Summer's Here ????

What a difference a week makes. No longer looking out of the window at 8am and seeing the rain and going back to bed to ‘silver surf’. The sun is shining and that makes all the difference. We’re back to the mornings where the mist gathers in the valley (see picture of yesterday) and then gradually rises with the warm air which comes up from the coast.

It’s down into the ‘jungle’ beside the house to attack the brambles for which there is no known death other than to (a) rip them out including the roots which thankfully don’t go too deep and then (b) cover the ground with a permeable membrane which allows the earth to breathe but which kills off everything with a root.

It’s been a long time coming with each day presenting a new problem which keeps me from the brambles. Earlier this week it was my heavy-duty strimmer, called a débroussaillage which just wouldn’t start. It took me a couple of hours to strip it down, go off and buy a new spark plug and then come to the conclusion that leaving it out in the rain wasn’t a good idea. I suspect the bill which will run to about €150 will teach me a costly and valuable lesson!

So it’s up to my elbows in those horrible thorns cutting them out with my hedge trimmer and then getting down on my hands and knees to complete the job with the roots. It’s probably the worst job in the garden but at least once it’s done it’s done.

Thankfully, the pool has now reached a temperature which allows me to plunge in to soothe all my scratches without turning me blue although yesterday when I emerged after a couple of lengths, my hands were literally blue until I realized that it was the dye from my gardening gloves which had discoloured my palms and fingers – phew!

But I do miss my débroussaillage which cuts down most of the heavy weeds within seconds but which also covers me from top to toe with green bits. I didn’t understand much of what the guy was saying yesterday when I took it in to be repaired but I’ve no choice – just got to wait for the phone call to tell me it’s ready. Hopefully, it will be something simple I’ve missed when I tried to fix it myself.

But just as I was thanking my lucky stars for having a back-up in the shape of my hedge trimmer, it decided to go ‘bang’ and stop working. Taking it to bits was quite straightforward until there was a loud ‘twang’ and wires and springs shot all over the garage. A couple of hours later it seemed to be working despite several bits being left over on the garage bench!

Then there was the trip to the bank to ask them to replace my credit/debit card which had stopped working a few days ago. As most of you will agree, and most certainly J does, these cards are now essential to daily life and when the bank clerk told me I’d get a new one ‘in about 8 days.’ I was aghast. 8 days – the thought of carrying my cheque book around with a couple of forms of identity for over a week was horrific – I’d get all those disparaging looks in the queue at the supermarket as I tore out a cheque , signed it and passed it to the checkout girl for her to check it several times against my ID card. I reckon the banks take their time over this as they then have your cash for several days on which they’ll make some interest.

8 days ! Only in France! I won’t even be able to pay for my débroussaillage machine.

House Exchanges

I mentioned in a post a couple of weeks ago (I slept in Marilyn Monroe’s Bed …) that I’d exchanged houses with a lady in San Francisco.The house exchange I featured in that Blog was in fact my second time and, I have to say, was significantly more successful than my first.

There I was, sitting in my BT office in 1993 wondering what I could do for a holiday. I don’t know how it came to me but the fact that we had a business in the San Francisco area made me wonder if I could arrange a house swap. I sent an e-mail to the company’s HR asking them to put an advert in their staff restaurant and that very afternoon I got a call from Wanda.

To cut a long story short, Wanda, who lived in Freemont (about 45 mins drive outside San Fran) was up for it. We agreed a date and my brother, my two youngest children (Ross and Timmy) and yours truly flew out to San Francisco on the 4^th July.

Wanda’s flight wasn’t until the next day, so on the first night I slept in her lounge. The following morning I drove her to the airport and that night I looked forward to a bed after a first night on planes and the next night on a sofa. As my head hit the pillow, there was an almighty ‘clunk’ and when I lifted the pillow, there, lying in all its ‘wild west’ glory was, what I would have called a six-shooter – a gun!

I called Wanda (she was 8 hours behind) and asked her why she had a gun under her pillow. ‘It’s in case somebody breaks in and tries to rape me. I’d shoot the ******* she said’.

Well that was alright then! But then Wanda had a complaint. During the ‘negotiations’ about the details of the house swap, Wanda had said she was reluctant to swap cars as hers was some sort of classic Cadillac or something similar. Eventually, I insisted and the exchange was to include cars – mine was a company sports coupé so I wasn’t too worried about it but on that first day, she said she’d spent 2 hours in the airport car park trying to work out how to engage first gear. She’d never used a manual gear box before!

If that had been the only car related problem I’d have been delighted but in addition to running down the battery on that first day, she managed to reduce most of the offside of the car to a wreck as she attempted to get closer to the side of the road, completely forgetting she was now driving on the left!

However, apart from the car problems and Wanda phoning me in the middle of the night to see how things were going (completely oblivious to the 8 hour time difference), the house exchange was a great success. She had a hot-tub in her garden and my abiding memory is seeing my brother sitting in the steaming tub after a long day’s sightseeing with a Miller Light in each hand, just bubbling away!

Now Freemont is a bit inland from the coast and each morning we set off for a drive we’d see that the temperature (on the car computer) was well over 100 degrees – sometimes 120! As we headed off towards San Francisco or Robin Hood’s Bay the reading would drop and drop until it reached 50 degrees when we hit the coast. Bizarre!

Other great memories – trying to buy a smaller than 3 litre bottle of wine in the supermarket. And conversely, trying to order a 2^nd bottle of wine in a restaurant where the waitress insisted we had to be ‘interviewed’ by the manager before it was served! The ‘largest sports store in the world’ which was absolutely deserted until you reached the gun department where there was a queue at the counter!

Overall, it was a great holiday which convinced me we should do it again a couple of years later, which we did with a friend of Wanda’s. Thankfully, that holiday went without a hitch.

J and I are determined to do it again, having set our sights on some friends of Tan and Angie who live in Sarasota, Florida. Maybe – just maybe.

By the way (or BTW to texters) – the picture is of the Transamerica building in the heart of San Francisco.

Route Barrée

This is the most hated sign on the roads in France. I suppose ‘bouchon’ or ‘travaux’on the motorways are almost as hated, but unlike the UK where motorway roadworks usually mean huge delays or slow speed contra-flows, in France a ‘bouchon’ or blockage on the motorway usually means a short delay with the traffic continuing to move whilst ‘travaux’ is reserved for motorway digging which is invariably done overnight and causes few problems. Route Barrée (road blocked), on the other hand can mean huge disruption, especially, if like me, you ignore the sign and carry on hoping for the best.

We have a Route Barrée on the road leading up to our house at the moment. Thoughtfully, the electricity company sent us a letter in February saying there would be ‘works’ on Chemin de St Arnoux from April through to August which, I have to say, sent a bit of a shiver down my spine – 5 months! What on earth (pun) were they planning to do? I suppose it said it in the letter but my understanding of business letters is still at an elementary stage – all I noted was that it was on our road, sorry chemin, and that it would take 5 months.

A few weeks later whilst taking the kids down to the school bus stop, I noticed the JCBs, huge piles of long red, plastic pipes and guys having their breakfast in their cabs before starting work.

