usually turning brown before shedding all their leaves, are greener than I’ve ever seen them. It’s amazing to think that in a few weeks the branches will be bare – although who knows this year?</div>
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So, things are strange this year. Maybe it’s going to be a cold winter with more than our normal two days of snow? </div>
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Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-75122342654175765742011-11-02T16:42:00.000+01:002013-04-21T16:41:19.354+02:00The Adventures of Tintin ................<div style="text-align: left;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Original Tin Tin Cast</td></tr>
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When I was a boy, way back when I was seven or eight, every night when I'd got back from school, I'd change my clothes and then dash over to the local library. The library was only about 100 yards away but I had to cross four or five streets to get there and given the Glasgow traffic in the late 50's, it was a miracle that I made it - every time! When I got there, I would dash up the stairs and breathlessly ask the librarian, and yes, she was severe and wore thick rimmed glasses, 'is TinTin back yet'. What I meant of course, was that I was desperate to read one of Hergé's Tintin books and had any been returned.</div>
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Invariably, the answer was a stern 'No', but it never stopped me and occasionally, just occasionally, one of the dog-eared books was free and I signed it out, rushed back to our tenement flat and read it and read it and re-read it.</div>
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I thought Tintin was a hero, battling the evil powers with the Thomson twins, but for a better description of what it was all about, read this Wikipedia excerpt.......</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: yellow;">The Adventures of Tintin is a series of classic comic books created by the Belgian artist Georges Rémi (1907-1983), who wrote under the pen name of Hergé. The series is one of the most popular European comic books of the 20th century, with transaltions published in more than 80 languages and more than 350 million copies of the books sold to date.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: yellow;">Set during a largely realistic 20th century, the hero of the series is Tintin, a young Belgian reporter. He is aided in his adventures from the beginning by his faithful fox terrier dog, 'Snowy'. Later, popular additions to the cast included the brash, cynical and grumpy 'Captain Haddock', the highly intelligent but hearing-impaired 'Professor Calculus' and other supporting characters such as the incompetent detectives, 'Thomson and Thomson'.</span></div>
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In this respect then, i.e., the book's popularity and the number sold, TinTin was the original Harry Potter and it's maybe strange that although I just adored the Tintin books with their escapism and great plots, I have never been able to get into the Potter books despite trying and trying. Whatever, the Hergé books were brilliant and although several film adaptations were made, I was probably into Steppenwolf and Led Zeppelin by the time they came out and never saw them.</div>
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Of course, my interest has been rekindled by the recent release of the Steven Speilberg 'Tintin' film and as I was sitting in the Bar des Sports today having a quick lunch (Croque Madame with salad), I was reading a couple of reviews of the film.<br />
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Now, I've read reviews of films which I thought were great, (i.e. I thought the film was great) only to find that the general consensus was that the critics thought it was a waste of celluloid, or whatever they use these days. I've also, and this is more disturbing, thought some films were absolute rubbish, only to find myself in a minority of one as the critics acclaimed it! Is it me or is it them ?</div>
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Anyway, as I sat there today reading the reviews and taking in a basic 50/50 split which thought the film was rubbish/brilliant, I was completely thrown by a review written by a certain Tom McCarthy of the Guardian newspaper.</div>
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Now the Tintin films will probably be attended by old guys like me introducing their sons, and maybe their daughters to a great cartoon character of the past, and despite the fact that the film is a 'PG' (parental guidance required), I suspect that it will be a huge hit with the kids given the trailers I've seen. I've forgotten many of the details of the character(s) and indeed the plots (The Crab with the Golden Claws - sounds like a James Bond movie!!) but when I read the Tom McCarthy review, I thought sense had gone out of the window. This is, after all, a cartoon movie, but Mr McCarthy obviously decided that it needed to be critiqued as if it were an epic masterpiece seeking critical acclaim from those on high. Read this and try and work out what the hell he's on about ...............</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Their recurrent themes and symbols – the downfall of noble houses, host-guest encounters gone drastically wrong, tombs and their secrets, water, forgery, the Sun (to name but a few) – are entirely classical, the same found in Aeschylus or Shakespeare or Faulkner. They are eminently political, depicting, first from a rightwing perspective, then, increasingly, a leftist one.....</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">But worst of all is the violence perpetrated against the core impulses of Hergé's work. The deep and disturbing power of the Tintin books lies in the way that they immerse the reader in an inauthentic universe, a world whose veneers are constantly being peeled back to reveal inner emptiness.......</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Thus <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Hollywood</st1:place></st1:city>'s idiotic "message" is forced on an oeuvre that is great precisely because it drives in exactly the opposite direction. It's like making a biopic of Nietzsche that depicts him as a born-again Christian.....</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Perhaps this movie will be studied, in years to come, as a Žižekian example of a dominant ideology's capacity to recuperate its own negation.......</span></div>
