Andwells

It was breakfast time and I was sitting at the bar admiring a small basket of narcissus that Jan had bought from Intermarché. The plastic care instruction label, that had been 'planted' in the pot, was written in three languages, Dutch, English and French. Being the inquisitive type, I read the label. It told me to afford plenty of sunlight and keep the soil moist etc. What really grabbed my attention was the final bits of information. "For decoration only. Do not consume." Now, I consider myself fairly normal (you don't want a comment from me? - Ed.) and never in my life have I been tempted to eat flowers. I know you can eat some types but they ain't generally on my menu. Nor do I suspect that they are on the menu for anyone other than an extremist vegan, and they're not normal anyway. The only comfort that I could gain from this information is that there are pan european idiots around and that I wasn't being singled out. I'd have felt even happier if it had been printed in Spanish, Chinese and whatever the speak on the Indian sub-continent, but you can't have everything.

Anyway, this reminded me of a time, many moons ago, when men were men, and I had more money in my pocket than sense. A group of us were celebrating something or other, at what was at that time a very fine restaurant. It was called Andwells and was situated on the road between Reading and Basingstoke, just near the Duke of Wellington's pile. It was proud to announce that 'Madame soignee la cuisine' or somesuch which always made me think that she never actually did any cooking, she just shouted at the chef. They were dead posh! Last time I looked it had been turned into a Little Chef. But I digress. We were a very successful, macho and determined group of men and we taught people to walk on water, or at least that's what we thought. For the life of me I can't remember why, but the conversation got round to eating flowers. N, (I'll save his blushes) no, bugger it, he was called Neville and he just loved to argue. If you said white, he said black etc. Anyway, we're talking about eating flowers and I happened to mention that I didn't think that you could eat daffodils, whilst pointing at the huge bowl of said flowers on our table. This statement was like a red rag to a bull. 'Oh yes you can,' said Nev, true to form, and wouldn't back down until yours truly had offered him a pound for each daffodil that he would eat. We all looked on in wonderment (with more than the odd snigger) as he proceeded to eat his way through the table decoration. Eventually, he stopped at ten daffs and, with smug self satisfaction, demanded his ten pounds. As I handed over the money, I congratulated him, but deep inside I was annoyed because if I'd have known that he'd be foolish enough to eat them I'd have offered him double. Needless to say he puked it all up (including his very expensive meal) and I think that we were barred from the restaurant thereafter. No doubt Madame had to soignee the cleaning of the gents toilets as well that evening.

A wedding feast fit for a king

Before we left for France, Jan and I drank nothing but new world wines. We particularly liked to try different Chardonnays, so it was with pleasure that we started again during our recent trip to Brighton. Like most wines, some we liked and some we didn't but some were as good as a good Meursault, for a fraction of the price. French wine growers have dug themselves into a bit of a hole and it's not easy to see how they will get themselves out. I'm not sure that trying to empty the wine lake will do anything more than putting more French viticulturists onto a subsidy regime that they can never break from. It's all very sad but it amply demonstrates that in a changing world if you sit back and do nothing then it can really hurt you.

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Talking about sitting back and doing nothing, did you see the recent criticism of Sarkozy, in the French press, concerning the fact that he exercises in public (he jogs) and how undignified it was? According to the article that I read, he should behave with more decorum and more finesse. I suppose a little like Chirac who did nothing for the last ten years of his reign other than take the country down the tubes. That kind of finesse? Sounds to me, that if that is the only thing you can accuse the man of, then he must be doing a pretty good job.

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A few weeks back we were invited to a wedding in Cornwall and, as a joke, I suggested to the bride and groom that, to give the wedding that authentic Cornish touch, they should serve Ginsters pies because they are made in Cornwall. In the good old days, when I travelled a lot, I ate many such pies on petrol station forecourts all over the UK. This is how I developed a cast iron constitution and my gourmet tastes. Anyway, for a joke, Jan bought me a Ginsters Chicken Slice when we were in Brighton and served it for lunch today. A sort of gastronomic trip down memory lane. As I walked into lunch, I noticed that she was checking the sell by date and I had to point out to my beloved that the filling would get me well before any exposure to sell by date. She was not amused. But if you want a laugh, the lunch consisted of a very elegant vichyssoise soup, gently flavoured with lavender flowers from the garden. Dead posh and very tasty. This Epicurean delight was followed by my cold Ginsters Chicken Slice and salad. Who says we don't live well?

