When not discussing tuberculosis, Bolle swam off Bushido, something I refused to do. The water is too dirty everywhere near the French and Italian Rivieras, with too many boats, too many people, and too much waste flowing silently into the sea. From Monte Carlo westward to Toulon and Marseille the construction continues as if it were the West Bank. Horrendous cruise ships disgorge tourists old enough to be my parents, tottering on steel walkers and trying to read the numbers on their euros. Rude French waiters have a field day with them.
Thank heaven I have a great captain and crew. Boating sure ain’t what it used to be, and as one is disinclined to go ashore and mix with the horrors, the crew becomes all-important. The other necessity is friends who have houses nearby. Chantal Hanover has a charming fifties house in the bay of Théoule west of Cannes, and we spotted her longtime companion Dr. Gimlet, AKA Nick Scott, madly waving flags in a vain effort to make my captain put Bushido on the rocks. But Captain Marcus trusts his charts and instruments more than Gimlet’s malevolent efforts to make a fool of Taki, the result being a great dinner in Chantal’s garden with the wine flowing as if there was no tomorrow.
That’s about it, dear readers. I’m off to London for a wedding and to check out Robin Birley’s new club, one that I predict will make all other London clubs redundant. It’s about time. Ever since his father sold his four clubs, London nightlife has gone the way of the Riviera. The poor little Greek boy will finally be able to once again shine when the clock strikes twelve and onward. Robin even tells me I am allowed to bring my walker.
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