You don’t need to queue at the entrance but then so dark your captions now unreadable since the children left. Come dine with me in a dead café. Let’s dance in my old Turkish residence lined with uncut books where a cigar accords with taste and the chocolatier snores. You may need to sidestep the urine. Rémy flew home in a djellaba the armless no glory veteran the pigeons don’t bother with the bread the accordion’s sellotaped to wheeze a tune. The Romanies sell puppies to lovesick tourists but the light is what we dream, Saron’s scything searchlight, the Eiffel Tower a blingy earring on the ear of Europa. In the courtyard of a hôtel particulier she showed me the seventeenth century rainwashed and dishabille with a horse in harness and a Russian lover who won’t spy for money or love. A warning: the shih tzu twins are locked in patrolling my millionaire terrace, the road a crime scene below, a day-for-night with Citroen and café shoot-out. You might have to step over the body. I only come here for a summer for language, macaroons, delicious cod. Good thing Cheryl got the handbag she wanted she’s so persistent we filmed it.