The next morning, driving down to the bus stop, there it was, ‘Route Barrée’ which means that somewhere along the road, it will be completely blocked . Luckily we were only about 100 yards from the main road where the bus stop is so the kids hopped out and ran down the hill.

The next morning, in my usual soporific state (it is 7.20am after all !), the ‘route barrée’ was halfway along the road and there was no alternative but to turn round and head the other way. Luckily, Chemin de St Arnoux is a loop and so there are two ways down to the main road but as it’s about 3 miles long, if you hit the barriers almost at the end of the loop, it’s quite a trek to get to the other end, and quite stressful (for the kids, not me) if you’re rushing to get a bus.

Eventually however, you remember that the road is blocked and automatically head the other way but sometimes, usually always with me, you take a chance and head for the road works hoping that , (a) the workers are having a coffee, (b) they are having a chat and the JCBs are at the side of the road, or (c) they are having their 2 hour lunch hour and have left a space to get through.

The worst bit was last week when the road works were right below our house. It meant that to get to the village, we had to turn right (as opposed to left), drive 1.5 miles to the main road and then drive another 3 miles to get to the normal exit onto the R2210. Similarly, when coming back to the house, you have no idea where the JCBs are so take a chance and find that they are blocking your route, literally 10 metres from our drive.

It’s then that I become French and just sit there looking daggers at the workers, making all sorts of hand gesticulations and pointing to my drive.

To their credit, the workers usually relent. The JCB moves to the side, the lorry taking all the earth away has to move to the next passing space and the workers jump out of the way as I speed past and wave and smile.

And just in case you were wondering what all the work is for, it’s to install a high tension electric cable – whatever that is!

Stairway 13

Stairway 13 After The Tragedy

There’s been quite a bit in the papers recently about three football disasters: Hillsborough where 96 people died in April 1989; Bradford, where a fire killed 56 people in May 1985 and Ibrox Park where 66 people died in January 1971.

The first two tragedies have been in the news because of their anniversary dates but the Ibrox disaster was in the news for a completely different reason – an American company, in an act of unbelievably bad taste tried to market a jigsaw of the disaster scene, whilst the Boston Globe newspaper , fearing trouble if Rangers and Celtic played a ‘friendly’ in their city in the summer, claimed, wrongly, that the Ibrox disaster was caused by unruly fans.

I remember seeing the events at both Hillsborough and Bradford unfold on television but unfortunately, I was directly involved at Ibrox and the recent revival of the tragedy in the news has brought back some disturbing memories.

I was 20 at the time, almost 21 and had gone to the Rangers versus Celtic game with my father-in-law to be, Leonard and his son Paul. Memories of the game itself are hazy. I seem to recall that, as usual and in order to avoid the heaving crowds leaving the stadium at the end of the game, Leonard and Paul left early but I stayed on, only to see Celtic score in the 89^th minute. Like many Rangers fans, I had gradually moved up the terracing to be near the exit when the game ended but when Celtic scored that late goal, there was a mass exodus – there was no way back for Rangers.

I had just started descending the steep stairway 13 when there was a huge roar and as the roar was from my end of the ground, it could only mean that Rangers had scored. In an instant, the rather crushed but orderly descent down stairway 13 turned into a heaving mass of bodies as those halfway down the stairs decided to turn round and try and get back into the terracing, which, when you think of it, was rather stupid given that the goal had actually been scored!

I remember feeling my feet leave the ground and being carried down the stairway without any control whatsoever. I remember my chest being crushed until I could hardly breathe. I remember thinking that if I didn’t keep upright and my head above the mass of bodies, I would die and so I did my best to stay upright as I was carried downwards.

Then there was an incredible silence. Despite 80-90,000 fans in the ground and hundreds of fans going down the stairway and a disaster unfolding, there was just this incredible silence. Then I heard moans and I felt people underneath me. I couldn’t do anything as I felt my feet dragging over their bodies. Then there were cracking sounds (this must have been the steel barriers snapping) and as I was dragged down the stairs, I knew I was standing on top of people who were dying.

About 30 minutes later, I was wandering around the foot of stairway 13 in a daze. I had lost a shoe and stupidly was trying to find it amongst the hundreds of shoes which were lying on the stairs. Then I saw the bodies. A couple were higher up the stairs but there was one young boy, maybe 14 or 15 years old who had just been left lying with his head crushed by a broken and bent steel barrier. I went over to him and felt for a pulse when a policeman came up to me and I’ll never forget his words. ‘Don’t bother with him, he’s dead’. It wasn’t said in any sort of mean or nasty way, it was just a professional talking in a practical way.

I was offered medical assistance but I was ok and finally decided to go home. I cannot recall if I ever found my shoe but as I got on the train to take me back to Leonard’s house, I was still shaking.

When I arrived at Ossian Road, the whole family was relieved to see me. The TV news had been showing the disaster scene, Leonard knew that stairway 13 was probably my exit route, I was very late and of course, they thought the worst had happened.

I was a very lucky boy.

Now some of you might be wondering why I would post this type of article on my blog. The simple reason is that I started my blog a couple of years ago to let my sons and wider family know what was going on in my life including some things from the past which I have never discussed with them. This was one of those things I never discussed.

Apple – Rotten To The Core ?

I’ve got an iPhone. It’s great. It’s saved me a fortune in newspapers. I got a sat nav application last week for an unbelievable €3.99 and I can wander around all day with Talksport radio blasting into my ears whilst I carry out my daily chores. I can now buy, buy, buy or sell, sell, sell in the bar at lunchtime. It’s probably paid for itself already despite the fact that I’m only 7 months into a two year contract.

But I don’t really like Apple as a company. I don’t like the fact that they refuse to use Flash Player so I can’t play videos on my iPhone. I don’t like their protectionist attitude towards other software and hardware manufacturers. I don’t like their patronizing attitude to the market place. I just don’t like them and I’m struggling with my principles because we must have 5 or 6 iPods in the house along with 2 iTouches and of course my iPhone.

The recent problem about a ‘lost’ iPhone 4G (or whatever they’ll call it) epitomizes the company’s ‘big brother’ attitudes.

A few weeks ago, an Apple software developer dropped or left a prototype iPhone 4G in a bar. It was picked up by a guy (a blogger - Brian Hogan) who realized what it was, despite the fact that the device had been heavily disguised to look like a 3G iPhone, and he offered it to some techie websites. Eventually, he found a buyer (a Mr Chen) in Gizmodo.com who paid him $5,000 to get hold of the hottest new device to be launched this year – and that includes the iPad.

Of course, Gizmodo ran a few articles on the 4G and within nano-seconds, Apple was on the phone demanding its property back which Gizmodo was happy to do – if Steve Jobs, who personally contacted the website, would confirm that it was indeed, a 4G iPhone. He refused, despite the fact that the 4G is due to be announced on June 7^th and have already released details of its 4G operating system - and that’s when the trouble started.

Apple contacted the police saying that the device had been stolen which, in turn led to Mr Chen’s house being controversially raided by members of California's Rapid Enforcement Allied Computer Team.

