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le bout du vin de l'été.
(Last of the summer wine.)
As with our contemporaries from the Yorkshire Dales there is a strong ‘boys will be boys’ movement here.
All fifty or so members of our local yottie club, ‘les Bateliers’, are men. Of course most have spouses or girlfriends and some have both. None as far as we are aware have boyfriends . At least not in the biblical sense.
We decided therefore a few weeks back that les Bateliers needed a permanent meeting place or ‘club house’ if you will. It was also decided that on the first Friday of each month we would hold a meeting that would be an all male affair. For purposes of doing things that only men like to do together. This we agreed is mainly wine tasting, imbibing of strong liquor and drinking wines and spirits. In that order. All three activities could be carried out in comfort and importantly, in the absence of any nagging.
Gerrard lives in the old chateau at the top of the hill (where else would you build an old chateau?) and has kindly donated one of his empty estate cottages for the purpose. Presently it is not supplied with electricity but I have a small Honda generator which is quite frugal with petrol and will certainly deliver enough power for lighting. Sufficient lighting to avoid spilling the whisky at least.
Members spent the past week rummaging through their garages, greniers and outbuildings looking for suitable old tables, chairs, drinking glasses and pictures of scantily clad or naked women to adorn the walls. These latter purely for decoration and covering holes in the old plaster of course. Heaven forbid to annoy any curious amongst our women folk that might wish to enter just to see what we are all getting up to. We thought it best anyway to conduct all this activity in secret. In the sure and certain knowledge that our partners would suspect something was afoot but upon discovering what it really was would be relatively relieved.
Jean-Thomas* brought a section of his old mast. The one he broke in two last year when running his boat into
Pont St Vincent (the bridge up by the local naturist beach). He was about to nail it between
the floor and ceiling when Gerrard asked him what it was for. "For the Pole Dancers of course." Came
the not unexpected reply. At least not unexpected from Jean-Thomas.
* No! I didn't tell him either.
Gerrard pointed out that the mast was wooden and quite old and therefore the dancers might get splinters. Particularly unpleasant for the victims, especially when considering where they might get them. So Gerrard donated a nice, shiny, aluminium section instead. A bit cold perhaps and also unfortunate that it was a section of boom and not mast. Meaning it was square! Still, better than getting splinters I suppose.I’ve finished sand papering now.
For the day anyway.