Obsessions

I was back in Paris the other night and I met my German friend Bongo and his better half for 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8 drinks in a cosy pub of the Latin Quarter. We were discussing many things as we've always done since we met in Kettering last year, but every twenty minutes we found ourselves talking about England again.
His girlfriend spotted it and asked us to stop this madness. "You two are like writing a song when you talk. Your verses are really good but your chorus is boring." The chorus was when we talked about England of course.

She may have been right, for what was left to say about it?

I suggested to bomb it as usual and he came with a better option: "If all the migrants go to the UK, then the island would be overcrowded and eventually sink." That would be the end of the white trash and Ken Loach could continue his filming of the drinking class under water.
But we both felt it was unfair for the Indians and the Pakistani who live there.
Bongo's offer was to give the land to them once the British are expelled by the United Nations. But then he thought twice and came with this conclusion: "The situation will be problematic. What you'll get is a million off-licence shops and curry restaurants with no customers." Bongo's sense of logic was sharp as ever.
It was very sad indeed to imagine these poor Indians standing behind their till, staring at eachother from their shop windows on both sides of an empty street.

We let go these deplorable comments for a while and came back to the verses. We debated about politics, history, books and baby-making but I couldn't help going back to the chorus: "Did you know that in London they put loads of signs in the tube calling for responsible drinking? One of these campaign ads warns about the risk of falling from the platform when drunk in the Underground."

Bongo's girlfriend asked for the permisson to slap me. I gave my permission, she slapped me and then she said: "Now that you have two verses and two choruses, I expect you two to work on the bridge."

Saturday night 8 PM

Saturday night is like monday morning. It's a key moment in Mr Philips' week, Mr Philips being here the common thirty-something bloke whose life is split into two parts: job and hobbies.
Last saturday Mr Philips called me and asked me if I would join him and his long-term partner
for dinner. I wanted to say no, and so I said yes. I brought myself and a bottle of wine to their flat and the evening started.

A cheerful conversation by the fire, a glass of white wine and a couple of gammon toasts worked as appetizers. Even if I was somehow absorbed into the talking, drinking and masticating, I couldn't help peeping around, and realized how rational and flawless was Mr and Mrs Philip's conduct of their lives. A new TV set had replaced the old one, half a dozen of new travel guides testified of their recent travels and I showed my sincere interest by asking this very stupid question: "I see you've got two guides of Guatemala. Does it mean you've been there twice?"

At the dinner table we talked about American writers and cineasts, and agreed to say some were better than others. Then they mentionned their plan to leave Paris and move to Aix-en-Provence, which I found a good idea and so did they. They offered me to take their flat, I asked them how much was the rent, they said 800 euros and we swiftly moved on to another subject.

"What is it like to have a nervous breakdown?" Mrs Philips asked, while pouring champagne in my glass. "I couldn't say", I answered. "I've merely started it. But your cooking is delightful." She definitely wanted to cheer me up and told me that art required patience, and that I was right to keep trying. Mr Philips thought the same and brought me a couple of books to take home. "This one is particulary good", he said. "It's about a guy who starves to death and describes his agony."

Then they put some music on and started to dance. "Colombiana", Mr Philips said, risking a few steps of cha cha cha, "I love to say Colombiana." They were both drunk and probably thought "We may at last have sex tonight". Saturday night was coming to an end. I took my leave and promised I would call during the week.