Police seized four computers and two servers along with cameras and an iPhone, using a warrant issued by a Superior Court judge on suspicion the property was "used as the means of committing a felony".

The case has raised concerns about the close ties between the technology industry and the little-known task force that was created to fight crimes against technology companies. Apple is a member of the technology crime task force's board but the company said it didn't use its influence to pressure it to investigate, however documents detail a meeting just days before the raid on Chen’s home, between police and Apple executives.

An Apple spokeswoman said: “We reported what we believe was a crime, and the D.A. of San Mateo County is taking it from there.”

No charges have yet been laid in the case but Apple have had such a lot of bad publicity that their June 7^th announcement has already been overshadowed by events.

A Bit On The Wild Side

Over the last ten years or so since I’ve been here, I’ve been shown by various people, all the herbs and other ‘edibles’ which grow wild on the terraces and in the woods.

Wild thyme grows in great clumps on the quieter terraces. Rosemary is virtually everywhere and one of my favourite ground-covering plants is Sage which spreads like a weed and which has the most beautiful lilac flowers in late spring, early summer.

Mushrooms can be found in the woods and if you’re unsure about eating what you find, you can apparently take your haul into a Pharmacy where they are supposed to identify the edible varieties for you. Then of course, there is the exquisite truffle which I had high hopes that Shadow would develop a nose for, but as he can hardly find his food in his bowl these days, it’s highly unlikely he’d ever find a truffle buried in the woods! Buying a small jar of truffle butter (the size of those hotel breakfast jam pots) is about €10 and although it lasts for ages, I’d still like Shadow to do the business and find me one – the size of a small football will do my doggy friend.

There’s the ubiquitous mint which takes over any patch of ground you introduce it to and which I was trying to eradicate until J found some cocktail recipes which call for mint.

And then there’s wild garlic (Allium Ursinum - pictured). It takes quite a bit of finding. There’s no chance of recognizing the leaves on their own but once it flowers it’s easier to spot on the terraces.

In past years, I’ve only come across it on our land very occasionally, so rarely in fact, that I always take time to stop and admire the beautiful small pink flowers and rub them between my fingers to release the smell of garlic.

This year however, it’s everywhere. It’s even growing in plant pots on the terrace and as I planted those pots, know what went into them and haven’t introduced anything, the fact that we now have wild garlic growing in them, and flourishing, is a mystery.

The wild garlic bulb is not like the cloves you get in the shops, the bulb is more like a shallot onion with its skin removed. It’s small, round and white with tiny seeding bulbs clustered around it. I’ve not tried cooking it yet although apparently you use it just like you would ‘normal’ garlic but the leaves and even the flowers are supposed to be an amazing addition to a green salad so maybe when I stop being a ‘salad dodger’ as they say in Scotland, I’ll try some.

In the meantime, I’ve come to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe, Shadow has been rooting around looking for truffles and has inadvertently spread the garlic all round the garden? Good boy Shadow.

London for Lunch

Yes, I know it sounds a bit poncy flying 1000 miles to London for a lunch but it’s an annual thing which we’ve been doing for quite a few years now and it allows me to buy that essential for all British ex-pats when I’m there - tea bags. I managed to stuff 720 of them into my case, although by the time I’d walked for two hours to try and find a station which had trains running to Gatwick, I’d wished I hadn’t. I must get one with wheels – a case that is.

Anyway, the first thing to say is that in the time it took me to travel from central London to Gatwick airport on Saturday, a total of three hours and 28 miles, I’d travelled over 1000 on the Friday. Of course, what goes around, comes around they say and the fact that on the Friday, the plane left Nice early, arrived in London 30 minutes early, the train was waiting at the platform at Gatwick and once in London the tubes were arriving within seconds – all this was cancelled out by the shambles of the stations and trains on the Saturday – see yesterday’s blog if you want all the gory details.

But I’m not one to let these crappy travel problems ruin what was, again, another marathon and highly enjoyable lunch with my ex-IBM colleagues.

One of the problems I have, is that as the organizer I have to get to the restaurant at mid-day otherwise the place will let go the two special tables which hold our group which can number up to 20 or 30, although I think there were only about 16 or so on Friday.

Holding over 200 diners, The New World is a mammoth place and if those two tables of 10 each, were given to other diners, the IBM reunion group would be split up all over the place. And that just wouldn’t do.

Now, arriving that early, I know I should drink water but a glass of wine or two doesn’t hurt anybody but by the time six o’clock comes around, I’m pretty well gone which is unfortunate for those ex-IBMrs who arrive after that time and find me slumped on a table in a corner.

And so it happened once again last week. John Norman was first to arrive as he is every year and we had a great chat about his cathedral organ work. Mick and Mandy were next and just as I was speaking to them, Neil Gent arrived. After that it was a bit of a blur with old colleagues arriving in a steady stream. J of course was nowhere to be seen as she’d gone for a shopping fix, but I assume she turned up at some stage as I think it was she who bundled me into a cab later in the evening.

Anyway, the person to blame for my downfall was a certain Mr Sanjay Saxena who, in addition to telling me about his burgeoning career in Big Blue (are they still called that?), invited me outside for a cigarette or three – and that was that. Anything past six o’clock was a blur. I vaguely remember seeing Frances Fane, whom I hadn’t seen for about 10 years and a mutual friend of hers and J’s, and that was the end of The New World.

Later, I apparently, fell over a collection of luggage standing on the pavement outside our hotel and then found that I couldn’t navigate myself through the revolving doors leading into Le Meridien’s reception. Slumped in one of the quarter segments of the door, J would have been quite within her rights to leave me there but I suspect Frances and Clive who were with her, decided that my bedroom was a better place for me to wake up.

And wake up I did, 12 hours later as bright as a button and looking forward to watching the Cup Final – in a bar somewhere!

Five Stations and a Hissy Fit

So I leave our Piccadilly Circus hotel after a bit of a stodgy breakfast to soak up the alcohol consumed the previous day (lunch and dinner in the same restaurant without leaving!) and decide that as it’s a lovely day, I’ll walk to Blackfriars Train Station. J and I had decided to go our own separate ways – she heading for the Oxford Street shops (surprise, surprise) and me heading for Gatwick airport so I could find a bar and watch the FA Cup Final.

As I walked down through the Piccadilly streets, I had time to look at the beautiful architecture before I hit Pall Mall and then Trafalgar Square. Tourists were everywhere taking advantage of the sunshine and as I passed Downing Street, it was almost impossible to move. Next door, the poor Household Cavalry guards, ‘standing’ on duty on their horses outside their barracks were a model of patience as kids and adults alike got a bit too close to the horses and had their pictures taken despite the prominent signs – ‘these horses can kick’!

