LITTLE THINGS...

*It’s been wonderfully hot and everyone’s windows are flung open at night. Lulu (the Paris cat, not to be confused with Lola, my London cat) and I have our hands/paws over our ears because it’s either the woman with the improbable hour long orgasms we hear or the baby squealing’.
Or maybe it’s the other way round.

*The English translation on the cash machine says; “please key in your personal number has the shelter of inquisitive eyes”?!

*I see two transsexual laydees promenading in the Place des Vosges.
Both are dressed as middle aged housewives with sensibly heeled court shoes, suburban set wigs and rouged cheeks.

*It is early morning and the only people out are joggers and me.
I always presume that anyone jogging or rollerblading is American. That’s when I see him: Small and wiry, weathered tanned skin, teeny tiny red shorts, shrunken white vest, grey shock of hair. He is clutching two large baguettes. He is: The French Jogger.