The Paris Train

In February 2004 a distant cousin of mine died and, completely unexpectedly, left me a lump of money. And I decided to buy a flat in Paris. This is the story of how my life changed when I started taking the Paris train.

 

15 March 2005

One time, a few years ago, I was on the Eurostar, going on to the South of France by train, to celebrate a friend's 50th birthday. I got chatting to the man sitting opposite me - we talked of this and that, where we were going - he was heading for Brussels, I was going to the Languedoc; he was a lecturer at Leicester University, I had studied there for a year; what we did - I'm a barrister and a sort of crime writer, which is quite interesting, but he, he was a neurotoxicologist. How extraordinarily useful, I thought. It was like sitting opposite someone who works in Scene of Crimes or the Five CSI programme. He explained in detail how someone could be murdered with the jab of an umbrella. I wanted to take notes. We spent a long time discussing plot ideas, basically the different ways a nerve drug could be leeched into the body of a victim, and then what happened to the organs once it got in there. The conversation became macabre and a little unsettling, especially as we approached the tunnel and the voice of the train manager came over the loudspeaker 'We will shortly be entering the tunnel and our journey time will be approximately twenty minutes.' Why do they tell us this? Is there a chance we won't come out the other side? Are the lights flickering? Are we slowing down?

When the idea of a train under the channel was first discussed, years and years ago, I was certain I would never go on it. My position was that a tunnel, that long, under the sea, is not natural. You wouldn't get me on it. Not in a million years. But they built it, people said it worked, I went on it and we came out on the other side. And the other side was France. After that it seemed like the ideal train journey.

When I got the letter telling me that my cousin had left me some money at first I wondered whether I could give up work and travel the world. I had a full time, enjoyable job at the Bar but I'd just, painfully, finished a three year relationship and the idea of giving it all up and disappearing for a year or two was very appealing. But then I looked at the letter again, saw that there was one less zero than I thought and that I couldn't actually afford it. And I wanted to do more writing and London is so busy and tragic. Either I was in court or I was at home and the phone was ringing or not ringing. I might have enough money to buy somewhere else. Somewhere I could go to write, that I could get to fairly regularly, where I could spend pleasant weekends. I thought about the English countryside, a cottage with roses round the door, pretty low ceilings, cows a safe distance away. I thought about the French countryside, a converted barn perhaps, with a stroll to the boulangerie, the local bar and restaurant, in the sunshine. I drove around, I went to Burnham on Crouch in Essex - if Ian Dury could sing about it, perhaps I could live in it. I went back to the Languedoc, I visited the home of Noilly Prat ­I did the tour, sat in restaurants, thought about the cheap airlines. But nothing clicked. England is so ... English. France is so huge.

And then I thought - how about somewhere very easy to get to, that has bars, restaurants, the French language and glitz and glamour too? Where the words rive gauche, liberte egalite and fraternite and prêt a porter, mean something. I thought about Paris. 3 hours on the train and travel time going down almost as we speak - now it¹s just over two and a half hours.

I found someone whose job it was to find properties. She would root out four or five places and I would go over for a weekend and look at them. I told her what I wanted and where I wanted. The words Left Bank echoed round my head, boulevard St Germain, Café de Flore, les Deux Magots, Simone de Beauvoir. It was going to be expensive.

Marie Pierre found five places for me to see in the Fifth (Latin Quarter), Sixth (Left Bank) and the Seventh (posh) Arrondisements. One place had a bathroom down a sheer narrow spiral staircase, one had lots of windows but the seller wanted money under the table to avoid tax. The appartment in the heart of St Michel was dark and the building was covered in graffiti. The one in the seventh was in the middle of a long long street of boring buildings.

As soon'as I saw the flat in the 6th I knew it was the one. I say flat, it's a studio. I say a studio, it¹s a room. Like a hotel room. It was a hotel room, apparently, until 1970. All 26 square metres of it. That's about 15 feet by 15 feet. It's in an 18th Century building, up three flights of wooden stairs (no lift). It had beams, a tiny kitchen and a bathroom, and the walls were covered with Artex. Large, swirling Artex in a smoke related cream colour. The window opens out on to a busy street with restaurants, bars and clothes shops. The Place St Sulpice is two minutes walk away and Monoprix is a stroll along rue de Rennes.

