Got home.
Removed clothes instantly.
Don't care what neighbours think since they'll be doing same soon enough if they have any sense.
Still don't know what to do when August arrives.
Nobody at the Factory can tell me whether loathsome air conditioning worked last summer, while I was away, leading me to believe they must all have slept through it.
Europe-Africa editor Isabelle tells me I must go to Mauritius if I'm to find a light, bright and pretty tank-top and loose trousers like hers.
Maybe I could bribe Lauren to send me a couple of boubous from west Africa or Patxi to bring me back something from Kinshasa.
Jocelyne, retired firebrand but still a "hot chick", told me off for the umpteenth time for wandering around the building in my socks.
"It's dirty," she insisted when I went down to see the Frog African Desk, which has been sent into temporary exile on the second floor, where they live in something the size of a small ballroom but feel isolated.
"It's cleaner now," I replied when I got back. I have no intention of cleaning the floor with my bare feet and in any case the techies are sticking so much more wiring everywhere that I might electrocute myself.
For those who have asked, including Lauren, E remains very much alive and I'm missing her now, very much, but she'll back soon. Of course I'm still not saying who and where she temporarily is, but I got mail this morning.
Speaking of fairy tales -- and don't forget that I've still no idea where this one is going -- Barry is back on the Desk, a soothing and good-humoured presence but with a hoard of new and awful jokes.
Such as the peasant who found a frog as he was labouring by the pond.
"Kiss me and I'll turn into a princess," the frog promised.
But the peasant stuffed the frog into his pocket.
All afternoon he worked on, sweating it out in the sun.
All afternoon came this muffled voice from his pocket.
"Please!"
"Kiss me..."
"Let me out!"
It began to irritate him.
"Go on, let me out. Kiss me. I really will turn into a princess."
"Shut up," growled the peasant.
"But it's true, I'm really a princess."
Enough was enough.
Out came the frog, looking up expectantly at the peasant from the palm of his hand.
"At my age," the peasant told it, "I'm far more interested in a talking frog than any princess."
BJ also showed me an Anglo-American press web site where he'd been flattering and commended this log of mine, but I'm blowed if I can track down the URL he conjured up.
Never mind.
Since I now have every reason to be kind to some trans-Atlantic people in Paris, I will instead remind people of the American community.
I've already spoken well of Harriet Welty Rochefort, but the approach of another tourist season tells me it's time for a reminder that her superb job at 'understandfrance' is an invaluable asset for other English-speaking newcomers too.
As for the music, film and book reviews, there've been none for a while because I'm too busy elsewhere, it's that simple. They'll be back.
9:19:07 PM link 
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