Yes I know I’ve been a little bit self indulgent but I am trying. And in time I found the perfect exit from Cloud Nine, though it’s not one I’d recommend.
Need to wake up, wee man. You have to sit up and put your seat belt on.
He seemed reasonably awake, after eventually settling, head across my lap. The cabin was stifling, and he seemed to feel it more than most. A sip of juice, buckle in.
My waist’s sore.
The spelling was assumed, then I saw his colour change, quickly. Before I could get the bag fully opened, he’d hosed a day’s liquid, fortunately little food, everywhere in sight. There were gags from all around and the poor wretch was covered himself. The only trousers I had for four days in Paris were liberally splashed.
Cabin crew, seats for landing. Feet back on the ground.
The girls in the cabin were superb, but we could only do what we could do and it was a very sorry Urchin indeed that paddled through towards Customs. But it’s all behind us now
I was on the look out for # 42, quarante deux, Rue de Saint Jacques42. I saw no stripper on the Champs Elysee, no gendarme and no gendarmerie. And we had One Night in Paris, more to follow.
And I’ve found the the next profession too, as a Recumbent Rickshaw dropped off a fare, even though it looks a bit heavy to haul round the streets. But the sights we saw were not those of the brochures, for it was wet, very, all day long. But we walked, and dried off in the Batobus, perhaps a cafe or two with iced tea or espresso. There’s a big tower, we didn’t climb, for there would be no views under what the man with the Narrow Dog would call a tupperware bowl sky, upturned. It would look better if all those girders were painted in the traditional colour, Forth Bridge I think they call it.
And then there’s the plans for the days ahead, and Monsieur Mouse and all that. Off to the 6th, Boulevard Saint Germain thinks I, and the 5th for Sheakspeare & Co perhaps.
Cloud Nine, that was yesterday, though I did whisper a mention in the midst of the night, reaching across the gap, tiny as it was, between the beds, of news of a couple of emails, with an embargo on discussion for a few weeks yet. I’ll tell you later. And there’s a book on the bed-side table of course, a cracker this one, but also one for later. It’s one of those that I find myself reading not just the tale but the writing itself; a real pleasure. But be patient, though I’m back I think, just about.