High Wycombe Days

Whilst I lived in High Wycombe I made a friend called Briggy. Briggy was a 40 year old lad, he had a shaved head and worked as an engineer. He’d never married, but had a history of one or two girlfriends and was open about his attraction to women. However, Briggy could often be a little camp; his turnout and his home were always impeccable. He was a guy who was very much in control but also who liked to lose control. He always had a bit of cash and so without any children was able to lead the life he wanted. His passions were photography, sailing and socialising, so he had the best camera and was regularly out and about on the town. Briggy had a detached house and so we often went back to his to continue the parties. Briggy and I also befriended Tin Tin whilst out at the Comedy Club. Tin Tin was a fairly curvy, but pretty sexy black girl with multi-coloured dreadlocks, they were bold, well kept and extremely bright, all the colours of the rainbow. Tin Tin was a recently divorced HGV driver from Aylesbury; she never drank, but would drive over to party in Wycombe, alone until she met us. I’d rented a room at 112 Chapel Lane; it was a giant semi-detached house, and it turned out that Briggy’s place was only 100 metres or so down the road. 112 Chapel Lane was owned by an ex-deep sea diver called Yan. He was a top guy, he liked me from the start, but he liked me even more after a time because the house was empty when I moved in and didn’t remain so for long. We shot some pool with my brother at the local, I paid Yan my deposit and first month’s rent, vowing to help sell the place to any possible tenants he cared to show round. Yan had bought the place with proceeds from his diving days and was by then a painter and decorator with an old Volvo Estate full of paint pots, brushes and rags. Soon enough I’d managed to help fill 112; Chris, a contract computer programmer who loved a drink; James, a salesman at the tobacco factory; Vladj, a Czechoslovakian world champion kick boxer with a gorgeous body; Ashley, a mumsey lesbian rugby playing teacher, and; Caz Cape, a raving lesbian and coke snorter. We made quite a team, and had the best house parties in Wycombe. There were never any issues other than the dishes and occasionally Caz spending her rent on cocaine. Because none of us knew one another before 112, and because we all got on so well, we got to meet each other’s friends and went on marvellous jollies together. I will never forget being completely out drank in Northampton by an all girl rugby team; Ash had dragged me on tour as their mascot! Eventually, John also moved in and took the attic; he had a clapped out Mark 1 Land Rover and a crazy ozzy girlfriend, both the Land Rover and the girlfriend spent most of their time in bits on the driveway. He’d been to public school; she’d been brought up on a hippy commune. Together they did all the festivals and drank homemade cider. Last I heard they moved to Australia and had a son. Last I saw was through a jolly cider haze at the Cider Bus, Glastonbury, 2003. In order to subsidise my terrible trainee solicitors wage I also took a job at Wycombe’s most famous new bands venue, The White Horse. Wycombe was into its rock at the time, and rockers far outnumbered fans of other genres. It was black attire and piercings in the city centre pubs, and head banging all the way at The Horse. I’ve never been amongst a more violent mosh pit before or since. The horse was run by a massive, hard, cockney bruiser called Paul. He looked like he’d made his money smashing heads for 20 years for London gangsters, and then ploughed it all in to a pub to lead a quieter life with his much younger wife. Paul ran the door, the bar and booked the bands. I got in for nothing on band nights, and so did my mates, but the main reason I worked there was so I could ogle the strippers whilst pouring pints on a Saturday morning. At 11:30am on Saturdays the place filled with perverts, as enthusiastic about tits and arse as the kids were for drums and guitars. There were usually three strippers who danced individually and then a floor show. The stench of testosterone was almost sickly, but the birds were gorgeous and I’d heard they shot porn movies upstairs; I never got to take part if they did, but it was certainly an ulterior motive for doing the job. All of this set the stage for a most interesting year and a half. Indeed it was Briggy who lent me the ‘Chaos Theory’ by James Gleick, a defining book for me. My best friend Nicky from school met his match when he came to visit and met Caz, they were peas in a pod, I’ll never forget the pair of them hanging out of a window of the Hob Goblin shouting at the Muslim Procession to enquire if they wanted any bacon sandwiches. Nicky also fell in love with Vlad. I on the other hand had the chance to sleep with Vlad, and her equally gorgeous and sporty friend, I blew it with Vlad because I’d just eaten a load of Marmite and was scared to kiss her, I blew it with her mate because she arrived late to one of our parties, by which time I had two girls on the go, one in my bedroom and one in a tent in the garden. With a girl like Vlad, I guess when you live in the same household, likelihood is, there’s a chance you might be in the right place at the right time, which I was, it’s just I wasn’t in the right condition. The same thing happened with Tin Tin, it was 5am this time, and so once again I wasn’t in the right condition, of course subsequently nothing ever happened when I was ready and raring!