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What a load of old bollocks - it's just a film, a cartoon, but maybe McCarthy was smoking dope before he went to the preview?</div>
Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-84587212308158775882011-10-29T21:36:00.000+02:002013-04-21T16:44:07.389+02:00A Day At The Races<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzyJ4LkDrWxdnyhOvmzayGsldeGjIvZfMkn4qpXhtZQLICFGn7hyF5FteQl9wQ8Tn510Dc6V0OnM7-dpjlznrYkNlqIW_WjTT-GK-RJFkxHxp_nycB0vuWl8n3I-5zaOOmh0LY4jHQ_h9l/s1600/gerry3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzyJ4LkDrWxdnyhOvmzayGsldeGjIvZfMkn4qpXhtZQLICFGn7hyF5FteQl9wQ8Tn510Dc6V0OnM7-dpjlznrYkNlqIW_WjTT-GK-RJFkxHxp_nycB0vuWl8n3I-5zaOOmh0LY4jHQ_h9l/s1600/gerry3.jpg" /></a></div>
Now I’m not a great fan of being at the races but I do like the spectacle of a horse coming from the back of the field and working its way through the crowd and pushing its nose over the line in first place. Years ago, I even had the luxury of a box at Kempton once or twice but preferred to have a glass of champers in the confines of the hospitality area and watch the race on the telly, so when I was invited to a day at the races, I was none too keen.</div>
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But I was relieved, this was not an invitation to the circular track at Cagnes where the horses trot rather than run and the last horse is served up the next day as the Plat du Jour, this was my friend Gerry inviting me to his house in the village to watch Channel 4 racing but with a twist – we’d bet on the outcome of each race.</div>
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We met in the Bar des Sport for a nice lunch beforehand and then it was a quick walk to his house just off the village square - only about 100 yards.</div>
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Gerry is an ‘old’ amateur jockey and every Saturday he is to be found in a corner of either the Bar des Sports or the <st1:place w:st="on">Midi</st1:place> studying the form. </div>
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Now being a competitive Scot who cheats at tiddlywinks, the thought of betting and probably losing against an ‘old’ jockey who no doubt had an inside track (pun intended) on who was going to win each race did not fill me with whatever you're supposed to be filled with when you know you'll just be opening your wallet and pouring money out! </div>
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Whatever, after lunch we sat in his lounge with a glass of rosé and just as I was admiring the amazing views, the architecture and the quails eggs Leslie put out for nibbles, Gerry announced it was time for the first race – and a euro was demanded.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Racing with a View</td></tr>
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Now, I have to say that at 6am that morning I was studying the form (am I competitive or what?), looking up the Racing Post on the internet to see what was due to win and what the odds were but when it came time to choose my runner, I reverted to type and chose the nicest silks worn by the jockeys combined with the name of the horse, unless ……… there was a grey horse running in which case, that was my choice.</div>
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To cut a long, sad story short, there were eight races shown on telly and despite the advantage of having my iPad tell me which horses were destined for the dog food factory after running, I still did not manage to pick a single winner. Indeed, the winner of the combined bet, three euros unless there was a rollover, wasn’t necessarily the winner, just the horse which managed it into the top three – and I didn’t manage a single one. Indeed, by the end of the afternoon, I was sick of the TV commentator mentioning my horses in terms of, ‘pulled up’, ‘oh – there’s a faller’ and ‘that horse shouldn’t be in this field’. Was I depressed?</div>
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Being a ‘numbers man’ by trade or a statistician as most folk would call it, I couldn’t work it out – there were three of us betting and by the law of averages, I should have won at least two races, sorry two pots, but I didn’t – Gerry and Leslie cleaned me out!</div>
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Needless to say, they are not being invited to my place on a reciprocal visit. I am such a bad loser. But their house is gorgeous and has amazing views.</div>
Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-55079170375066632312011-10-25T21:56:00.001+02:002014-06-14T21:11:21.607+02:00Venice In Peril<div class="MsoNormal">
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Venice</st1:city></st1:place> is always in peril and has been for centuries. I suspect many reading this will have been to Venice, one of the most amazing places on earth and a must for the romantics but with the ever-rising lagoon and some of the buildings suffering from their wooden piles disintegrating, it can only be a matter of time before there is a major flood or a collapsed building and serious damage happens.</div>
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I first visited <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Venice</st1:place></st1:city> in 1982. I was lucky enough to attend an IBM Sales Convention there and despite the reservations about spending four days with your sales mates in a place not particularly known for its wild nightlife, it turned out to be an amazing trip, one which has remained with me all these years and one which drew me back to Venice several times over the following years.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Lido with Venice in the background </td></tr>
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With the IBM trip being so long ago, some of my memories are hazy. How did we get to the <st1:place w:st="on">Lido</st1:place> where we (all 500 of us) were staying in fancy hotels? Which fancy hotel did I stay in? Where was the convention centre where we had to attend various ‘business sessions’ so that IBM could claim the trip was a legitimate business expense? How did we get to and from the main part of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Venice</st1:place></st1:city> on the small ferry boats without anyone falling in the lagoon?</div>