Marie Pierre organised the builders too, and I would come over from time to time to see how the work was progressing. Monsieur D was doing a grand job, although slowly, and I got to know the carpet and furniture shops in Paris and around the periferique, as well as the restaurants and bars in my area - including the pizzeria where Catherine Deneuve is reported to buy her pizzas. And so, four months after I signed the final papers, my Paris studio in its colours of white, cream and brown, is habitable, and I can now stay in my neat and compact new home with its American Bar style kitchen, a shower room, and a sofa bed.

I have neighbours in the building who I seldom see, but sometimes hear, or pass on the staircase, and neighbours across the road who I see all the time, whose lives are an open book to me, when they get up, when they go out, when they eat, when they sleep. Sometimes there is too much information (but more of that later) but if we pass in the street we do not acknowledge each other.

But on the day I was struggling to put together the sofa bed, it had come a long way, I'd had it shipped from John Lewis because I couldn't find anything in Paris that would go up the stairwell of the building, I went out to get more wine from Monoprix. As I clattered down the stairs I could hear an American voice speaking French. I heard him say, 'Milan' the way Americans do with a long A. As I got to the first floor I met a man with a short pony tail and a glittering jewel in one ear, speaking on a mobile phone. He was saying something about needing to get there early, would there be a car from the airport, because he needed to find the right person to take him to ... When he saw me he stopped. I said 'Excuse me' in English and went to pass him. 'Au revoir,' he said into the phone, then in English said, 'So you're the English person!' He introduced himself as Sebastian, and said he lives on the floor directly above us. 'You must come up for a drink sometime,' he said, 'an Apero. Why not come tonight? About 7?' 'Of course,' I said, quickly, thinking, maybe, maybe not, and I ran down the stairs. I had noticed that over his arm he was carrying an umbrella.

Next time - a social disappointment and the joys of the 63 autobus leading to a stroll to the Bois de Boulogne.

6 April 2005

In Paris all is talk of religion. The death of the pope seems to be causing an uprising of religious sentiment particularly among politicians. France is very proud of its identity as a secular state, and in most newspapers, questions are being asked - why were the flags flown at half mast and why should a street be named after him? Libération, the radical daily, is treating the matter with a certain disdain. Today it led with the story of the Mona Lisa's new room in the Louvre.

My social life is currently centred around newspapers. The promise of an aperitif with Sebastian my hairdresser neighbour who lives upstairs has so far come to nothing. This is a shame, as I was prepared. I had put aside all anxiety - I had told people where I was going - and, really, he seems like a nice young man and surely no harm could come from such a close neighbour. I climbed up to his room at 7, as per the invitation he had proffered when we met on the stairs and tapped on the door. There was no answer. Fifteen minutes later I tried again. Nothing. After that I decided to go out. As I passed the wall of letter boxes, out of habit I slid my hand into the narrow opening which carries my name. I felt a piece of paper. Although the likelihood was that it was an advert for pizza - who are these people who have keys to the buildings and let themselves in to deliver adverts, for pizza or for locksmiths? - there's always a slight chance it will be something interesting. And it was - a scribbled note on a torn piece of paper. 'Sunday, 11 am. Tonight's off - sorry!! I got a call from a client who needs me NOW! I have to go to the Gare de Lyon and then take the train to somewhere near Italy. I tried knocking but you weren't home. Let me know when you're next in Paris and we'll definitely do it.'

He was right, I hadn't been home. I had been exploring. I took the 63 bus all the way to the end of its line - the Porte de la Muette. My Paris map told me that this was the nearest I would get to the Bois de Boulogne. It didn't prepare me for the Spaghetti Junction of roads I would have to cross, roads which lead to and from the peripherique, the very busy motorway which circles Paris - where is everyone going so fast on a Sunday? I have never been to the Bois de Boulogne. I have heard all the stories and dreamed all the dreams. The ladies of the night and the ladies of the day time, both promenading in their different ways for the delectation of others. Of course, on a Sunday morning the Bois de Boulogne is very different from the stories. For a start there's not much Bois. Not where I was anyway, walking round the lake. It's a Sunday outing for families, for children to play, flying their kites and sailing their boats, for couples to kiss, for people to walk quietly, enjoying the tiny daffodils peeping through on the bank, under a weeping willow. And it is, apparently, for joggers. What is it about Sundays and jogging? When you buy your running shoes do they give you a little alarm that goes off at 8 am on a Sunday morning to get you up and out of the house and off jogging? I began my peaceful stroll, looking at the water, contemplating the small boats, considering the tricky little ferry to the island, watching the birds, and wondering why the largest northern most lake of the two is called Inférieur whereas the southern, smaller lake is called Supérieur. And then I met The Joggers, 4 million of them squeezing along the narrow paths, charging up behind me, plunging down towards me, wheezing like they were going to die, wearing bad clothes and then suddenly stopping at a beauty spot with a fence or a tree stump, and stretching.

