I have enjoyed few breakfasts more fine than the one served up to me this morning in our very own faux-american-diner here in Paris - I say "fine", I probably mean "needed". A rum session with Ken (Hutchinson), known formally in our circles as 'the Hutch' for obvious reason, which turned into a 'this is a brilliant idea' (a humor site, which on reflection isn't funny at all - we both came to the conclusion this morning that humor seems to disappear with age ... nothing seemed funny, not even last night when we were wrecked beyond belief) erm ... discussion, which included pencils and loads of paper. Ken dislikes the diner almost as much as I love it, but I am not ashamed of my heritage. Neither is Ken in fact, but you would think he was if you had had to sit opposite him, listening to him complain about the solidity of his pancakes as he shoveled them into his hungover face. The coffee could have been better. It used to be stronger.
So, the sun was out last week, and there, on the banks of the glorious Marne, lies a pair shoes. Someone is enjoying the grass under their feet, perhaps worrying that the guy with the camera is going to run off with their shoes.
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