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The one thing I did/do remember though was entering the convention centre on the first afternoon and hearing the most amazing atmospheric music. On stage was a small orchestra, the players dressed in Venetian period costumes, complete with masks and filling the vast hall with music which was totally in tune with the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Venice</st1:place></st1:city> we’ve all read about in books and seen in films. It was absolutely stunning – so stunning in fact that as soon as I returned to the <st1:country-region w:st="on">UK</st1:country-region>, I went straight into my local music store and ordered the CD – <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Venice</st1:place></st1:city> in Peril by Rondo Veneziano.</div>
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So why am I writing about this now?<br />
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A couple of weeks ago, I decided that now I am down in the ‘jungle’ slashing and burning, it would pass the time quicker if I had some music on my iPhone and so over a period of a couple of days I transferred my whole CD collection into iTunes and thereafter onto my iPad and my iPhone. It was only after I’d removed and copied all my CDs that I found a long lost CD lying without a cover at the back of the CD rack – yup – Rondo Veneziano’s <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Venice</st1:place></st1:city> in Peril. I’ve been playing it ever since.</div>
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Now, I know that it will not be everyone’s cup of tea but if you had been walking into that convention hall on the Lido with a misty <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Venice</st1:place></st1:city> a few miles across the lagoon looking like it had a limited lifespan, you too might have been affected like I was.</div>
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Not everything was quite so romantic on that trip I hasten to add. Apparently, the IBM ‘cash man’, a faceless, nameless guy who traveled with a case full of £250,000 cash in local currency to ‘sort out’ local difficulties was in demand all over Venice as group dinners went unpaid, bars were drunk dry and police fines were racked up at an alarming rate.</div>
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The supporting act at IBM’s gala dinner, his name shall not be revealed, (the main performer was Gloria Gaynor – ‘I Will Survive) who had been invited to a drink in our room was last seen coming out of the bathroom with white powder all over his nose, being chased by his wife and convinced that one of our sales guys was Marvin Hagler, the newly crowned World Middleweight Boxing Champion.</div>
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Fun days indeed.</div>
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If you wish to hear Rondo Veneziano, click on the link below.</div>
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<span style="color: yellow;">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-up4s2Ktmko</span></div>
Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-86695783332775457322011-10-14T14:14:00.001+02:002013-04-21T16:48:34.854+02:00The Bushcutter Saga<div class="MsoNormal">
The first thing to say is that we’re having unseasonably warm weather. It’s normally quite mild in October but not this warm! I can usually remember the last time I swam in the pool the previous year and it’s usually mid-September when the night chill cools the water down to a painful 18 degrees but this year, the water temperature is staying stubbornly above 20 so it’s a delight to plunge into the pool after some gardening or log cutting.</div>
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The numerous visitors this year have benefited from the pleasant summer we’ve had and by ‘pleasant’ I mean that it does not get much hotter than 85 degrees (or 29c) although when my family came out in June, the gauge topped 107 degrees (42c) which is pretty hot by anyone’s standards. But by and large, it’s been a lovely summer.</div>
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The nice, but not too hot weather meant I was able to get the debrusailleuse out and attack the brambles which were threatening to take over, but as usual my Stihl Bushcutter wouldn’t work when required. This meant another run-in with the shop who sold it – it had already been returned twice not long after I bought it last May.</div>
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Those who have long memories will recall that my last bushcutter was left out in the rain and the surly mechanic had said that it was water damaged and unrepairable. Nothing is unrepairable so I assumed he meant that it was uneconomic to repair it so I bit the bullet and shelled out a not inconsiderable £600 for a new machine having been given a £200 allowance against my ‘unusable’ Stihl. Stupidly, I forgot to see if the ‘unrepairable’ bushcutter was on sale the next time I passed the mechanic’s shop.</div>
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Now Stihls are probably the Rolls Royce of bushcutters, well at least the Range Rover of bushcutters, so they should be pretty rugged and in theory should start every time – but not this one. I did everything by the manual and even bought their special Stihl petrol/oil mixture, which at £20 a gallon is an extravagance which appalled me.</div>
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Even this liquid gold being poured into its tank didn’t do the trick so I piled the Stihl into the jeep and drove down to the shop which is a large garden centre/farm supplies business on the edge of Vence.</div>
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I took the machine to the cash desk and said it wasn’t working but was still under guarantee.</div>
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Taking it round to the mechanic’s shop as I’d been asked, I was ready for my annual lesson in the worst that France can throw at you in terms of ‘customer service’. The guy is so surly he makes Guy and Kitty look like gregarious angels but onward I marched and stopped at his desk where he was working on another customer’s machine. I didn’t expect him to look up and acknowledge me (he never does) and surprise, surprise, he didn’t, so I stood and waited and waited. After about 5 minutes and becoming increasingly impatient, I interrupted his work. The other customer who obviously knows the mechanic better than I did stood back as if amazed at my impertinence.</div>
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‘My Stihl isn’t starting. It’s only a year old and has never started properly. This is the third time in a year it’s been back here’. And then I added, ‘and I buy that expensive petrol you suggested and it’s still not starting.’</div>