It's the wheezing which is the most upsetting - I hear this chest behind me, crying out for assistance, lungs which are threatening at any moment to give out, I see a purple face pounding painfully towards me, and I think, am I the only one who can hear a heart pleading for peace? And an inner style guru crying for mercy? The clothes - either the shorts are too short and loose, or the lycra is a dreadful colour - yellow, green, turquoise.

I mean, we're in Paris, it's a city. It's not the countryside. There are not that many large green spaces in Paris. If people want to run for health they should go to a gym. Half way round the lake there was a notice board for messages from the mayor and someone had written graffitti, 'No to Jo in the Bois de Boulogne!' And I thought Fantastic, a campaign in Paris I can fully support, and I've learned a new word - jo for jogging. I could even make some new friends. I love the French and their oblique ways of looking at the world. Unfortunately, on my return home while perusing my Hachette and Oxford English French dictionary, it became clear that JO stands for Jeux Olympiques. They don't want a stadium built in the Bois de Boulogne (which of course is a campaign that may have merit, but doesn't quite go to the heart of where I am coming from.)

So I return to my current personal campaign, SendACardADay, keep our post people in work. I am now off to the Post Office. Being an activist can be so time consuming, because you have to write the cards, queue in the post office for the stamps, or grapple with money for the machine now that stamps cost 53 centimes each, and then decide what if anything you are going to do about tipping the man who holds the door open. But no-one said that activism was easy.

Next time - a resolution to the aperitif problem - I decide to organise a party. And poubelle etiquette. The right way to use a dustbin in a Paris building.

28 April 2005

Before we start, just a word about etiquette.

I went to China a few years ago, to give a talk on family law. In preparation for my trip I bought many guide books, and I almost bought a book on Chinese etiquette. Etiquette is very important there - you don't put your chopsticks upright in the rice, it indicates death; you don't remove debris from the corner of your eye, it's rude and unhygienic and maybe too revealing. In the end I had bought so many other books for the trip that I didn't buy the one on etiquette, I just read it standing up in Blackwell's in Charing Cross Road. But my point is that it's accepted in China that etiquette and other people's sensibilities are an important part of life.

But what about French etiquette? It appears difficult but with a little thought, all is clear and logical.

Stairs for example. There is a very pretty, but tired shopping arcade in the 16th arrondissement in avenue Victor Hugo. Built in 1904 of red brick and green cast iron, it's called Galerie Comerciale Argentine. Now it's full of estate agents and dry cleaners as well as a fancy dress shop, and is obviously past its prime. But if you choose to climb the stairs to look over the balconies, you are still met with a sign about five steps up which says Essuyez vos pieds - wipe your feet. And quite right too.

And of course, there is the etiquette of the poubelles.

Many years ago I lived in Tours, sharing a flat with a woman who had been the assistante at the school where I was teaching English. I said to her one day, 'You know my dream is to live in France.' 'OK,' she said, 'I'll ask my mother if there are any jobs going in her language school.' And there were, so for a year I worked there, and Monique and I shared a flat on the main road into Tours. Although it was a modern block (60s, flat, concrete) it had a concierge. Madame L came from Alsace and spoke with an Alsatian accent. There was a small joke that we had an Alsatian guarding our building - but it got lost in translation. We also had a vide-ordures, which was a rubbish chute, to which each flat had access, which ran the height of the building down into the rubbish area below. It was Madame L's job to arrange the emptying of the vide ordures and to this end she was often to be found pottering in the rubbish area, sorting out the bags. On one occasion there was a serious failure of etiquette when Madame L was working in the rubbish area and got hit on the head with a bottle. Large notices went up in the communal parts of the building, telling us of the accident and reminding us what was and wasn't acceptable vide ordures material.

