It’s been a while since my last blog. To make up, this will be a bit longer than usual. Persevere, we’re dealing with a critical issue – value for money. Not just under $20 value, but value in general.

One of the reasons I haven’t blogged for a while is that I was overseas for a few weeks. Each week brought a different and relevant lesson to the above topic.

Week one I found myself in Cannes for the annual advertising festival. The event is lubricated with copious amounts of Provence rose. At its best, it’s like drinking perfumed silk satin; it slips down your throat with the greatest of ease and before you know it, your glass, and then bottle is empty. But that’s ok, because there’s always another one on the way. And the bottles are big. I saw some waiters resting the butt on their shoulder while pouring from the 6 litre Methuselahs. That’s a skill, but perhaps of little use beyond the Cote D’Azur.

Not all the wine is as silky. Some has sandpaper tendencies. If in doubt, choose Bandol. And be warned: drink anything other than wine and it will cost you 19 euro a pop.  Nothing is cheap. The town makes as much money as it can during festival season. First from the film industry, then the porn industry and finally, advertising. Perhaps it’s a fair hierarchy? I believe the advertising one generates the most income.

During this week, I was fortunate enough to go to dinner at the Moulin Des Mougins. For as long as I can remember I’ve wanted to eat there – ever since saw it in a 1976 Guide Michelin. Back then, it had three stars. Back then, that was even rarer than today. But times have changed. The stars have fallen. Now it’s lucky if it has a few knives and forks to its name. The food isn’t what it used to be. The service is, well, imagine a French Fawlty Towers. On the night we were there, they had no vegetables. They delivered wine to the table and then grumbled when we asked them to open it. Water was a luxury and, unlike any French restaurant I’ve been to before, bread didn’t appear as soon as we sat down. In fact, bread took a very long time to make an entry.

But this didn’t stop us having an incredibly enjoyable time. Arguably it helped, by giving us a constant source of conversation and amusing expectation of what could go wrong next. From a ‘means to an end’ point of view, it could not have been better.

Week two was in England. It began with a memorial service for my mother who passed away in January. A party of seventy souls assembled in a garden in Blackheath for the occasion. My sisters and cousins had been madly preparing a buffet. The flow of champagne (Canard Duchene – always reliable), wine and beer was constant. It was an incredibly moving occasion as we read out all the poems she had written about her grandchildren. Then our tears were met by heaven’s as it began, like all great British summers, to pour. We sheltered under trees and a marquee and continued. My mother would have loved it.

A few days later we headed north to stay with an old school friend and receive a second lesson in the subject. Like Monty Python’s Four Yorkshiremen, my mate has done well for himself and deservedly so; his enthusiasm is infectious and his advice so much more believable with his hearty northern accent. There’s nowt slick about our lad. Self-made millionaires can sense an ally and so he came to have a few as clients. He told us of one who would hire a private jet to go to meetings in Europe, while our friend would book an EasyJet flight to attend the same event. Bless him.

While in England I was reminded of all the things that make me miss the place; pork pies, curry and beer. Obviously, friends and family, but if you want objects, it’s Melton Mowbray Pork Pies, Onion Bhajis and warm beer. Ok, and sunset at 10pm. My point, those three points of happiness are, depending on your views on pork and alcohol, universally accessible and relatively inexpensive.

The third week was spent in Corfu with a friend who had just bought a place there. Fortunately, it is a place far away from the party scene. It felt far away from everything, but turned out to be a short walk from the beach and two tavernas. I can see why the Durrells loved Corfu so much. Particularly having moved from Bournemouth. You sense life in Corfu hasn’t changed much in a very long time. The things that matter still matter. The olive trees will ripen. The fishing nets will catch calamari and the vines will ensure a constant supply of drinkable wine. Life is so good that even a slightly sweet red wine makes you smile.

It made me think of a very cunning plan my German brother in law came up with to solve the Greek debt crisis. Instead of Germany giving the Greeks 80 billion Euro the government should give Germans 1000 Euro each with the caveat that they had to spend it in Greece.

Genius. Greeks get the dosh they need and Germans enjoy a well-earned holiday. Everyone’s happy.