I looked to the right and there were the Houses of Parliament which were unfortunately being externally cleaned which was a pity for the tourists as they bent and crouched trying to take pictures which didn’t include the acres of scaffolding defacing the magnificent building. Turn left onto Embankment and wander along the riverside. The London Aquarium and The London Eye were crowded as was the whole of the South Bank. On my side, the boats were plying their trade on the River and I stopped to look at the Obelisk and the Sphinxes which had been damaged by a bomb dropped during the war. At that point, I took a moment and thought that I had been very lucky to work in London for some 26 years. It truly was a terrific city, much more compact in terms of the major tourist ‘hotspots’ – in the previous 30 minutes, I’d walked past most of London’s major attractions.

As I neared Blackfriars after a walk of about an hour I saw the dreaded wooden boardings. It did not look good. I crossed the road and tried to find my way into the station. Nothing! No posters saying the station was closed, no directions to where you could get a train – nothing!

Thankfully, my years in the City gave me a good understanding of where the stations are located so I walked the ten minutes or so to the City Thameslink. Closed – well actually it wasn’t. I saw a security guy sitting inside and I pushed the door . He was amazed when the door opened as he’d been thinking it was locked and then all sorts of alarms went off. As he tried to work out what the hell had happened he said I should go to Faringdon Station. Third time lucky?

Another 15 minutes with my heavy bag and I reached Faringdon where they had a notice - they actually had a billboard saying that there were no trains leaving for Gatwick Airport. Luckily the tube trains were still running so I hopped on one and managed to get myself to St Pancras International. It was the first time I’d been in it since it reopened and I stood and stared at the truly stunning arched ceiling, painted in its sky blue colour. People were thronging the champagne and lobster bar and the concourse was heaving with travelers – there’d been a problem with the Channel Tunnel that morning and thousands of people were delayed.

It’s an enormous station and it took me about 15 minutes to find a porter who replied to my question about a train to Gatwick with, ‘they’re not running mate – you need to go to London Bridge’. I nearly had a hissy fit. I did swear a bit but my issue was with the authorities, the train companies and the council who had not thought fit to put any notices on the first two stations about the fact that with major refurbishment programmes happening, the trains were actually starting their journey to Gatwick from south of the river.

It was at that point that I thought London was the pits. Thousands of people, just like me would be heading either north to Luton Airport or south to Gatwick and there was absolutely no information telling people what to do when they got to their chosen stations.

Luckily I had plenty of time but how many people missed their flights?

London’s a great city but they don’t half treat people like shit!

Off To London

Sorry - no post today. J and I are off to London for lunch - well I am. J is spending a few days in England visiting a few old friends. Speak to you all on Monday.

The Blue Elephant Has Finally Had It

First of all and just so that you know, The Blue Elephant is one of our favourite restaurants. A small family run place, it’s virtually straight across the valley from our house and is situated right in the middle of a village called Le Rouret.

We’ve been going there for years but despite this, we’ve never been recognized as regulars. In France, unless you frequent a place at least twice a week, restaurateurs refuse to recognize you!

We actually stopped going a couple of years ago because despite booking, we were allocated seats right outside the toilets which is not a pleasant place to eat a meal. When we challenged the owner’s son and asked for better seats, despite some being free, there was total indifference so we left.

At this point, maybe I should say that the reason we trek over to Le Rouret is because the pizzas are pretty good and the steaks, in J’s opinion, are terrific and so every now and again, despite much closer eateries, The Blue Elephant gets our custom.

On one occasion, when I’d ordered a ‘well done’ steak, the waitress went into the kitchen and all I could see was the chef/proprietor shaking his head and making that gallic shrug which usually means ‘no chance’.

She came back to our table and passed on the bad news – ‘no well done steaks’. No ‘sorry’ or any explanation. That was it!

Despite this inability to relate to a customer’s simple wishes (or should it be a simple customer’s wishes?), J insisted that we continue to go to the Blue Elephant because ‘her steaks were delicious’ so I had no option but to change my eating preference to their pizzas, which I have to admit, in the pantheon of French pizza places, are pretty good.

Last night we crossed the valley again to The Blue Elephant and last night I took my life in my hands and asked for a well done steak. Because it was a quiet night, the chef/proprietor took the order. He shook his head in the old familiar way. I put my hand on his arm, looked into his eyes and pleaded for a well done steak. He shook his head. I was just about to order a pizza when J butted in and in perfect French said my steak didn’t need to be cindered, just a bit more cooked than a medium but no blood. He shook his head and said something under his breath but then seemed to relent. Kitty ordered a pizza and then it was J’s turn.

“A steak with poivre sauce please”. ‘Non – no poivre sauce’, he said. “I’ll have the Roquefort sauce then”, she said. ‘Non – no Roquefort sauce’, was the reply. ‘But you always do a sauce on the steak’. We don’t now – it was too much trouble, nobody ever ordered it’.

At this point, I felt like pointing out that he had offered sauces on his steaks for the last 10 years so he’d obviously taken quite a bit of time to make that strategic culinary decision ….. but I didn’t.

J ordered a normal steak (without sauce) and then I pointed out that he’d raised his prices so that the ‘new’ price for a steak without sauce, was the price he used to charge with a sauce.

After picking her way through a dry steak, J offered the following observation: ‘We’re not coming back here’, she said. ‘But what about the steaks – well done, they’re delicious’, I said. ‘We’re not coming back’, I was informed!

Coincidentally, Nigel has been causing trouble in a restaurant as well. Read about it at the URL below:

http://monaconigel.blogspot.com/2010/05/burgundy-brogues-and-errant-tongue.html

He’s Gone and Not Before Time

British politics hasn’t been so interesting for years. Not since Margaret Thatcher strode onto the Westminster stage, virtually unknown, has the relatively boring process of governing Britain Plc been so interesting. Of course in 1997, the ever-so-fresh Tony Blair who managed to convince the electorate that here indeed was a new Labour party, shook up the establishment a bit and for a while, even the City was enthralled.

Whatever measure you apply and hopefully, whatever your colour of politics, you have got to admit that the Conservatives won the election (by seats and votes) and by convention, had the right to form the next Government.

Talking to the Liberal Democrats (an oxymoron if ever there was one – what’s democratic about trying to side with losers in the election?) was a normal course of action for the Tories to take, but for a while it looked like Clegg had lost any semblance of decency the British electorate thought he had after the debates by trying to strike up a potential deal with the Labour party. This was akin to (and sorry, this is a football analogy) Man U and Spurs adding their league points together and saying – ‘hey – we won the league’. It wouldn’t matter that Chelsea had actually gained more points! It seems that everything is fair in love and war …… and British politics!

And as for that lying, conniving charlatan, Gordon Brown – he’s off, but not before he tried to ruin British democracy and if you think he’s got dignity by resigning, why didn’t he resign last Friday when both the public and his party blamed him for Labour’s worst election results for decades? The guy has got a skin thicker than a rhino and was determined to prolong his disastrous premiership until the very last second. In some ways, I admire his cheek but then when he stands up and spouts his crap about ‘a fairer Britain’, I’m almost sick.

I’m just thankful that his legacy will be one of an unelected prime Minister who made disastrous mistakes and who messed up the country and deceived everyone, well almost everyone, into thinking he was a genius. Once he’s gone, it’ll all come out in the wash.