In Paris I don't have a concierge, we have to bag our rubbish up in plastic bags and take them down to the poubelles - or wheely bins as I would call them. There is a man who comes and puts the poubelles out into the street on the appropriate days. There are four of them, two with green lids, one yellow and one white, and there is a poster on the wall which tells you what goes where - yellow for newspapers and plastic bottles, white for glass, green for everything else. The difficulty is that there is only a very narrow space to fit four poubelles, and they stand in a tight row like a line of primary school children waiting to come into class. Infuriatingly the one with the yellow lid is always at the very back. This morning I was trying to slide my old newspapers ecologically under the yellow lid but it was too far to reach and they all slithered to the floor, in the gap between poubelles. I then had to pull all the poubelles out and scrabble round on the floor. And I wondered what the etiquette is if a neighbour were to appear to deposit their own rubbish. 'Bonjour Sebastian,' one might say, rising as from a dustbin, removing pieces of orange peel from ones hair, 'I've been meaning to ask you, would you like to come to my drinks party? And bring a couple of friends.'

You see, it occurred to me that the best way to meet people and forge friendships is to borrow other people's contacts. I know, for example, that Sebastian knows most of the people in the building.

A couple of weeks ago, as I was stumbling home after a delightful meal in le Machon d'Henri in rue Guisarde (goat's cheese, olive oil and tapenade starter, followed by lamb chops and gratin dauphinois, washed down with a Languedoc red, one of the week's specials), I bumped into Sebastian, the American hairdresser who lives on the floor above mine. I was trying to slide my key into the oddly positioned keyhole at the front door, when he rounded the corner at speed, talking, as usual on his telephone. He quickly despatched his telephonic friend, the door clicked open and we climbed the stairs together.

I asked him about work and he said that he was, as ever, up to his neck. He had been planning a trip to the Cannes Film Festival but he had been invited to a 10 year reunion of his old university back in the States. He felt that a ten year reunion only happened once in a lifetime, which must be true, and so he was disappointing some of his clients by going home for a few days.

As we reached my floor we hovered at my door and he told me that he was getting double glazing for his window, because he suffers terribly from the noise. 'Doesn't it bother you?' he said. He pointed to the ceiling and mouthed 'My next door neighbour. Unbelievable. Loud music most nights, and if he's not playing music he's coming in at five o'clock in the morning. Then he can't get the key in the lock and I have to open the guy's door and direct him to his own bedroom. And the walls are so thin. When he goes into his bathroom, I can hear him go to the bathroom. Student. Now you have very nice neighbours.' He gestured towards the door next to mine. 'The lady who lives there.' He lowered his voice. 'She's an adult, like us. Goes to work, comes home. You never hear a peep. And this man here.' He pointed across the landing. 'He gets as mad as I do about the noise. I've met him more than once on my floor, in the middle of the night, both of us in our bathrobes, trying to get some peace. He's a nice guy, he works at the Mairie. He was the one who told me about the woman who lives across the road from us. Have you seen her at the window?'

I was about to ask which one, in fact I might have invited him in so we could really talk about these people - I felt that we were on a more intimate footing after the discussions about bathrooms and bathrobes, but perhaps luckily, his phone rang - birds singing in the hallway. As he pulled the phone out of his pocket, he said, 'Goodnight, we must have that drink sometime,' and he climbed the stairs, speaking to his caller in smooth, perfect French.

As I went into my room and poured myself a late night glass of Calvados, I thought, 'He knows people, he talks to people.' Not that I want to be a social cuckoo, because I wouldn't want to oust him in their affections, but I could nuzzle up to him and get to know them too.

So, since I didn't in fact meet him in the poubelle area, I wrote him a note, and put it in the letter box labelled Sebastian M Grant.

'Dear Sebastian, before you go to Rutgers for your reunion, why don't we have a going-away party? I have an American bar where we could put drinks and glasses, and maybe some nuts, so we could have it in my place. Let's invite people from the building, and any other friends you have in Paris. Two weeks today? 7.30 - 11.30 pm. What do you think?'

Two days I got a reply.

'Yes. But let's call it a soiree and invite people from 7.30 - 9.30. I would be happy to have it in my apartment. Let's meet for coffee in the Bar de la Mairie on Saturday morning to discuss the guest list. S.'