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He tried a couple of pulls of the starter string and said I should come back in a couple of days, which I did.</div>
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‘It’s water damaged’ he said. Using a mixture of French and English, I informed him that this was complete bollocks as it had been in the garage for the last 4 months and was working when I put it away.</div>
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Surprised by my tenacity, or maybe it was the emphasis I applied to the word ‘bollocks’, he said, ‘Oh, ok then – leave it with me and I’ll see what I can do’.</div>
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There then followed a bit of a saga with new parts being ordered and him eventually repairing it a few weeks later and then phoning me to pick up the Stihl which I did. </div>
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As I was driving past him on my way out of the store car park, he jumped out in front of the car forcing me stop and shouted, ‘you must pay, you must pay’.</div>
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I went to the cash desk and explained that my Stihl was under guarantee and I wouldn’t be paying a penny, sorry, cent, whereupon the mechanic grabbed my machine, ran to his workshop and locked the bushcutter in a storeroom.</div>
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With an air of Gallic one-upmanship creasing his face, he pointed to the locked room and attempted what I can only say was the sort of rubbish we English spout when we try and get a bit above ourselves with French – ‘your machine is hostage until you pay’.</div>
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I just laughed and started to walk away but was thinking as I did so that they were the winners. I might have my pride but they had my Stihl.</div>
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The stand off lasted another week and then I returned to the store to find they had apparently contacted the manufacturers and they had agreed that the guarantee should cover the work.</div>
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As I triumphantly walked out of the store with my bushcutter, I vowed never again to buy anything from them – until the following week when I had to crawl back and buy a new blade for my Stihl, only available from Gamm Vert !</div>
Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-60341443621795805762011-10-13T18:44:00.000+02:002011-10-13T18:44:06.438+02:00Life Can Be Grim<div class="MsoNormal">We had a very windy night a few days ago and as usual, the next morning I ventured outside to see what damage had been done. I hadn’t heard any crashing of candle glasses on the terrace nor the sun loungers being thrown into the pool nor the sun umbrellas being ripped apart, but the new rear (plastic) window which I had fitted to my Alfa a few days previously had been blown in – obviously I hadn’t fixed it to the hood properly. It’s a very fiddly job and I was not looking forward to doing it again.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I started the Alfa to move it to a cooler spot (we’re still having unseasonably warm weather here) and there was a terrible clanking noise and the battery gave out. My immediate thought was that it sounded a very expensive noise. Could it be that the timing belt had finally given way and perished – if so, it was a 1200 euro repair or worse!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I put the battery on charge and went to lie down, or rather, check my bank balance.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Trying to access my online bank, it appeared that the internet connection was down. Could this be something to do with the new, all embracing package I’d just ordered from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Orange</st1:place></st1:city> (France Telecom)?</div><div class="MsoNormal">Just then the kids came in and as usual they were straight onto the internet, or so they thought.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘It’s down”, I said. ‘I’ll call them tomorrow’.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After several minutes of moaning and groaning and a realization that even Tom’ll Fix It couldn’t fix it, they headed for the TV, switched it on and there was a clicking sound – no picture, just a clicking sound.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, kids can be a real pain sometimes but never more so than when there’s no entertainment in the house.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Go for a swim’, I said, but that was met with incredulous stares.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Read a book’, I suggested but that was met with even more incredulity.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘We’ll just watch it in your bedroom’, was the reply and off they trooped to mess up my bed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The next day I called <st1:city w:st="on">Orange</st1:city> and spoke to a very nice lady called <st1:city w:st="on">Florence</st1:city> who worked in <st1:city w:st="on">Nantes</st1:city> (thankfully not <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Bangalore</st1:place></st1:city> !). She ran a few tests and said it was serious. ‘Ah, I see you’ve just ordered one of our new packages’, she said. ‘They’re great value for money’ and then added, ‘when they work’ ! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘I’ll get an engineer to call’, she said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was dreading the return of the ‘kids from hell’ from school so I decided to look at the TV which has had this fault intermittently for the last year or so but no matter that I tried all my previous tricks to get it working, it stayed resolutely blank – it just kept clicking. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">No Alfa. No internet. No TV. It couldn’t get any worse, could it? Life was indeed grim.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The third day arrived. I was up at the crack of dawn. Technology wouldn’t beat me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The first thing was the Alfa. It had now been on charge for two days. I disconnected the charger, put the key into the barrel, turned it and the car sprang into life, sounding just as sweet as she ever did. Result!