Paris

I took the Metro from the airport to my hotel, heading straight for Le Motte-Piquet Grenelle on Rue De Grenelle at the Cambronne end. My hotel was the Relais de Paris Cambronne, and the address, Boulevard De Grenelle. Sure enough, upon heading up Rue De Grenelle my hotel seemed to just appear flanked by a couple of chic looking restaurants, not the sort I would be visiting, but nevertheless, the sort that instilled a sense of security. Upon dumping my bags I headed straight out into the night to look for the Eiffel Tower, just so I could announce my arrival and get some bearings. Within minutes I was able to look up and find what I was looking for, towering above the 6 or 7 floors of the splendid town houses, between which I sought a way through. The grandeur of the city struck me, not just the buildings, but their railings, the impeccably placed cobles and traditional cast iron lanterns. The Eiffel Tower looked incredible, beautifully lit and thoroughly magical. As I drew close it became overwhelming, I had no conception of its size, a true feat of so many feet. Much as I would have liked to, there was no way I would be venturing up it, heights were starting to become a problem for me. After half an hour of bewilderment I headed for some food. I ate horse sausage and mash with onion marmalade and red wine, I then made haste for an early night to ensure an early start. On my way back I got asked for a cigarette, it was to be the first of many friendly Parisians, a young lad who hadn’t heard of Bastille but very polite all the same. Having arranged for a wakeup call I was down for breakfast at 9:00am sharp. It was fresh juice, tea, coffee and an array of patisseries and fromage, just the job really. There were a lot of people at breakfast, some young couples, some old couples, most were French. I had an article from the Mail on Sunday dated March 14th 2004 entitled, ‘Essence of Paris…all in one day.’ This had been given to me by my mother some months earlier and having read it I decided that not only would it be a challenge to follow, but it would hopefully give me the ‘essence of Paris’ in my first day. The plan was that this would then enable me to enjoy the art of the Louvre and Musee d’Orsay at a more relaxed pace on the second day. First on the list was Place des Vosgnes and the Marias. Upon checking out my map I noted that this was near the Bastille area of Paris and so took the Metro to Bastille Station, east of the city centre on the other side of town. My route for the day would then take me from east to west, straight through the centre a pied. Whilst on the Metro a lady who looked like a scarecrow from the sticks started playing an accordion out of nowhere, the music just seemed to melt away the suits and the hustle and bustle of city rush hour. It was my first proper taste of French culture and thrust me into what was to become a truly wonderful day. In the same carriage was an elderly Chinese man wearing a beret with matching velvet waste coat, he was clearly taking what was either his adopted culture or true French heritage very seriously; indeed he really looked the part. I absorbed the sights with enthusiasm, honour, happiness, and as a budding collector of experience felt utterly grateful. Upon disembarking at Bastille, as soon as you step onto the platform you realise it is on a bridge and you can see all of the houseboats right down Port de L’Arsenal. On exiting the station there was an elderly man at the top of the steps with a table which had a very clean and healthy looking white rabbit on it. The rabbit was in far better condition than his owner. There was no cage around the rabbit, he was simply perched there with some carrots and other foliage tied up above his head so's to munch on at will. By putting some money in a cup next to the rabbit you could stroke him. Many of the Parisian commuters partook in this rabbit ritual, of all walks of life. The rabbit would immediately warm to those allowed to stroke him. I realised I needed some camera film; I was missing pictures. A magazine vendor next to the Metro entrance sold film so I stocked up and loaded my camera. I’d unfortunately lost my digital camera earlier in the year which was upsetting; however, something just felt right about using film in Paris. I proceeded to get lost along the gigantic Boulevard Henri IV which is clearly a wealthy area, reminding me a little of Chelsea or Knightsbridge, only with fewer people and a rather absurd looking tramp; another Chinese man, this one dressed somewhere between Worzel Gummidge and Beethoven. I asked a lady for directions, obviously in good French because