Baptism French style

On 3rd May, when we were back in England, we spent some time establishing details of my father's past life which I wrote about here. Having then discovered that I had a step-mother and that she was still alive, I wrote to her, and introduced myself. It was quite a difficult letter to write because I wasn't aware of how much of my father's history she knew and I didn't want to cause her any distress. Well, it must have been a good letter because, bless her, she rang today. She said that she was aware of my existence and that she had even seen a letter that I wrote to my father (even aged 5 I could read and write, and they say that the education system is getting better) and that she would dig it out for me. I'm not too sure why, but afterwards I found it all quite emotional. My long search was coming to an end.

Alison mentioned over dinner the other night that, of late, my ramblings have become a bit bitter and twisted. Look, sweetie, I can't help what I see, and, more to the point, how else am I going to change the world? So there you go, a bit of sentimental old rubbish above to keep you happy.

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William mentioned an interesting thing the other day. Did you know that you can have a secular, 'state baptism' here in France? It's not a baptism in the pouring water on the child's head and absolving it from original sin sense, but an affirmation by the parents that the child will basically uphold the laws of the state and be a good citizen. That's all well and good, but how do they know that?

A quick search found this interesting piece.

Hello, I think you knew my father rather well

First stop Weston Super Mare. I knew that that was where I could get a copy of my dad's death certificate. The journey took longer than we thought so we didn't get there until 11.45. We were lucky because the Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages didn't shut for lunch until 12.30, so we were able to order a copy. The downside was it wouldn't be ready until 15.00. Bum, I hoped that we could merely look at the entry and get the information that we wanted. No such luck. It had to be hand written and they would do us a favour by finishing it by the promised time. That didn't leave us a lot of time if we had a lot of research to do.
Anyway, at 15.00 we got the first bit of unexpected news. Whilst his death was registered up the road in Cleveden, as that was the place of death, he died in a nursing home some way from his actual address. His regular address was actually in Bristol and if we wanted to check the electoral register, to see who was still living there, we would have to go to Bristol a good 45 minutes away. Whilst I was establishing the details of where to go and who to see in Bristol, Jan tried that well known private eye trick of looking in the phone directory. Bingo, his wife was still listed with the same address as given on the death certificate. That was a significant piece of good luck.
Our behaviour from that point on had not been planned because we had anticipated a lot more trouble in identifying any next of kin. Now everything was falling into place. The next question was how to proceed. I was fascinated to know where he lived so we decided to drive back via the address in Bristol. Not an easy drive but doable nonetheless. When we eventually found the house, the temptation to go and knock on the door and say hello was very strong but we had to think of the occupant and how she might feel. Given that she was very likely to be elderly, may not know of my father's past life and may not know about me, we decided on a plan of action. On returning to France, I would write a gentle letter introducing myself and requesting a meeting next time I was in England.
I'm one step closer to knowing a lot more about my father and whether I have any half brothers or sisters. It's all quite spooky.

A trip into the unknown

This morning we left for the UK. As we drove towards the airport, I had this strange sense of foreboding. Let me explain. The main purpose of this trip is to see my daughter Cara, but we are also going to do a little research into my natural father's background. You may remember that last year I established that he had died, never having known him since I was 4 years old when my parents split up, and I know little else. What I do know is that he died in or near Weston, near Bristol, which was where I was born. A trip down to Weston will hopefully help fill in some of the gaps.

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With the exception of a hard landing at Luton the trip was uneventful. Cara was pleased to see us and show us her new house. Whilst she initially intended to BBQ, because of a chill wind this idea got blown out of the water, so she treated us to dinner out instead. I have to say that it feels very strange when your kids start buying you food and drink, but I'm sure I'll get used to it.

