More declining standards to report this week: I’ve stopped caring about the tea I drink. I’ve just used up the last of the proper teabags in the flat (supplied by a certain Englishman who does care about such things), so in fact I don’t have much choice in the matter. But actually I find I can do quite well without, and a weak, flavourless cup of tea can be surprisingly refreshing.
The mosquitoes, meanwhile, have been acquiring a taste for fresh blood in the form of four-year-old Wilf. He’s thin-skinned and easily digestible, and we’re near the Seine and up in the warmer eaves of the building, all of which make him the perfect target. Or so I’ve had it explained to me. I’m considerably less attractive with my tougher hide and perhaps saltier taste. But on his account I’ve stocked up on a few toxic substances and I’m keeping the windows closed at night.
The weather – as in England, I believe – has been of the blue-sky variety, and we’ve been out and about exploring the Parisian equivalent to the back garden: little ‘squares’ tucked away in all sorts of unlikely places. They’re communal, well used and, for a big city, very convivial. And I haven’t heard anyone complaining about not having their own piece of outside space, let alone not having a big enough piece of outside space (which is what I’ll be doing when I’m back in Lewes). These ‘squares’ are small and dusty, and if you find grass you’re in luck; and if you find grass and you’re allowed to walk on it, you’re in even more luck. So they’re like Grange Gardens or Baxter’s Field, but without the greenery, without the expanse, and with even more rules as to suitable behaviour.
But on Sunday we found Parc des Buttes Chaumont, a park in a disused quarry. It’s all steep slopes and rocks and water and unexpected views. Wilf acted as if unleashed after six weeks’ confinement, which probably isn’t too far from the truth. I think I’ll make an effort – for my sake as well as his – to get out a little more often.
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