And as for Nick Clegg, the Liberal Democrat leader – before the fiasco of dashing round and going through the back door to ‘have a chat’ with Brown, I was actually quite looking forward to them having some say in the running of Britain. But for the slimy greaseball to shuttle between both parties prostituting himself and his party to the person who offers the most money and the nicest ‘bedside manner’, is an affront to British democracy.

Call it good negotiating tactics of you like but I liken him to a tart wandering around Whitehall with her knickers round her ankles looking for the richest looking punter.

The picture above is courtesy of the Evening Standard and a great picture it is too. Time to go Gordo – time to go. It’s just a travesty that people have been put behind bars for far less crimes than he’s committed!

And finally, some comments from Guido Fawkes’ blog from fellow G Brown dissenters:

It was the bigot that did it – rejoice!

She (the Queen) will make him wait until Eastenders has finished.

I’m hoping the Queen will stab him with one of her swords.

Gordon still hoping the Queen will decline his resignation.

Champers for me and the Mrs, cod and cream for the cat, steak for the dog and a resounding goodbye and good riddance.

And the best one of all - Gordon who ?

Ear Ear

After ten days of my family listening to ear splitting sound levels from the TV and being unable to communicate with me other than with sign language, I thought it about time that I visited Dr Fang in the village.

Coincidentally, J also attended a dinner on Sunday night (which I had reluctantly told the hostess that I wouldn’t be attending because it’s embarrassing saying ‘pardon’ to everything, everyone says) and there she met a specialist doctor. Unfortunately, he wasn’t an ear specialist or I would have been down to Helen’s apartment in Nice in a flash but I assume he told J that with my long-standing ear problem I should see a specialist.

So on Monday morning when I asked her to call Dr Fang for an appointment and she said she would be calling an ear specialist instead, I envisaged being stuck in a world of silence for another week or so, but it wasn’t to be. Two hours after her call (good old France), I was sitting in the doctor’s chair nervously eyeing all the gruesome-looking instruments in his toolbox.

Thankfully, J had gone with me, as it was impossible for me to communicate and she told the doctor of my aural history. He didn’t seem impressed and asked me to sit in his examination chair. I was still looking at the instruments which reminded me of the things you see when you visit the torture section in the London Dungeon when he stuck something in my ear and that was it – it was like an automated car wash was inside my head. I assume this was a straightforward ear syringing (I had my eyes shut) but after about 10 minutes of very uncomfortable treatment, he stopped and asked me to go to another room.

When I stepped through the door, there was another tool tray of hooks, poles, syringes and other ear related paraphernalia but I just shut my eyes and sat in the chair. This time the ‘treatment’ was even more uncomfortable. It felt like a Karcher pressure washer was being used to wash my brains out through the other ear.

After another ten minutes of gouging and washing, I was ushered back to the first room (where J was playing with the things on his desk) and again was told to sit in the chair. This time, I thought my head was going to burst. I felt like saying that I had a Black and Decker hammer drill at home and I could probably do it myself but I didn’t and after about another 10 minutes of poking and prodding, he stopped and amazingly, I could hear.

Next was a hearing test to see if my new ears worked and it proved to him that my right ear is shot to pieces (thanks for that trip to Alicante in the early 80s J !!) and that my left ear is deteriorating in sympathy.

After paying him the usual €60 (he waived the other €2.56 as I didn’t have change) he said I should come back next week for an ear nerve test. No doubt that’ll be another €60 unless they decide to open me up and rebuild my head.

Of course, I just had to do it. As I left and he said ‘au revoir’, I turned quizzically to him and said, ‘sorry – what was that’. Ha ha - what a joker I am !

The Tourrettes MSN Rave

It’s not what I wanted to hear on a Thursday night when my ears were killing me, I couldn’t hear a thing and J was insisting on watching some medical soap on TV when all I wanted to do was watch the cricket in the West Indies.

Kitty – ‘Thomas, can I have a sleepover?’

Sorry, what did you say?

Can I have a sleepover?

No you can’t.

Why not?

Because when you and your girlfriends get together, you gang up on Guy and make his life a misery.

Guy – ‘but I’m at my dad’s house this weekend Thomas’.

Thanks for that Guy.

Kitty – ‘so can I have a sleepover then?’

No.

Mummy – Thomas says I can’t have a sleepover.

J – ‘go on let Kitty have her friends over.’

Thomas – ‘ok then – how many?’

Kitty – ‘nineteen.’

Sorry – did you say nineteen?

How did you tell them about it?

I used Microsoft Messenger.

At this point I nearly fainted. I’d read about these Facebook or MSM postings which result in hundreds of kids turning up at a ‘party’ and ransacking and wrecking the house.

And so it came to pass that on Friday evening a collection of kids, both male and female turned up at the house, some carrying what looked like sleeping bags, others carrying bottles of coke and bags of crisps, and some just in the clothes they wore.

Kitty was still in the shower or painting her nails or whatever so I had to show her friends down to the bar which I’d prepared for them. The music was ready as was the full wall projector, the lighting was subtle and the drinks and snacks all ready on the counter.

I switched on ‘Club Raves’ and despite my virtual deafness, I could hear the beat blasting out of my hi-fi. I could certainly feel my sub-woofer making the walls reverberate.

But as I made my way out of the bar I saw their quizzical faces. Never mind – I couldn’t hear any grumblings. In any case, there was drinks and snacks – what else could they want?

More and more kids arrived. I didn’t bother counting them just in case I ended up with 50, 100 or more. I showed them down to the bar and the music had changed – no more Club Raves, on in its place was some French stuff – absolute rubbish – almost like a tone-deaf singer, reciting poetry to music. Absolutely awful. What terrible taste kids have these days!

I looked at them and they seemed happy enough. There was no dancing, not that you could have danced to the rubbish which was coming out of my speakers. They just stood around or sat in groups chatting to each other.

At this point, the pizzas we’d ordered arrived and suddenly the kitchen was full. It was like a locust storm. Within seconds, the boxes had disappeared downstairs and I only just managed to keep a couple back to take to Tan and Angie’s. I’d already decided that I wasn’t staying at my house that night so I grabbed a couple of bottles of wine and the pizzas and went next door.

Later that evening, I came back from next door. My ears had completely gone and I couldn’t hear a thing. I didn’t dare look downstairs so went straight to bed.

Next morning, J told me that the noise had been deafening until 3.30am. I hadn’t heard a thing – it was great!

Something like 30 pancakes and 10 pains au chocolat later, they all wandered off. Off to the next party somewhere in Vence.

Le Brin This Week and Election Night

It’s been a funny old week at le Brin. The weather has been foul and after cleaning all the terraces and the pool side last week, on Tuesday it proceeded to blow a gale re-covering them with all sorts of leaves, branches and even more dust from the trees. So last week’s efforts to clear away the winter gunge was a total waste of time!

The cold weather has also returned and I’m now back to wearing a vest under my shirt, we’ve switched the central heating back on and J wakes me up in the morning with the news (direct from her iTouch) that the temperature in Cork (Ireland) is warmer than it is here.