The Tropical Boot Company

It was an interesting day. I was contacted by an old friend, who used to be in a band with me in the 60's, who now lives in Singapore. I knew him from my youth in Harrogate. Not only was (is) he a very nice chap, but we got into a few memorable scrapes together which helped shape my early life. Our group was a forerunner of the band put together for the film The 'Blues Brothers'. We became known as 'The Tropical Boot Company' and had exactly the same line up as the band in the film. We played the same music and had exactly the same singer and instrument lineup. For the record I was one of two singers and I was the short fat Belushi character. Ahhh, those were the days! And, the only major difference - was that we did it all 10 years before the film came out, we were real and relatively unknown and the others were fictional and very famous . However, amongst our claims to fame, we played an all nighter with Georgie Fame at the King Mojo, Pete Stringfellow's club in Sheffield, got called in a short notice to replace Pink Floyd at Leeds Queen's Hall, played support to Aretha Franklin at Reading Uni and played a couple of gigs at the Marquee Club when it was in Wardour Street. Great fun.
Then, a little later and again out of the blue, very nice friends from London wrote to say that they are coming out in May.

A latch key (possibly gypsy) kid

Last night was quite traumatic for me. Jan has this knack of getting my mum to talk about her past life. She finds mum's history interesting. As a 23 years old southern Italian woman in England in 1947, the year of the big freeze, it must have been quite a culture shock and Jan always wants to know more. Anyway, mum is recounting her holiday experiences of two day railway journeys back to Italy with her sister (who also married an Englishman) and me. Jan asked if I was a cute baby (I could have told her the answer to that one) and of course my mother said that I was very beautiful and that all kinds of people came up to her on the beach and offered to take me for a walk. It turns out that she was handing me over to all kinds of strangers who took me off and returned me at mealtimes. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I was being given away! How do I know that I'm the same child that was taken away? How do I know that I wasn't substituted for some gypsy child and that I'm not who I think I am? (Go and lie down and take some more of your medication - Ed) It's all very confusing and I had to remind my mother that if this had happened today she would have Social Services knocking at the door. As it happened my mother and father split up when I was four and for the next few years, until mum remarried again, I was brought up in Harrogate as a latch key kid. Life were tough in them days! (It explains a lot - Ed)

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It poured with rain today and, being unable to hire a car because we thought about it too late, we took the short walk down to the village. We chose a restaurant (poor choice) for lunch that overlooked the black sand beach. It was a dark and gloomy day with large white waves crashing onto the black rocks (oooh, aren't we the poetic one? - Ed) Believe it or not the picture above was taken in colour.

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This guy needs to come and kick some ass in France. I forget the actual figures but something like 25% of the French working population work in the civil service. Kids graduating from university all aim to get into it. Jobs for life, good pensions and little responsibilty. Try to get anything done in France during August. It's a joke. (oooh, and now political comment, who rattled your cage this morning? - Ed)

Yet another coincidence

OK, so you want another coincidence. There we were watching television last night when my nephew appeared in the programme. To be precise, he is my first ex-wife's brother's son, so he may technically be my first ex-nephew, but I think he may still qualify as a nephew. I'm not sure. Phew, don't families get complicated? He's a lovely chap and this is the first time that I have seen him for about 20 years. Not a close family I hear you say.

Dire Straits

Into Nîmes this afternoon for various bits, and in the process we walked through lots of the old part of town that we had never visited before. The more we explore 'old Nîmes' the more we like it. Wonderful buildings with wonderful doorways and pretty balconies. The obvious attractions are the Maison Carré, the quay and the arene, but there is so much more. It's a real treat. This site has some interesting shots of the town.

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Whilst looking for the pictures above, I came across a poster for the band Dire Straits playing at the arene in Nîmes. This reminded me of the time when I'm sitting in an office with someone and a third person entered the room with an application for a loan of £30,000. The applicant was a very famous member of the band. Band members were notoriously bad risks, and the person that I was with, having looked at the loan application, said, "Sorry but I'm not approving a loan for him." The chap that had brought the application into the room said, "But sir, he's in Dire Straits." My friend said, "I don't care what kind of a mess he's in, I'm not lending him £30,000." True story.