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Next – the rear window. Now, I’ve taken the window of the Alfa out so often that I could probably do it in my sleep but it’s still an incredibly difficult job but today the screws came out easily, I didn’t cut myself on the metal edge of the window frame and the zip, which can be more difficult to undo than one of those on J’s evening dresses, undid easily.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Into the garage and 30 minutes later and some new extra strong staples bought the day previously which sank through the 4mm PVC like the proverbial hot knife through butter, and the new window looked stronger than ever.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It even went back in like a dream. One job done – two to go.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I called <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Orange</st1:place></st1:city> again. Of course, there was no chance I would get <st1:city w:st="on">Florence</st1:city> but got some guy in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Paris</st1:place></st1:city> called Claude. He did some more tests, confirmed it was serious but gave me the good news that my line had been ‘upgraded’ from a 700k download speed to 15mb. ‘That’s great’, I said, ‘but it’s no use without a connection’. I sensed a Gallic shrug at some nondescript warehouse in Paris. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He then must have read his script and sympathized but not before I suggested re-installing the router. ‘That’s not the problem’, he countered, ‘it’s this new package you’ve bought – it just doesn’t work.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I thought of my years in BT and how I would have dreaded a BT call centre operator (sorry, technical service assistant executive……) saying that to a customer. The French were honest if nothing else.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As soon as he got off the line, I reinstalled the router and hey presto, despite his advice, the connection burst into life with a 13mb download speed. Things were indeed looking up. Life was not so grim after all.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Next – the TV. Once again, I tried all the previous remedies – switching it off and on rapidly, switching it on with the remote, and finally, bashing it. Nothing worked. That’ll teach me for buying an ex-display model which had probably been on for eons without a break.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I decided to call the repair shop, despite the new super-duper faster Google telling me that it wasn’t usually economic to repair LCD TVs. No phone line – dead as a dodo! Great internet connection – no phone line – amazing!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Life is indeed grim !</div>Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-31491651432101628732011-08-26T15:24:00.002+02:002013-04-21T16:51:36.768+02:00Driven Indoors By A Fly<div class="MsoNormal">
In a rare fit of enthusiasm for outdoor work I bounded out of bed at 8am and headed own into the garage, got all dressed up in my strimming gear (long sleeve shirt, jeans, Wellington boots, full body harness and hard hat and visor), pulled the starter string of my industrial sized machine and as usual, it didn’t start. This has happened now for a few days and I should have known better than to try and start it after getting ‘dressed up’ because after about twenty pulls of the string, I was soaking in sweat and physically exhausted.</div>
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Cursing it as if it was capable of hearing and understanding me, I got into lighter clothing and decided to try something a little less energetic – cutting the brambles and bushes which grow down the lane leading to the house. Unlike most plants which tend to grow upwards, these things bizarrely grow outwards and if left to their own devices, grow far enough out into the lane to scrape down the sides of passing cars. I’m not too worried about the post van or even J’s Honda (it would be physically impossible to spot another scratch on it anyway), but the thought of a bit of unkempt vegetation scraping Tan and Angie’s newish Tiguan would be a disaster – Tan’s planning a party if it gets to be 1 year old and hasn’t been scratched – unheard of in France – a 1 year old car without a scratch that is.</div>
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Secateurs in hand, gloves on, garden waste bin in tow, I headed down the lane to the bit where I stopped last week and started cutting. It must’ve been 85+ degrees and it wasn’t long before I started dripping with sweat, or is perspiration a more acceptable word?</div>
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Then the buzzing. I could hear it but I couldn’t see it but I knew what it was – the dreaded horse fly (Tabannus Linnaeus). Flown in from some distant field, miles away, seduced by my sweat glands no doubt.</div>
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Usually in May, horse flies by the dozen come into the house and then bizarrely land on the windows ……….. and die! But not this year. We’ve only had a few although Tan and Angie have had quite a lot. But outside, they’re everywhere, drowning out even the shrillest magpie with their buzzing.</div>
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I tried to ignore it, but every second or so I could see this black ‘thing’ flash past my eyes and then it all went silent and that’s when you get worried. Where has it landed? On my neck or arm?<br />
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Then the pain on my ankle as it sunk its jaws into my flesh and if you think I’m being a bit mamby-pamby or overly melodramatic, read this excerpt from Wikipedia:<br />
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<i><b>The bite from a large specimen is painful. Most short tongued species of horse flies use their knife-like mandibles to rip and/or slice flesh apart. Flies with longer proboscides bite more like a mosquito, their stylet-like mouthparts piercing the host's skin like needles. </b></i></div>
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That was it as far as I was concerned. Finished for the day and it was only 10.30am !</div>
Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-55492097380785602222011-08-24T13:01:00.000+02:002013-04-21T16:55:24.201+02:00A Momentous Moment<br />
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Well some of you may not think so but when your French neighbour speaks to you for the first time since you arrived twelve years ago, it’s bound to be an important event.</div>