she began to speak back in such which was of no use to me, soon after I got some more directions from a beautiful black girl who spoke English. She couldn't understand where I was headed but took me into Scully Morland Metro Station and asked on my behalf. It was there that another lady from just behind me butted in with some excellent directions. Upon crossing the wide street of Saint-Antoine two beautiful French women, fiercely sophisticated, late twenties the pair of them, rode their bicycles around me. They were stunning, exquisite creatures; their make-up was there but not there, they wore long velvet gowns of burgundy and deep emerald green held with antique broaches and wrapped in scarves. I was taken aback and swept away in their smiles at me; this was like no world I had ever set foot in. I was back on track but not entirely. I found myself floating through the streets and gardens between Boulevard Henry IV and Rue St-Antoine. This area is a vision of rustic Parisian living, whilst beautifully preserved, its age and practicalities unmistakable. The streets are again cobbled and tiny lanes simply branch off, enticing the visitor. Rendered walls broken away, but maintained in decay like a Botticelli fresco. The drains had reacted to a warm shower and were pouring out fresh clear water that glistened down the limestone gutters like mountain streams. The Finches ruffled up feathers, danced and bathed in the waters. I reached Rue Francois Miron and headed up towards Rue Saint Antoine popping my head round St Paul’s for a quick look. St Paul’s is nothing to look at from the outside but gets you ready for the scale of the religious buildings in the city, and the inside was certainly worth a peak. Heading down Rue de Birague off the busy shopping street of Rue Saint-Antoine and into Place des Vosgnes, it was the tranquillity of here that hit me immediately. The gardens are fenced off and have elaborate fountains symmetrically placed in each corner, you could just sit on a bench there for a few hours to read quite happily. The leaves on the carefully placed trees were bold and bright yellows, auburns and oranges. Surrounding the square were terraced houses of medium size for central Paris, delicious proportions, and pink in colour offset against their yellow limestone finishing’s. They had arches and tunnels beneath them like our old stone universities. Victor Hugo had once lived at number 6 and I don’t blame him. I needed to leave the square on the north-west corner to come out onto Rue des Francs Bourgeois. I asked a road sweeper the way, he was clearly in a trance, day dreaming as I approached. The poor man got a shock; he was smart, well shaven, looking too wealthy and healthy for his luminous work clothes. I received real friendliness and genuine warmth with his eloquently phrased English directions. Rue des Francs Bourgeois passes through the Marais Quarter and was quite staggering for a boy of North West England. The streets were beautiful, defined by their buildings, they looked narrower than they were due to the height of the buildings and they looked slightly misshapen due to the irregularity and movement of the buildings, the buildings themselves were grand and old, for me, such buildings explain a city. On the way down Bourgeois I passed Musee Carnavalet, a renaissance mansion. I had a quick look into the courtyard, but further on a little, through a fence, there you can see into the belly of the place with its little chocolate box gardens still blooming in November, and still being pampered by very clean gardeners. The gardens essentially inside the home were clean enough to wipe your feet on. Then, suddenly, around the back of this area like a slap in the face is the Pompidou Centre. It made me swear and I stopped for a cigarette. The place was closed for cleaning and so I didn’t go in, it didn’t bother me not to go in, I wasn’t a huge fan of Picasso and I’d already seen most of Dali’s works. For me, it was about seeing the outside of this building, which extraordinarily enough is the inside, so I sort of have been in. I wondered on and down the pedestrianised Rue St Martin towards the Seine. The great thing about Paris was how well labelled and sign posted it all was. Across the Seine was the Ile de la Cite, where you can find St Chapelle along from the Galleries of Justice and above the city’s courts. Although signs pointed to a ticket office it never materialised and I managed to just walk straight in. The lower chapel was just that, above this however, up a significant stone spiral staircase was the upper chapel. The walls in here were made entirely of stained glass