le Cafe Parisien

People just will insist on spoiling ones photos. Yet is still Montmarte.

Two weeks into Writing 101 already. Quelle horreur!

The task is to “Update your readers over a cup of coffee” as though addressing you over a cup of coffee. My natural anathema to drawing attention to myself precludes me from participating but I did overhear this conversation which seemed to mirror my own circumstances strangely so I include it for interest.

Penthouse Balcony Hotel Esprit

Well my dear Helene you know how it is…

One is not naturally inclined to talk about oneself. Well not consciously anyway.

I say Jean-Claude dear, do be a good chap and turn down Billie Holiday just a teensy bit…

Much better.

You really must try one of these fig tarts…I had something similar in Montmartre last autumn from a perfectly charming boulangerie. Rue Lepic I think. The pastry cabinet was perfectly teeming with live bees, teeming I say. Well I believe that some of the Parisians now have taken to bee keeping on their roofs, although I for one have not seen it.

I heard someone say that the French cannot make coffee…all I can say is that this one is perfectly delicious, but a long black, well sugared seldom disappoints don’t you agree? Sipping it on this balcony overlooking St Sulpice does make it rather more delicious too. How thoughtful of Sandra to recommend the Hôtel Esprit. Would you just agitate the champagne in the ice bucket ever so slightly?

Merci Cherie.

Morbleu! How I do go on. Now about me.

Naturally I do remain devoted to my photography. It helps one focus so. If it wasn’t for my camera I am sure I would have walked right by a perfectly picturesque cluster of chestnuts this very morning. Do remind me to show you my sequence of shots of renaissance window embrasures one day. They positively redefine the concept of still life. (although what I saw through one window on the second floor in the Place des Vosges the other day! I was obliged to delete it…eventually. So French!)

And poetry! Life is just too fast for prose. It is all about impressions now. I do like a well written haiku…just a few syllables and you have a profound moment in miniature. (or at least something you can read in less than twenty seconds and then back to your own fascinating life.)

Ah me, that I had more time to write a little more! I have become rather addicted to composing stories about a charming little family in under 175 words. The simple innocence of their typical familial pastiches reminds one of one’s own jeunesse dorée. Simpler times.

You must go? But the Perrier Jouet is just reaching the perfect temperature… Well if you really must visit Alexandrine…she just would have to go into hospital right now wouldn’t she?

À demain ma Cherie, bisses to Alexandrine.

Just send up Jean-Claude on the way down would you? I can’t be expected to open the champagne myself. I might take my eye out…