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But first an update. </div>
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We’ve had loads of visitors this year, one is still here and some have still to arrive so it’s been a busy season.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a beautiful summer until a couple of weeks ago when the weather suddenly got really hot, hitting 100 degrees (or 37 C) for the last ten days. It’s been too hot to do anything meaningful outside which is a nuisance and sleeping at night is almost impossible. You either sleep on top of the sheets and let the mossies have a feast (despite the burners) or you put the fan on which has a double benefit of blowing the mossies away and keeps you cool, but have you ever tried to fall asleep in a gale?</div>
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And then today, the weather cooled a bit, down to a more manageable 85 degrees and so I got my chainsaw out and started cutting a pile of wood which has been a blot on the landscape for quite a few months.</div>
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As I was taking one barrowful of wood to my stack I heard someone calling ‘Monsieur, Monsiur’ and as I looked up I could see it was my neighbour, an old lady, probably in her nineties, standing at our boundary fence and calling me over.</div>
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I was astonished as she has never spoken to me, despite us both working on our terraces, in the twelve years I’ve been here.</div>
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Her late husband, Pierre, was the old guy who used to both instruct and annoy me. He would tell me what trees to plant, what fertilizer to buy and how to cut back my bushes, and on other occasions he would go berserk when the red boundary markers (the holy grail to French people apparently) disappeared under weeds! I never knew what sort of mood he’d be in so contact was infrequent.</div>
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And then he disappeared. He didn’t appear on the terraces for months and I thought they’d simply returned to their Parisian home but I learnt a few months later that he had died.</div>
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The terraces were kept in check by a young man and although I never saw the lady, I occasionally saw washing hanging on the line strung between a couple of trees higher up the hillside.</div>
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And then today – contact ! </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbEaLU_Js3M3k1u8OMWIvOTfETIAMwzTLAjJru894pd09unzx_JgLt3CmUAoOwxTTT7kT0nksgtXuT5kDt4O2W4VBqXTSx4B0IiFv4uBk38JxGNFx8huXkEoNbpRygOcw5AoAb4NullAKx/s1600/Cyprus.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbEaLU_Js3M3k1u8OMWIvOTfETIAMwzTLAjJru894pd09unzx_JgLt3CmUAoOwxTTT7kT0nksgtXuT5kDt4O2W4VBqXTSx4B0IiFv4uBk38JxGNFx8huXkEoNbpRygOcw5AoAb4NullAKx/s320/Cyprus.JPG" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Cyprus Tree - Growing Again</td></tr>
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I wandered over and said hello. She started off by speaking very quickly in French and I had to stop her as I couldn’t understand what she was saying – it was something about trees. And then she staggered me by speaking in English, albeit very bad English. For years I had been trying to build bridges with Old Pierre by inviting him down for an aperitif (the French have aperitifs – not drinks !) but he always refused saying his wife would not come which I took to mean, she didn’t speak a word of English and would find it difficult to socialise, and here she was, trying to explain in her faltering English, a problem she had about trees.</div>
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When I finally figured out the subject matter, trees, I was able to speak to her in French and discovered that she was asking me to cut my Mimosa tree once the branches started overhanging her land as they might fall on their electric fence.</div>
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I laughed and told her a couple of stories about Old Pierre.</div>
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When I first recovered the upper terraces from a jungle state they’d been in for several years and started planting trees, Old Pierre would be hanging over his fence shaking his head. ‘You can’t plant those – those are palm trees’, he would cry. ‘You shouldn’t plant that tree there’, and ‘that tree (the Mimosa tree) is too close to my boundary fence but ok you can leave it.’</div>
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And then when a large stag came onto the land and decided to decimate my trees including a <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Cyprus</st1:place></st1:country-region> tree I had bought the week previously for 150 euros (I was gutted !) Old Pierre was straight down to the gardening shop to buy and install an electric, deer proof, fence around his land. My misfortune had been the first evidence of deer starting to come down from the hills and he was not about to let his fruit trees become their dessert.</div>
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He did gloat a bit, hanging over the fence and telling me that none of the affected trees would survive, specifically the Mimosa which had been reduced to a stump.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkJRMMRK1vO-YtBuEPsHbnNhWaa7GgcJw7HDjdRF-sU3eYtaDWpA1tKbzuxsGpbi8HjSOvVJq4fRVxFHsijtulAclPDeVl4LaKHVm0E-EQ6abbuIzLyhqCT3HZwLYgDTiP8KWjdommoWE3/s1600/Mimosa.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkJRMMRK1vO-YtBuEPsHbnNhWaa7GgcJw7HDjdRF-sU3eYtaDWpA1tKbzuxsGpbi8HjSOvVJq4fRVxFHsijtulAclPDeVl4LaKHVm0E-EQ6abbuIzLyhqCT3HZwLYgDTiP8KWjdommoWE3/s320/Mimosa.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Mimosa</td></tr>
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I laughed as I told the old lady about Pierre’s prognosis of my trees and how she was now asking me to keep an eye on the Mimosa as it was growing vigorously.</div>