and told the story of the book of Genesis from bottom up and from left to right. The colours were so vivid; God only knows what story the walls would tell on acid. For me it was less to do with Genesis and more to do with mathematical genius that due to weight distribution, allowed for not a single piece of supporting glass to crack in 800 years. There were posters advertising concerts to be held in the Chapelle within its courtyard, music of the great composers, indeed a run had just finished the week before. Upon exiting St Chapelle I crossed the road onto Quai du Marche Neuf and towards the far right corner, which once turned, thrust Notre Dame into view. The light really lit the front and people and birds mooched about in large numbers. I ventured in for a quick look, the enormity of these great works of architecture amaze me. I couldn’t imagine any such structure being built now, maybe the Pyramids were not in fact built by aliens or time travellers, and maybe we were just better at creating these monumental pieces in times gone by. Possibly there was less distraction and more passion, they did not just build for them, they built for us, for the city, now it's just about flinging up buildings as cheaply as possible for the short term, the long term can look after itself. Time and money are certainly a big modern stumbling block. I waited for and heard a blessing echo from top to bottom, a microphone’s tininess danced through the space’s acoustic chamber, followed by a haunting, distant sound of the choir. I left, and as I did so a beggar knelt upright just outside the door, hands held high as if about to receive the communion while his coppers sat in place of the body of Christ. The look on his face was of such sincerity in his despair and longing, I gave money, for if this was merely an act, as such it was worthy alone. Walking left towards the Seine I passed over the bridge and looked back at Notre Dame, its Rose window and tall steeple much clearer to see from the side. The river below was lined with golden trees rustling in a gentle breeze, the sun shone low and brightly, and the river side paths looked like the most romantic place on earth. Having asked for directions to the Latin Quarter I was continuing to find Parisians on the upmost friendly. Fat, thin, smart, scruffy, chic, beautiful, practical, black, white, Chinese, old, young, rich and poor, all were accommodating and went out of their way to assist me. All broke a smile, most a laugh at my bold attempts at speaking the lingo, particularly as I became more adventurous. Indeed upon discovering Petit Pont I found that I even acquired a guide for ten minutes, who despite clearly not being very well understood, continued to show me around pointing at churches and the like, talking enthusiastically as we went. Once into the Latin Quarter things really started to get interesting, I walked down Rue de la Huchette to begin with, this and surrounding streets are ancient and full of kebab houses which seem comical with their garish windows stuffed with oversized kebabs. The fact is that these types of shop are entirely appropriate and in keeping with the history of the place, the shops and stalls in this area always having been in the meat roasting business. Eventually I emerged onto the Boulevard St Michel and made my way across to St Germain. St Germain I always knew I was going to enjoy, even before I knew anything about it, I loved the band of the same name and it was an area that had always jumped out of pages, maps and album covers at me. I loved that it had at one time been the haunt of many a philosopher, great artists, poets and writers. I came onto Rue de Saint Andre des Art and after approximately 300 yards to a tiny passageway on my left called Cour du Commerce St Andre where the revolutionary politician, Marat publicised his papers, Dr Guillotine perfected chopping of the heads of sheep, and the home of Paris’s oldest café. Cour du Commerce St Andre is what I would describe as a lane, but it was the finest of all lanes I have ever walked down, it too had a further tributary, another lane, in which there was a bicycle leaning against a stunning little tree, upon kneeling down to photograph this a black cat crossed the photograph to come and say hello, I was worried that the scene may not have been captured as the end of the film snapped and everything started rewinding, it had. Upon reaching the end of Cour du Commerce I turned left and ended up passing through fruit markets on Rue de Buci and emerging onto Boulevard St Germain. It was then that I was able to take a beer in Café Flore, the stomping ground of