So then I was racked with a sense of inadequacy. I have friends in London, of course I do. But Sebastian might expect me to come up with a few guests of my own. Who could I invite? Do waiters in restaurants who may know you by name count as friends? Would they even have the time to come to parties?

Next time - the invitations go out - my desperate efforts to find guests of my own, including a trip to Montparnasse cemetery. The Mayor speaks about window boxes in the 6th and the 6th responds.

 

22 May 2005

Flowering window boxes, trial by language and other invitations.

In the 6th arrondissement we get a magazine delivered to our letterboxes entitled Notre 6ème. It doesn't appear to be delivered with any regularity, but the latest edition exhorts us all to go to our balconies - Tous a vos balcons! Apparently it is time to begin gardening with a view to the Concours des Balcons et Fenêtres Fleuries 2005. When I read this I felt that to respond with positive action was my civic duty, a duty in which the French believe strongly and so do I.

So I went to my balcony to see what needed to be done. I didn't even have a window box let alone any floral or verdant display which might need a little tidying. I went to the Isle de la Cité, an island in the middle of the river Seine, because la Cité has a flower market. It is also where the beautiful slender high Sainte Chapelle is host to regular concerts of Vivaldi, and also where the Palais de Justice (the Crown Court) is situated. All these things are, wondrously, open to the public.

I once sat in on a rape trial in the Palais de Justice, in the early days of my career at the bar, when I still considered courts a tourist attraction. I didn't know much about the French penal system in those days. The French system, I did not know, is inquisitorial, as compared to the English accusatorial system, more investigative than confrontational. For example, I didn't realize that rape is one of the few offences in France, for which there is a jury.

It was a chilly day, you'd hardly believe it was spring and few of the stalls at Cité were selling geraniums. At a stall bordering the Seine was a woman who told me that hers were the first of the season. And for me the last, I thought. They seemed tremendously expensive, four geraniums and two pots of trailing ivy, plus the window box, and a bag of good dirt. But the geraniums were wonderfully vibrantly red and the ivy immediately curled rather coquettishly around them. The Maire had asked me to act and I had. I felt good inside and out.

I came back on the Metro with my swag, musing over the next big issue - guests for the party. Who could I invite to save myself from the humiliation of having no friends? Who would come? Invitations are so tricky.

A few years ago I was rung up by a solicitor I know, inviting me to speak at a conference in Marseilles. In those days, I thought, if someone else thinks I can do something, I probably can. Speak at a conference in France, in French? If you think I can, why not? To French judges and lawyers? No problem. On the differences between the English and French penal system? O ... K. How hard could that be? Is there a difference? (I was in those days a Criminal practitioner) I had two days to prepare. I dug out my old dictionary - circa 1967 and I rang my brother who had read Maigret novels to discover how they do it. Forty-eight hours later I had a page of notes, no problem.

About an hour before I flew out of Heathrow, it became clear that I was not the first choice of speaker, I was the only person that my solicitor 'friend' knew who could speak French. Ian MacDonald QC was the well known in international legal circles first choice. My solicitor friend was the nationally acclaimed second choice. I was the vaguely known in Chelmsford final act of desperation. When I got to the large hall in Marseilles the leaflets on the chairs said, Welcome Ian MacDonald QC. It was a difficult day, because I am not and never have been a male QC and also my French dictionary had let me down sorely. I was using the legal equivalent of expressions like 'jolly hockey sticks' and 'toodle pip'.

But I struggled through, and the subject I was asked most questions about was cross examination. How do you do it? When do you do it? How does it work? Now, cross examination of the prosecution witnesses is almost the most important part of being a defence lawyer, knowing which questions to ask, when to ask them, setting up the framework for the killer last probe which will have the witness reeling into confusion and a proclamation of your client's innocent. I wondered what they saw as the essence of a defence lawyer, if they don't do cross examination. Apparently it is to mitigate after a finding of guilt. This is when you explain why your client did what he did, his background, his personality, his weaknesses. In England, that is regarded as the easiest part of the defence barrister's job - the sort of role that estate agents play in the process of house buying ie the falling off a log part. But in fact, of course it's vital, to understand why people commit the offences they do, and then to sentence them properly, with a view to enabling them to stay on the straight and narrow. Note for new life in Paris. Perhaps I could consider a job as an avocat. First job, buy new dictionary.