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We exchanged stories about the deer, our fruit trees and that the deer had just eaten every single pear I had whilst leaving every quince on the branches. And then, as she wandered off, I promised to keep my eye on the Mimosa, thinking that, given its size, it would be several years before it posed any problems to her deer fence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">The original blog posting about the deer can be found here:</span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="http://tomsfrenchblog.blogspot.com/2008/12/oh-deer-oh-deer.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: yellow;">http://tomsfrenchblog.blogspot.com/2008/12/oh-deer-oh-deer.html</span></a></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW41yKLypZ9a0lV4-a0ooT2pwRQX0nfeImbJUb6ZxN1vL2Yq-j8bVEOzGSMXlxT-ggiIvvc2ng3Bi45pj8iX8DXHsKXvEHFHz1Ltmx8zjA3IprTcQb4ixBTKBEtOx9oozb0NEvgXGTeXtj/s1600/Palm.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW41yKLypZ9a0lV4-a0ooT2pwRQX0nfeImbJUb6ZxN1vL2Yq-j8bVEOzGSMXlxT-ggiIvvc2ng3Bi45pj8iX8DXHsKXvEHFHz1Ltmx8zjA3IprTcQb4ixBTKBEtOx9oozb0NEvgXGTeXtj/s1600/Palm.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Palm Tree Pierre Hated</td></tr>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">And my original blog when Pierre died:</span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="http://tomsfrenchblog.blogspot.com/2010/10/old-pierre-is-dead-rip.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: yellow;">http://tomsfrenchblog.blogspot.com/2010/10/old-pierre-is-dead-rip.html</span></a></span></div>
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Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7162055870540379577.post-62113808079186155842011-07-26T12:56:00.002+02:002013-04-21T16:55:51.167+02:00The Anal Banker ..... and I said, Banker<div class="MsoNormal">
J’s been managing a villa not far from where we live for a <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city> couple. During the winter, her main responsibility was to arrange maintenance and make sure the house was prepared for the summer letting months, but when those summer letting months arrived and the first guests moved in, J kindly went on holiday leaving me to handle the variety of requests and complaints from the ‘guests’.</div>
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The first set of guests were lovely and quite patient despite the fact that the electric gates to the drive failed intermittently leaving their cars impounded, usually and frustratingly when the guests were dashing off to the airport. </div>
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Those guests left after two weeks and despite the gate problem, they left behind very generous and extremely positive comments about both the villa and Bea, the lady who cleans the villa every week.</div>
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Then the second set of ‘guests’ arrived and I kid you not, within ten seconds of contact with them, I knew they’d be trouble.</div>
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The first contact was a phone call on Sunday afternoon saying they couldn’t find the villa. I explained the general location, the number and a description of the villa stating that they ‘couldn’t possibly miss the bright blue/lilac shutters’. Then the first complaint – the road numbers were not concurrent – how could they ‘possibly find a villa when the street numbers were not concurrent?’</div>
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I explained that house numbers in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">France</st1:country-region></st1:place> (certainly down here) are a measurement of how far a house is from the last road junction, e.g. the villa’s street number was 55 and therefore it was 55 metres from the last junction. ‘Don’t tell me that – my husband’s French you know’, screeched this woman, then adding, ‘the numbers are not concurrent, the numbers are not concurrent.’</div>
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Now far be it from me to lecture someone on English so I refrained from explaining how the definition of ‘concurrent’ couldn’t possibly be applied to house numbers and that she possibly meant ‘consecutive’. </div>
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Anyway – I let it drop, told them I’d look up the villa on Google Street View and Google Earth for a better description of how to get to it and they should call me back in a few minutes. They never did – I reckon they finally spotted the bright lilac shutters which can be spotted a mile away.</div>
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All was quiet until Monday morning when I got a call from ‘James’, saying the villa was filthy and what was I going to do about it. I stated that the cleaner had been in for seven hours on the Friday after the previous guests had left and it couldn’t possibly be filthy but I would call round to see what his complaint was.</div>
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Now this rather quick capitulation on my part must have confused him and it was obvious that he desperately wanted to berate me on the phone for a longer period of time and so he continued despite my repeated statement that I would call round. On and on he went until I told him that I had heard enough and would be putting the phone down. On and on went the diatribe and I put the phone down – mid sentence.</div>
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I called round to the villa about an hour later and was ‘greeted’ by James who was quite pleasant. I didn’t want to waste time, after all this was not my job, and I immediately asked him to show me the problems he’d encountered. </div>
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The first room on the ‘filthy tour’ was the kitchen.</div>
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‘Look at that’, James said as he pointed out the waste paper bin. ‘Yes, what’s wrong with it’, I replied. ‘It’s all dusty’, he whined. Now, the bin was a dark blue colour and the lid had a mottled paint finish so I had to get down on my knees to spot the dust. And yes, there was dust on the lid, but it couldn’t be seen unless you were on your knees.</div>
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‘And there’s a mark in the cupboard’, he said, opening the door. I looked in the cupboard and couldn’t see a mark but I nodded and asked him what was next. ‘The cooker hood – it’s disgusting’, he stated. I went over to the cooker hood and I have to say, if my cooker hood had been as immaculately clean as this one was, I’d have been delighted. ‘Exactly where is it dirty’, I asked. He pushed in a button and a fleck of dust fell out of the recess. ‘Aaah – see’, it’s filthy. I can’t stay in a place like this’, he complained.</div>