Picasso and others as they became enthralled in philosophical debate. When I visited, it had become the stomping ground of the rich, the wannabe’s, the tourists, the fashionable, but mainly the elderly, there was not an absinthe or a rollie in sight, debate was no doubt limited now to shopping, coffee and cake, and the age old constant of who is who. I sat outside beneath the cosy heaters and watched the world go by; but it was the world moving in and out of Café Flore that I found the most fascinating. There was a man a couple of tables down from me with grey hair and beard, I was sure he was a famous artist, I couldn’t think who, but I stared none the less. Many people entered and emerged from the doors of the place as their drivers came and went, all of the elderly clientele were impeccably dressed, this was old money mainly, and clearly the place to be if you had it, they’d probably been coming since it’s hey days. One chap stood outside in brand new brogues, light olive cords, freshly pressed shirt and a large cravat bursting out from beneath his collar. This was an old man in fake tan and hair well slicked back. He looked like the Nazi in Indiana Jones who upon opening the Ark aged rapidly causing his hair to grow out at an accelerated rate whilst all else withered, just before he melts and explodes. This guy was impeccably groomed though, and made his ripe old age look good. It was later on when in search for Rue Bonaparte just around the corner that I saw this particular man again with the most attractive woman I was to see on the entire trip. It is number 13 on Rue Bonaparte where Oscar Wilde passed away. He was beyond his means at the time, and done more than enough to charm the world into never forgetting him, his final words being, ‘either the wallpaper goes or I do.’ I visited his grave the next day. As I said earlier, despite the Louvre being next on my ‘essence of Paris’ list, I was saving this for my last day and so decided to skip it, heading towards the river, the view downstream became spectacular, in the most part due to the very bright low level light and clear skies. I could see the Louvre, Musee d’Orsay, Palais de la Legion d’Honneur, Place de la Concorde, the Eifel Tower, Petit Palais and Grand Palais. At the time I thought that the Louvre building was in fact a building of parliament and that the Grand Palais out in the distance with its glistening glass roof, enormous from even there was the Musee d’Orsay. I had seen pictures of the inside of Musee d’Orsay that showed it to have a large glass roof. I decided that I would have time to visit what I thought was Musee d’Orsay before heading across to the Champs-Elysees and then taking the Metro from there to Monmatre where I planned to spend the evening. Upon reaching what I thought was Musee d’Orsay I paid my entry fee only to discover that it was the Grand Palais and a vast art exhibition of France’s finest living artists. I turned to leave in an attempt to get my money back and get back on track only to see the Chinese man from the Metro sat leant over his cane; I got a photograph this time, it was a sign, I was meant to be there so I got on and enjoyed it. Some of the art was quite wonderful; the roof was filled with light and looked like Heaven. I sat in there and enjoyed some Goat’s cheese for the first time, I have never acquired the taste previously, nor have I re-acquired it taste since. The Champs Elysee was almost within touching distance as I exited the Grand Palais; the Place de la Concorde end. I walked up, relaxed and amused at the melting pot of traffic bearing down on a harassed chandarm and noticed that the Christmas lights were going up into the trees. As I got closer to the Arc de Triomphe I could make out people ontop, the sun was starting to set and the city was turning gold, I knew I would have to see this from the top of it and so made haste to catch it. I was not disappointed, what a view, one could only imagine how the roads leading to a turmoil of traffic at the base of the arch must look once the Christmas lights go on. I took the Metro from Champ-Eleysee-Clemenceau to Anvers. Upon disembarking at Anvers it was dark and Avenue Steinkerque was lit up, I walked up. Paris was now under night fall and lit with electric as I trawled the bars of Montmatre. The first bar was run by a bolshie no messing sort of a woman, she had probably been a Madame to young prostitutes and charged me as if I was after the same, when a beggar approached my table she saw him off in a ferocious, protective manner. I moved on and the bars got cheaper and cheaper, and the barmaids younger and prettier. Eventually