I'd Rather Live Precariously In My Own

It Is At A Time Like This, When Crisis Threatens The Stomach, That The French Display The Most Sympathetic Side Of Their Nature. Tell Them Stories Of Physical Injury Or Financial Ruin And They Will Either Laugh Or Commiserate Politely. But Tell Them You Are Facing Gastronomic Hardship, And They Will Move Heaven And Earth And Even Restaurant Tables To Help You.

Day After Day We Looked For Rain, And Day After Day We Saw Nothing But The Sun. Lavender That We Had Planted In The Spring Died. The Patch Of Grass In Front Of The House Abandoned Its Ambitions To Become A Lawn And Turned Into The Dirty Yellow Of Poor Straw. The Earth Shrank, Revealing Its Knuckles And Bones, Rocks And Roots That Had Been Invisible Before.

The Day When A Frenchman Switches From The Formality Of Vous To The Familiarity Of Tu Is A Day To Be Taken Seriously. It Is An Unmistakable Signal That He Has Decided - After Weeks Or Months Or Sometimes Years - That He Likes You. It Would Be Chulish And Unfriendly Of You Not To Return The Compliment. And So, Just When You Are At Last Feeling Comfortable With Vous And All The Plurals That Go With It, You Are Thrust Headlong In To The Singular World Of Tu.

Prescription For Writer’s Block: Fear Of Poverty.

I Left School At 16 And Skipped University To Work, Initially As A Waiter. I Think I Missed Out On What Would Have Been Great Years.