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At this point, I was beginning to think this was a joke J had set up to fill my lonely week with a bit of ‘off-the-wall humour’ but no, he dragged me out onto the terrace and said, ‘look behind the shutters, there are cobwebs’. Now, in the South of France with shutters being closed each evening, and the propensity for spiders to look for a nice sheltered place, you are bound to get cobwebs, indeed, you would think something was wrong if you didn’t, but this hadn’t registered with this guy. ‘I had to brush behind the bedroom shutters last night – I couldn’t go to sleep with that mess outside the bedroom window’, he said.</div>
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‘OK – what’s next’, I asked.</div>
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‘Well there’s a dustball in the lounge’, and sure enough one of those little balls of fluff was nestling happily in the corner of the lounge. By this stage I was getting a bit fed up and I looked closely at the dustball and queried mockingly whether he thought the hairs were animal or human. ‘They’re definitely human’, he said. ‘Yes – I thought they looked a bit wiry and curly’, I answered. It didn’t register.</div>
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‘Next’, I asked.</div>
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‘Well, just look at this’, he said, pulling the sofa cushions apart to show me some dust which had gathered in the deepest recess. ‘I can’t possibly sit on that’, he moaned.</div>
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I was diligently noting all of these things down as we moved outside to the pool terraces. Pulling back a jasmine bush, he pointed to some leaves on the tiles. ‘Look’, he said. ‘Yes – so what? Bushes do lose leaves’, I said. ‘And the pool, it’s got some leaves in it’, he complained. ‘The pool man calls twice a week, I’m sure he’ll scoop them out for you the next time he calls’, I said, biting my lip and not telling him he was an anal twat.</div>
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‘And then there’s this’, he proudly said pointing to the BBQ.</div>
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Fearing the worst (we all know what BBQ’s get like), I opened the dome and it was utterly immaculate inside. Clean as the day it had been purchased.</div>
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‘What’s the problem’, I asked. ‘It’s filthy’, he said. ‘Look at that grease mark.’ Sure enough, on the panel beside the grill, there was a small grease mark. ‘That’s not a problem’, I stated. ‘A quick wipe with a cloth and it’ll be gone.’</div>
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‘OK’ he said. ‘I am not staying in this filthy place. I have paid a lot of money (which he had) to stay here and it’s filthy. What are you going to do about it?’</div>
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Now, by this stage I reckoned James’s head was so far up his own backside that when he spoke there was a sound of farting and whilst I had been diligent and reasonably calm, I now felt I had to tell him some home truths. ‘This place is not filthy’, I said. ‘OK, there a few things which need attention and I’ll get Bea to come in this afternoon and fix them, but the place definitely isn’t filthy’, I repeated.</div>
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And then the response which proves that you can take the boy out of Glasgow and indeed take Glasgow out of the boy………’well with your accent, you obviously have lower cleanliness standards than I have’, he said. ‘I think the place is filthy’, he continued.</div>
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At that point, I put my pen and paper down and was just about to punch his lights out when I thought of Fred and Hilda back in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city> receiving a lawsuit from some very expensively hired solicitors whilst I languished in a French jail. And so I just laughed.</div>
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‘You’re laughing at me’, he whined. ‘You think this is all a joke don’t you.’</div>
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I repeated my mantra that the house was definitely not filthy but I would get Bea round that afternoon, but he wasn’t finished. ‘If you can stop laughing, come with me’, he ordered. I followed him back upstairs.</div>
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‘Do you know when I opened the safe, I spotted that the batteries were just about to start leaking and do you know what happens when batteries leak’, he asked. ‘I have no idea’, I lied.</div>
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‘Well, they make an awful mess and could actually lock the safe with my things inside. Anyway, I’ve changed them’. ‘Congratulations’, I said. ‘Well done.’ He didn’t even spot the sarcasm !</div>
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‘So – come back into the kitchen – there’s another cobweb I want to show you. I forgot it earlier’, he said.</div>
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At that point, I’m afraid I lost it and started laughing again which upset him even more. I’d had enough. As I walked out of the front door, he followed me and said,’ I’m important you know. I have serious connections in this part of the world. I can get things to happen.’</div>
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I turned to face him. ‘So who are your connections then James. Tell me who your connections are’, I said quite close to his face thinking that whoever his connections were, unlike some of mine they probably didn’t carry baseball bats.</div>
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‘Well I know the deputy mayor of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">St Paul</st1:place></st1:city> – well he was deputy mayor five years ago’, he said, completely destroying any semblance of credibility he may have had. ‘I can do things here’, he continued. ‘I will get this villa closed down, I’ll call the police and the tax authorities and I’ll even start damaging it. I can damage this villa you know.’</div>
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By this time, I’d climbed into my car laughing hysterically and was starting the engine. James was standing in front of the car in a vain attempt to stop me leaving.</div>
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‘James – I would suggest you move away’, I said. ‘Go and enjoy your holiday and stop being silly.’ ‘Silly? Who’s being silly’, he whined as I drove off just missing him.</div>
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Tom Cuppleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09616767021708882481noreply@blogger.com2