Saint Tropez is as bawdy as ever, so we spend most of our time tucked away in the hills. But even our monk-like existence sometimes requires some amusement and when we recently ventured out to one of the most exclusive yet bacchanalian nightclubs, I queued up in the ladies’ room, watching the young amazons fighting for mirror space in their towering heels and tiny skirts. We were all waiting, for what felt like an age, for one of the stall doors to open. Finally, after repeated banging on the painted plywood, two people staggered out, much the worse for wear. One was a man, who sauntered out wiping some white powder from underneath his nose with a sheepish smirk. The girls all shrieked as if they’d never seen a man before — so likely.
At a popular lunchtime beach restaurant, the über-rich still spray champagne by the Jeroboam over fellow customers, some of whom still become justifiably irate. A billionaire Russian oligarch, who was massaging his lofty lady friend with Krug in between sprays, bounded up to our table and attempted to shower us with a €25,000 Methusaleh. When I stamped my stiletto in objection, he stopped, shrugged and excused himself by saying, ‘You’ve got to let them know you’ve got it.’ How the rich love to throw their money down the drain!
I didn’t really believe in global warming until this summer, with heatwaves and hurricanes the size of continents on the east coast of the US, torrential rain in North Korea and drought in the Sudan. In the south of France, it was unseasonably cold with dozens of mistrals during the summer, followed by a week in August that was so hot people were fainting in the Place des Lices market.