Why Cork? Well our exchange student has arrived from there, managing to escape Ireland just as the volcanic ash cloud was threatening to cause airline havoc once more. Now, I’ve a correction to make – his name is not Rick O’Shea, it’s Andrew something or other – he’s so quiet. Slightly built and with a haircut which makes it almost impossible to tell whether he’s male or female, he wanders around the house like a ghostly presence. At least he eats all the food J puts in front of him and he even scoffed a Croque Madame in the Bar Des Sports yesterday but we did learn that he quite often visits his grandmother who lives just down the coast in Italy (Imperia), so he’s probably used to food which is a bit more exotic than Irish Stew.

I unfortunately managed to get an ear infection in my last remaining good ear (which makes it sound like I have more than two) and have been virtually deaf for the last week. It’s a Cupples genetic problem which skips a generation and unfortunately I got it and fortunately my kids didn’t, but unless my ex-wife’s genes have completely overwhelmed mine, my grandchildren will suffer but let’s hope not.

On Wednesday evening I had the pleasure of sitting in Tan’s house watch his team, Tottenham, beat Manchester City to that coveted 4^th spot in the Premier League. Watching a grown 6ft 4in mountain of a man reduced to tears of joy (almost) was a sight to behold and of course, with wine bottles a plenty, we sat in the damp cold on his terrace until the early hours, discussing the game. The ‘girls’ meanwhile had been watching some slushy film in my house and only came over when J’s ability to find any more wine became impaired, not by inebriation (she’s never even been tipsy in the whole of her life !!) but by tiredness. I’m sure the bat ears of the ladies also heard Tan mention that such was his delight (at his team winning) that he might even break out the champagne. It just seemed such a coincidence that they arrived immediately he uttered the word ‘champagne’!

And bringing you all bang up to date, I’m now sitting up watching the election results come in and with my bad ear, I’ve had to rig the TV up with a long line terminating in an earpiece. The cats who have risen from their slumbers are now playing with the line which crosses the lounge floor thinking it’s all part of some new game!

The coverage on the TV is a bit chaotic at the moment which does not auger well for the mass of results which will start to flow in an hour or so. Each presenter sees their 30 second slot as an opportunity to impress and we’ve already had two doyens of the BBC having a go at each other although as one of them is the belligerent Jeremy Paxman, who in that well worn phrase, could start a fight in an empty house, it’s not surprising.

What is surprising is that the BBC only has 20 results announced whilst ITV have 33 (Sky have 21) – why the difference, all the stations have reporters around the country? Whatever – the on-screen friction between the presenters on the BBC and the better count coverage from ITV makes that the station to watch.

Interestingly, at this stage, the exit polls are indicating that although winning the greatest number of parliamentary seats, the Conservatives will not have an overall majority and there’s already official word that even if defeated, that charlatan, Gordon Brown will try and form a Government. The great hope however is that the swing in voting from Labour to Conservative, which shows that the Tories might win more seats than the exit polls suggest, will provide David Cameron with the mandate to allow him to become the new Prime Minister.

It’s all very exciting – I’ve just got to try and stay awake!

The Milly Dowler Murder

Some of you will know that I take quite a keen interest in trials, both criminal and civil. Indeed, I was a regular attendee at the Old Bailey when I worked at BT in London and even now I study some of the trial transcripts going back to the 17^th century. Finding that people were hung in those days for hitting another person with a stick or engaging in bestiality puts some of today’s sentences into perspective!

Last week , a former doorman was committed for trial accused of kidnapping and murdering 13-year-old Milly Dowler. Levi Bellfield, 41, will also be charged with another attempted kidnapping.

Why am I interested in this particular trial? Well, apart from the fact that the Dowler murder is one of Britain’s most notorious unsolved crimes, Milly’s body was found just around the corner from my friend’s house in Yately, Hampshire and the video shown frequently on TV of Milly ironing her clothes, made her seem almost like a relative. But more than that – Belfield, the only suspect, has already been sentenced to life for another murder and it’s quite obvious that the police who have been interviewing him think he’s their man, but will the trial be ‘fair’?

Belfield was first interviewed over Milly's death several years ago after he was held by the Metropolitan Police and in recent developments, officers believe they have compelling circumstantial evidence which links him to the crime. And that’s the problem – all the evidence is decidedly circumstantial.

On the night of Milly’s disappearance, a red Daewoo Nexia car was caught on CCTV ‘patrolling’ the area. The driver of the car was never traced but it just so happened that Belfield’s girlfriend at the time had a red Daewoo and Belfield has admitted he was driving the car on the night in question and coincidentally, he lived just round the corner from where Milly disappeared. It was widely rumoured that the car was crushed and disposed of and despite dredging lakes and interviewing a car scrappage dealer, the Daewoo has never been traced.

Despite the lack of clear unambiguous evidence, Belfield has been virtually tried and convicted by the tabloid papers. His face stares out of the front pages on a weekly basis and just how the trial judge will manage to get a jury who haven’t already found him guilty is beyond me.

The problem is, despite the lack of clear evidence, all the indicators say that he did it – but is this enough? Belfield is already serving life imprisonment and probably won’t be released until he’s a very old man, if at all – why doesn’t he just admit that he did it and give the Dowler family a break? But then I’m assuming he did it – maybe it’s the picture!

A Minodge on the Paris Metro

I was reading that fare-dodgers on the Paris metro are now creating their own fare-dodging insurance. It works like this: a group of say 10 fare dodgers (it’s a national pastime with the young in Paris) each pay €5 each week into a collective fund. If a fare-dodging member of the group is caught and has to pay a €50 fine, the collective pays the €50 upon receipt of the fine ticket.

Anybody who has used the Paris metro will probably never have seen a ticket inspector but will have seen many people vaulting over the barriers. Given that the loss of ticket revenue is estimated at €80 million a year, you would think that that would pay for at least one ticket checker with a rottweiler at each set of barriers. Apparently the French don’t work that way – breaking the law like this is a national pastime.

Whilst this fine paying scheme is brilliantly simple, the concept of a group of people paying into a collective fund and reaping the benefits is not new. Scotland claims to have ‘invented’ this financial arrangement, called a menage or more commonly, a minodge, whereby, in the olden days, a group of women would each contribute a sum of money every week to be saved by one of the group – the administrator. Each woman in turn would then receive the weekly total which they proceeded to spend on those little luxuries which they'd never manage to buy from their weekly allowance. There was no chance that these women would ever manage to save the amount the minodge would pay out, whilst saving the weekly amount was rather more easily achieved and kept the money out of the hands of their husbands.

I remember minodges being quite common back in the 70s. They would operate in factories, offices and even amongst neighbours in tenement buildings. I was in one at Chrysler where the 8 guys in the office all ‘chipped in’ £5 a week and every 2 months, a virtual fortune was paid out. Of course, waiting 8 weeks for your payment turn wasn’t too bad. Being in a minodge of 50 or so people was rather different – you only got paid once a year and you had to hope that the administrator didn’t run off with the cash before it was your turn!