But to get back to the point, the metro pulled into Odeon and a man and woman got on - the woman sat next to me, causing me to pile up my purchases on my knees. She was humming a quiet tune and beckoned to her partner. He sat down opposite her, smiling and speaking in the kind of soft chivvying tone used only for small children or animals. He was speaking to the rat on his knee, a black and white rat with a yellow ribbon round its neck. For the next two minutes the two adults stroked and petted the rat, talking to it, humming to it, passing it between them. I wondered if rats carry rabies and what were the chances of it jumping from their knees to mine and whether I should leap up and away immediately, or even pull some sort of communication cord. But I didn't, and as I contemplated my situation, wedged into the corner beside this apparently ordinary middle-aged couple, it occurred to me, what with the humming and the conversation and the shared love for their pet, that this was almost a party on a plate. I wondered fleetingly whether, if I worded the invitation appropriately, they would come to my party, bringing the rat as a sort of conversation piece. But the train pulled into their stop and the moment passed and they were gone.

I staggered up the stairs of our building with my arms full of geraniums and a backpack full of earth. As I reached my floor, the door next to mine opened and the young man I assume is the man who has the dressing gown and who works at the Mairie, appeared. 'Bonjour,' I said, 'I am your neighbour.' He looked at me as if I was petting a rat. 'We¹re having a party.' He gazed at me as if the rat had escaped and was making its way up his trouser leg. I pointed vaguely up the stairs. 'Sebastian may have spoken to you about it.' A faint smile came to his lips. 'I think the invitations will go out later this week.' 'Oh,' he said. 'Très bien.' I wondered suddenly whether this was not in fact the neighbour Sebastian intended to invite, but perhaps a guest of his, or perhaps I had completely misunderstood. 'Au revoir,' I said and couldn't find my key as he walked down the stairs to disappear into the studio. As I struggled to fit the key in the lock the timer light in the stairwell ran out.

Ten minutes later the geraniums were blooming on the window ledge. It made me feel better, but I still had no guests to invite. It would certainly not be me putting an invitation in the letter box of the man next door.

There was nothing to do but go for a walk and try to think of a solution. I slid out of the building hoping not to meet anyone. As if I would!

If you walk along Boulevard Raspail you eventually come to Boulevard du Montparnasse. If you cross Boulevard du Montparnasse, in two minutes you come to the Montparnasse Cemetery. It is a peaceful and calming place to be.

I walked round the cemetery, looking at the grave stones, thinking of that job interview question, Iif you were planning a dinner party, who would your dream guests be?' Well, Jean Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, obviously, for the intellectual conversation. Serge Gainsbourg could bring the music, Albert Dreyfus could keep us enthralled with the story of what really happened, Andre Citroen could donate a car for the mid-evening charity auction, Emile Durkheim could tell us what we were all doing there and Marys Bastié, the daring WWII pilot could thrill us with stories of her derring do. Chances of them coming to our party? nil.

I went into La Coupole and had a kir. The place was almost empty but the waiters seemed busy, no-one to even ask for a bowl of peanuts, let alone develop a deep and lasting relationship leading to party invitations. Perhaps I was going to have to confess my isolated status to Sebastian.

I wandered back to the flat. I switched on my computer, opened my emails and then all my problems were solved. There, along with various offers to improve my life, was a proper letter. A letter from my friend, Remy, an American with whom I had been at university. While I was studying law, she had done drama and English. Our rooms had been on the same floor and we met one cold autumn evening in the communal lounge which was the only place you could get decent reception for BBC2 and we discovered a mutual love of Dynasty.

She had gone on to star in several off Broadway productions and had a small part in two or three films starring Tilda Swinton. She still does some acting back in the States, now usually voice-overs (Does Your Mom know the secret of Soxcess? Soxcess, the amazing new discovery which removes 99% of all odors from trainers) and the occasional advert (how this frazzled housewife produces fabulous gourmet meals in twenty minutes!). As a side line she has started a travel company, creating bespoke tours for Americans ­ in America and Europe. And she was now, the letter said, about to arrive in Paris with a group of 5 or 6 Americans who had never been to Paris before. Could we meet up so that I could tell them about Parisian life?

Better than that, I thought, they can come and see Parisian life as it is lived. They can come to the party as My Guests!!!

There was no time to lose - I dashed back a reply. Of course, yes, come.

My invitations had gone out.

Next time - the Party and My Guests. An interesting combination.

 

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