I found a place half the price of the first bar so stuck around drinking Absinthe with some French/Canadians. Montmatre is probably where I would live to begin with if I moved to Paris. I hadn’t realised at the time but I saw what I now know to be the Sacre-Coeur from the top of the Arc de Triomphe perched at the highest point in Paris in the distance, like a cherry on a Bakewell. The Sacre-Coeur had been closed to visitors when I arrived in Montmatre unfortunately. I didn’t really bother with the sex clubs on my way back to the Metro via the Moulin Rouge, I wasn’t being tight, I was skint. Instead I settled for a chocolate Crepe which I got all over my face and down my jacket, the Absinthe to blame. I rose early on my second and final day and had breakfast next to a coven of elderly American women who were involved in a very loud discussion as to who had the most powerful brand of painkillers. The largest and dominant chairwoman won, her recessive piers quietened when she spoke up and listened intently as she said, ‘it strictly says on the box that you should not operate heavy machinery on this stuff, or even drive, I just took a big glug at zero six hundred hours.’ This lot were extraordinary; it was the same dynamic you’d expect from school girls in an all girl school, only grey and old, quite endearing. Day two and the sun was out again and the day was becoming beautifully crisp and perfectly mild. I took the Metro straight to Pere-Lachaise to visit the two very inspirational people, Jim Morrison, ‘there is the known and there is the unknown, and between there is The Doors,’ and Oscar Wilde, ‘work is the bane of the drinking classes.’ Pere-Lachaise was exactly as a cemetery should be, and as you would expect in Paris; it was like a city for the dead; vast, beautiful, monumental and incredibly atmospheric if not other worldly when alone. There were sign posts mapping out the ninety odd grids in which the rich, famous, infamous and truly loved lie to rest. Jim was in grid six at grave thirty, he was not easy to find, especially as I ended up following a rather friendly and unusual cat that found me wondering lost within grid six and led me up the garden path quite literally. I had started to fantasise that Jim had taken the form of this cat and was leading me to his grave, much as the tiger leads Jim to the Indian spirit trapped within him whilst tripping in the dessert. This was shattered as I came face to face with a couple from Yorkshire who were looking for the same thing. We headed up towards the top end of grid six which I had missed following the damn cat. I asked where the couple were from, they explained that they were from Yorkshire but lived in the South of France now, in-between Bezier and Montpellier, funnily enough exactly where I had spent my last holidays. Once at Jim’s grave I lit a cigarette and took pictures of Americans on their behalves. It was a small grave, hidden amongst larger plots and adorned in colourful messages and flower power, there was a magic, not only in the forgotten garden sense, but as though right there on this tiny plot a small part of his time still lived on, depleted but not forgotten. My next port of call was right up to the top of the cemetery, up steps, along cobbled paths, between crypts, under trees, determined to save my depleting film but not able to do so. Oscar Wilde’s grave I thought was a huge monstrosity of a thing right on the edge of a small road in grid 89, no doubt iconic looking when seen in photographs, it may also shock I suppose when compared to its surroundings. All surfaces available were covered in lipstick kisses, roses, poems and messages, some of which were written on paper, rolled into tubes and stuffed into crevasses. I read the engravings and much of the text in spite of their being a plaque warning people not to deface the gravestone which was a historical monument. It could be argued that all those who wrote something meaningful were not defacing, merely adding. Wilde had died beyond his means and so this whole thing was unlikely down to him, I touched the grave stone, it was very humbling when you think what a splendid innings this man had, but more than that, what he left behind is now immortalised and thus his status in death greatly heightened. Back to the Metro quick sharp and off I went to Musee d’Orsay where I would only concentrate on the work of the impressionists; Monet, Manet, Van Gogh, and the star of the show, Piscarro. After a couple of hours I grabbed a hot dog and a coke before heading downstream for my final destination, the Louvre. It was early to mid afternoon and the light across Paris was