Similar to the Paris Metro scheme of course, is the ‘bar smoking minodge’ whereby when the smoking bans were introduced into pubs and clubs a few years ago, certain country pubs ignored the ban completely. The problem was – who would pay the fine if the constabulary passed and noticed a smoky atmosphere when the door was opened? The regulars of course. They would all chip into a ‘ban pot’ and if the landlord was ever fined, the pot would pay it and if, at the end of a year, no fine had been forthcoming, the regulars had a bloody good booze up all paid for by the minodge!

Talking about money – Nigel, our rich little rich guy, has been back to London and getting mixed up in trouble as usual. Read all about it at: http://monaconigel.blogspot.com/2010/05/night-back-in-london.html

You’re Barred

For my foreign (namely English) readers, “you’re barred” is what a pub landlord says to you when he no longer wants your custom. It’s only happened to me twice, the last time was only a couple of years ago when I went up to Glasgow to see my sons, and after a family dinner, my son’s friends joined us in the bar. I was quite the innocent party, as was my brother, and at 57, I was quite happy to sit at the back of the rather busy pub and drink my Gin and Tonic. But my son’s friend had objected to the barman serving him a drink which had splashed all over the bar and unfortunately he lost the argument.”You’re barred - you're all barred” was the cry from behind the counter and the lot of us were thrown out. What an injustice, but disappointed as I was, being barred from a rather rough looking pub at the age of 57 was quite an achievement, so I accepted it with good grace.

The first time was quite different. I had not spoken to my brother for about five years despite us both living in the same city, but family differences (my fault I’m afraid) and a trivial argument had caused us to lose contact.

Always the peacemaker, I eventually got in contact with him and after a long heated discussion we agreed to meet in his favourite west end pub. I must have been about 29 at the time, he would be 24.

I turned up at the agreed hour and wandered into the bar. I saw him sitting in the far corner and went over holding my hand out in a sort of greeting. He stood up and without any warning whacked me full in the mouth with his fist.

I can’t remember my reaction but it must’ve been amazement mixed with anger mixed with pain. The next few seconds were a blur as I dragged him over the table at which he was sitting and we started laying into each other on the sawdust covered floor in a blur of fists and knees. I can remember thinking, ‘I’ve actually dressed up for this ‘meeting’ and here I am rolling about the floor’.

After what seemed like ages but could only have been about 30 seconds, the barman vaulted over the bar, separated us and as we stood there looking at each other, he said those immortal words, ”you’re both barred”. I remember Robert saying, ‘you can’t bar me – I’m a regular’, to which the barman’s response cannot be repeated.

We went outside and immediately formed a sort of friendship which guys do in adversity and started talking about the injustice of it all (which everyone who has ever been barred does). A few minutes later we were seated in a curry house wondering why we’d ever lost contact.

So why this posting? Well, I phoned my brother the other night and he said, “that’s the 4^th time you’ve phoned me this week.” ‘Is that a problem’,I said. “You’re interrupting my dinner”, he complained. ‘So what’, said I ……… and it all came flooding back.

Lyceé de Croisset

J is always on the lookout for new places to eat and she found a great one last week. She discovered it on the internet and I can only assume she’d heard it mentioned by someone and had looked it up. Once she’d established that there was a date free in my ever busy diary, she made a reservation, and on Thursday lunchtime we set off for Grasse, the perfume capital of France which is about 40 minutes from Tourrettes.

Now we’ve eaten in Grasse many times but usually in the Inidan (The New Punjab – yes I know sacrilege) or the restaurants located in the little squares dotted about the town centre. This time would be different – we were heading to a Lyceé or college – the Lyceé de Croisset to be exact – a Lyceé Professionelles which majors on students studying commerce, secretarial skills, the environment and hotel and restaurant management.

I wasn’t sure what to expect. Maybe having a lunch in a separate room in the college with the food prepared by the students and the money helping the college funds?

When we arrived we were directed to the ‘restaurant’ which turned out to be a rather non-descript room in the furthest recesses of the building. The room was set out to take a maximum of 30 diners in tables of two and four and whilst a bit lacking in atmosphere had a terrific view over the hills of Grasse.

We stood in the entrance of the room for about 2 minutes before someone came over to seat us which wasn’t a good start and then once we’d been offered an aperitif, we discovered that we were actually sitting in an ‘examination room’. The students serving us would be evaluated by two ‘professeurs’ who watched everything they did and noted it down on their exam sheets.

It was fascinating. There were four students waiting on 24 covers. The students, all sitting their first year exams, were numbered 1 – 4. Number 1 was a guy who had a quiet, confident air about him. Number 2 was another male student who looked a bit like Manuel from Fawlty Towers, but without the moustache. Number 4 was a tall, striking female who exuded a quiet calm and authority, whilst number 3, our waitress, acted like a frightened rabbit. Just our luck.

We ordered aperitifs and were advised what the menu was (it’s set out on the internet and there’s no choice) – roulade of chicken breast with a small salad and curry dressing followed by the classic veal Milannaise and spaghetti. There was no mention of what dessert would be.

The starter arrived and we ordered a half bottle of Rosé. I noticed that all the other diners had been served warm bread rolls – but not us which was something of a crime as the French normally serve bread almost as soon as you sit down. J did not want to ‘rock the boat’ and scupper the student’s chances of a good exam mark but I reckon the examiner had probably noticed that I’d stopped eating my chicken and salad, which was quite delicious, but nothing happened – still no bread. Eventually, J gave in and asked our ‘frightened rabbit’ for some which arrived within seconds.

Then it was the main course which was ok. There’s not much you can do with Milannaise but I did notice our girl did not know what one of the three accompaniments was – onion and tomato sauce as it turned out.

Up till then, everything had gone ok apart from a few minor hic-cups but it was when dessert arrived that the fun started. Number 4, the tall model-like one, who had ‘swanned’ through the service produced a flambé burner, a large frying pan and a bowl of cut strawberries. Almost simultaneously, our waitress delivered the same to our table, whereupon J exclaimed that she had also produced a couple of digestifs for us.

I had previously ordered a glass of white wine to go with my dessert but it had not been delivered (another mark lost) so I was just about to sink one of the digestifs when J and the waitress both let out a shriek – the drinks were for the flambé! What a lucky escape.

Chaos was now happening all around the room. Number 4, in her attempt to light the liqueurs which were now in the flambé pan, tipped some of her strawberries out onto the burner and quickly tried to hide them from the examiner. Number 1’s gas flambé burner went out as there was no more gas in his cylinder – his table got cold strawberries. Number 2 was also having trouble as he’d spotted number 1 spilling her strawberries and was a bit nervous about doing the same. Number 3 on the other hand, our frightened little rabbit, did it perfectly and got a round of applause from all the diners. Voila!

Dessert actually turned out to be fresh strawberries, flambéd in strawberry liqueur and kirsch and placed in a brandy basket and served with pistachio ice cream. It was delicious and the whole meal excluding drinks cost only €13.

Maybe it was because we’d had quite poor service and had been quite civilized about it or maybe it was because we just looked like a nice couple, but we were approached by another student who amazed us by asking us to return the following day – there was another examination.

I was about to ask it if would be free but J nearly bit his hand off and told me not to bother thinking about it – she was bringing a friend!

