 The noise and stench of four-wheeled, "want my big metal box all to myself" Parisians apart, I’m getting used to another forgotten but disagreeable feature of la rentrée: things can take twice as long as in the summer, from queues in the post office to a short Métro trip. There may be more trains, but at the wrong time of day, you can't always get on the first one on some lines unless you're small and have scales.
Compensations include the return of often pretty young secretaries in small packs to the Canteen.
The gaggle next to me at lunchtime was having such an interesting conversation about whether men ever could be trusted (the majority view being that they couldn't) that my burning ears gave me away.
So when one of them gave me a sharp look, I said, "It's OK, I've switched the tape recorder off now."
Fortunately, after a moment's hesitation, she didn't slap me, but grinned. For which I delivered their coffees.
I don't go as far as a buddy of Baudier's, whose vitriolic work appears once a month in what is almost a printed 'blog. As far as I can tell, Philippe Person's sources of entertainment include many hours in the Cinémathèque Française (Fr. & Flash) and pulling up alongside unwary innocents on his bicycle to trigger risky conversations:
"You're going the wrong way, Baghdad's in the other direction" (to a lorryload of French squaddies)
or
"How come you've got a man's bike and I've got a woman's?" (to a young lady who miraculously stopped at the lights).
Thus far, he has apparently managed to keep most of his brains inside his skull to report the outcome.
The big stings are reserved for anyone and anything Philippe and the friends whose outbursts he occasionally publishes dislikes, including entire swathes of French society and culture. There's particular venom for the politicians, writers, artists, media moguls and pundits who manned the barricades in May '68 and then sold out en masse.
Since many such people now exercise considerable power and influence, Person has plenty of satirical axes to grind. He wields them with a cutting humour very much to my taste and also enjoys a keen sense of observation.
I'm not sure I'd take out a subscription, since this kind of journalism is strictly for those with a deep interest in the seamy underside of France's governing classes, but I'd recommend at least a good look at 'Person Magazine' to anybody looking for an alternative insight into the largely unspoken aspects of this country's "management" (and, it has to be said, with a good grasp of the language).
I should add that PP's view of France is not totally jaundiced. His film crits are good, sometimes even favourable, and he does very occasionally manage to wax enthusiastic about the world off-screen.
zzz
More routine rumblings against the regime were to be heard this afternoon in the newspaper shop, where Francis remarked on the enormous size of the blunt black "Smoking kills" and other warnings that have in the past week grown to take up much of the surface area of a packet of fags.
In what will be good news to many an American and Brit who find the nicotine habit far more abhorrent than the average Frog -- but not to people in England who like me to take a carton across for them because they're so much cheaper -- one feller told us of a very steep increase in cigarette prices to be expected from October 1.
This chap turned out to be a doctor, who added that his profession smoked more than any other in France -- whether that's true I don't know. He gave an astronomical assessment of how much money the state makes out of taxes on cigarettes.
"Which makes tobacconists collabos?" I suggested. "No wonder so many of them can afford second houses in the country."
Francis thought the government would do better to encourage people to smoke as much as possible, thereby slashing the considerable cost of state pensions.
My own pipe dream is to see governments force the tobacco giants to make the kind of cigarettes people enjoy in one or two of the science fiction books I read: harmless and not a nuisance to others.
zzz
 "Sam?"
"Oui?"
"If I were to make a cut-out coupon for the Canteen and bung it in the 'blog, would you give me a free meal for anybody who prints out the page and comes in with one?"
"No chance! But I'd give you a free meal for every 10."
"François, Jean-Claude, did you hear that? You're my witnesses!"
No sooner said than done. Well, actually it took quite a long time.
Sam hasn't seen the "free aperitif" bit. I judged it safer to leave that out.
I think he'd do his nut if this offer were taken up by the regulars! Or rattle mine.
But play it cool should you stroll in with a coupon. Sam's not there every day and his brother knows nothing about this capitalist venture at all. Yet...
zzz
Lee's got more sense than money.
Having fled for much of the summer, she's now evaded the short, very sharp shock of la rentrée. My latest bid to find her back in residence round the corner tells me that she's still gallivanting around Spain.
If "gallivanting" is the word for trouble with tampons (Odessa Street -- from Andalucia).
She's been unheard from for five days since that painful little episode. Come on out, Lee! I don't think Philippe P. would have been so embarrassed.
9:02:24 PM link 
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