Final word – I gave frightened rabbit a €5 tip which she slipped into her inside pocket. I reckon that 99% of the diners who go there are French and they NEVER leave a tip. She was quite chuffed, but probably only until she saw her exam marks.

PS - J returned on Friday - and it wasn't free!!

Bigotgate

It was the final leaders’ debate last night, and with it featuring questions on the economy, Gordon Brown acquitted himself as badly as everyone expected from somebody who’s been running the country’s finances into the ground since 1997. He sounded his usual automaton self, full of statistical crap. It’s probably too late for these debates to significantly alter people’s voting intentions as they head to the ballot box next Thursday, but the press reckon that Gordon Brown’s run-in with Mrs Gillian Duffy was his ‘bête noire’. As one commentator said, ‘Short of picking on a war widow, it’s hard to see how Brown could have chosen a worse target’, referring to the fact that Mrs Duffy’s family have voted Labour for generations and that she was a widowed pensioner.

Calling an old lady a ‘bigot’ was not only insulting but completely inaccurate – her questions about immigration were quite reasonable. It made me think what Brown could have said, off-camera, about other people he might have met on his walk-about.

The Rubbish Collector – my God, did you smell that guy? I’ve stepped in stuff which smelled better than he did. Do you think he ever has a bath? And did you see his teeth – the tombstones in Westminster Abbey look better than his nashers.

The Blonde – well, did you see that? What a gorgeous pair of knockers? I bet she likes a bit of the old ‘wham bam, thank you maam’. Maybe if Sarah wasn’t hanging onto my coat tails making sure I don’t mess up, I could have suggested that we nip into her house for a quickie. I wonder if her old man is in? Did you get her number?

The Used Car Salesman – did you see the crap cars that guy had on his forecourt. I bet he’s a real crook ripping punters off right, left and centre. He sounded like a real east-end conman. Actually, he sounded just like Alan Johnson (Home Secretary).

The Gay – did you just listen to that poofter? Bent as a nine-bob note. Asking for equal rights when I’ve already allowed them to marry each other. We should have had our gay boy, Mandelson down here. They could have gone off into the bushes together to discuss the state of the pink pound.

The Hoodie – little prick. Couldn’t understand a word he was saying. How come these little shits who obviously come from nasty, poor families can afford these fancy trainers and smart bikes. Remind me to check up on Tax Credits when I get back to Downing Street.

The Priest - he was a shifty looking piece of work wasn’t he? I bet he’s top of the Pope’s paedo league. He didn’t seem too pleased when I asked if old Benedict was going to downsize and move into something smaller in Rome, did he?

The Liberal Supporter - What a turd. Liberal namby-pamby, wishy-washy, flippy-floppy pain in the ass. When I get re-elected, I’m going to pass a law which ships all these pond-life creeps to a 3^rd world country. Tosser.

Assylum Seeker - What a nice chap. Only arrived from Turkmenistan with his family last week and is on Working Tax Credits already. And did you see how nicely dressed his twelve kids were and how clean and polished his car was. What a beacon of light for the society I’ve built and he’s going to vote for me, for me.

All That Glitters etc etc

It was my turn to take the kids down to the bus stop this morning but no sooner had we left the house, we found the road blocked by a rubbish collection lorry which had itself become blocked in road works we have in the lane at the moment. We were behind him as he tried to force his way through the rather small gap between someone’s wall and the ditch dug by the electricity company. Needless to say, he got horribly stuck.

I didn’t have to say anything to Guy and Kitty. We did a u-turn and went the long way to round another bus stop. We knew what would happen. The Frenchies would sit there for a couple of minutes trying to work out what had gone wrong. Then they’d get their coffees out and have another discussion. Then they’d phone the office for instructions. By that time it would be the designated hour for lunch and they’d all get out of the cab and have a two hour lunch by the roadside and so on etc etc.

When I got back, I made my breakfast and then watched some early news. Greece was all over the airwaves. The country is bankrupt as I wrote in a blog a few weeks ago. http://tomsfrenchblog.blogspot.com/2010/03/greece-think-it-doesnt-affect-you.html

Their government IOUs have been reduced to ‘junk’ status which means that if you buy them, there’s a 99% chance you won’t be paid back and this is causing havoc with the financial markets. In turn, this is making life for a raging capitalist like me, very interesting.

I was all ready to change some of my UK pension money into Euros because my view is that with a hung parliament a virtual certainty, the Pound will fall but because Greece is bankrupt, and with Portugal and Spain also in serious trouble, the Euro is actually falling. What’s a boy to do? In times of financial uncertainty buy gold – so I bought some, well more precisely, some shares in an African gold mining company. J was delighted! Never one to miss a trick, within a nano-second she was asking if there were any shareholder perks!

Quite coincidentally, J had been summoned to see the bank manager so I said I’d drop her there whilst I went to the council tip to empty my trailer of garden rubbish. Whilst I filled one of their skips with all sorts of garden greenery which was, by now, all brownery, I noticed that the man who runs the place was nowhere to be seen. Now this guy and I have had a few run-ins in the past. You see, they have a wood skip and I just can’t resist climbing into it and filling my empty trailer with great burning stuff. In past encounters he’s stormed up to me and demanded I return ‘his’ wood to which I have responded, ‘if you want the wood back, you empty the trailer’. He’s then stormed off but then he’s all smiles when I next turn up at the tip with an old bike or cooker or something which he thinks he can repair!

Anyway, with him nowhere to be seen, I decided that I would clean my trailer with his hose and then fill it with wood. I turned the hose on and picked it up and it was absolutely full of holes. I was soaked through! I reckon it was a deliberate trap. I might have looked like a drowned rat but I did get a load of wood!

Back to the village to pick up J who I assumed was going to be in tears after being given a good slapping by the bank manager for using the bank’s vast reserves of red ink on her statements but no, there she was, smiling happily on the pavement a baguette in each hand.

‘What happened’, I said. ‘Oh – he was tearing a strip off me about my lack of financial discipline but when I told him that my husband owned an African gold mine, he cheered up considerably’! Cute eh?

The afternoon was looking like it was going to be a nice quiet interlude in my otherwise hectic lifestyle but I forgot it was the kids half day which meant no peace whatsoever.

After a lunch of BBQ’d spicy French sausages and fresh baguettes, I locked the kids in the cellar and sat down to watch the lunchtime news . Oh what a story. Gordon Brown, off camera but still with a microphone on, had called an old aged pensioner a ‘bigoted woman.’ Well all hell broke loose and the story is still rolling. I could not contain my glee. Some commentators are likening his gaffe to that of Neil Kinnock who fell into the sea in 1983 whilst trying to appear ‘normal’. See it here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jh8ktNsie0I.

They reckon that stunt finished Kinnock’s chances of ever becoming Prime Minister and ‘Bigotgate’ could signal the end of Prime Mentalist Broon. Whatever – it’s been a funny old day, especially when later in the afternoon, after chatting with his mother, Guy sidled up to me and said, ‘Thomas – do you really own a gold mine?’