typical of a nearing to the Equinox, bright, low and bouncing of everything. The Louvre was in itself demanding of marvel, the place was a work of art, and whilst building up to go in there was a photograph that I simply had to capture there and then but my film was finished. My only option was to get into the Louvre, buy some film and then leave immediately in order to snap the shot before the light was gone. I did just that, and the exit I used brought me out under the Arc du Corrousel which was by pure luck in the exact position I required for my photograph. Once back in the Louvre I was aware that it would be an impossibility to see everything, I skipped the Scully section entirely, although I did pop out at this area from time to time and so saw bits of it. First of all I concentrated on the grand chronologies of French painting and sculpture in the Richelieu wing, staying away from the Objects d’Art. Objects d’Art are just extravagant sickly material objects that have no meaning or story to tell in my view, they have little effect on me besides that of a sense of history. The canvasses in Richelieu were atmospheric, allowed for time alone and were often comical; Gabrielle d’Estrees is shown plucking the nipple of her sister in the bath in a painting from the 1590’s. Best of all was the Denon wing; it was a journey through Italian masterpieces that made the head well up to the verge of explosion and thus often required rest. On route to the Grand Gallerie was a sculpture section in which Michelangelo’s slaves stood looking a little unfinished but stand out pieces regardless. Up the stairs from here and the Winged Victory of Samothrace came into view, I knew nothing of this, other than it had huge appeal and allure for the masses. I couldn’t find the Venus de Milo, the classical figure found washed up on a Greek Island. I did however find the Botticelli, Bellini’s, Lippi’s, Raphael’s, Correggio’s, Titan’s, Rembrandt’s and Da Vinci’s. True masterpieces, when seen, if not known, became immediately apparent. I’d read up a lot about the Mona Lisa, the speculation surrounding that look, was it contempt for or mockery of the onlooker, superiority and secure satisfaction, the withholding of a secret? I didn’t think it was any of those things, I wasn’t looking for a negative slant, stop looking for a negative and it can’t be found. Mona Lisa smiled at me, her eyes spoke of familiarity and affection; I found her really quite beautiful with maybe just a cheeky glance only. We have the Parisians wrong, just as the critics had the Mona Lisa wrong. I went back and said goodbye to her before I left, it got me to wondering whether she had the slightest inkling at the time of painting how iconic and instantly recognisable her image would become to future mankind, and distant future for that matter, maybe, especially if it is indeed a self portrait in drag. Not to mention its value, again, like the graves, history such as this takes on a kind of biblical quality, it stirs the imagination. Now, she sits surrounded by state of the art high tech security systems in what would in her day have been considered a very brave new world. Does she search through the centuries for the familiar? On my return to the hotel, feeling satisfied that I had known Paris, I wondered along the Seine towards the Eifel Tower. It was one of the most enjoyable walks I have partaken, I felt fulfilled, joyful and inspired, and I wanted to finish my trip where I had started it, at the tower. After a few photographs it was approaching 7:00pm, I turned to leave, as I walked away I took one last look, at the precise moment the whole Eifel Tower lit up with sparkling silver lights from top to bottom. There were gasps from people all around, the Christmas lights had just come on; it was the perfect end to the trip, almost. On my way down Rue de Grenelle I plucked up the courage to go into the liveliest little Bar on the street. Within two pints and thirty minutes I was brought into the busy fold of locals, from the edges of the place to the bar. I wasn’t charged anything until right at the end, my bar tab was being chalked up on the bar, there were no ash trays, you flicked your ash on the floor. We celebrated well; I paid the tab and finished what was left on Pestis.

'Honour' Killings

Killing your own pregnant sister and daughter in the street with bricks because she won't engage in an incestious marriage. Religion and savagery live on, hand in hand.

Catholic Baby Killers

It is the force of the Devil that disguises its work behind what presents as moral and good. I cannot disguise my contempt for the history of such organisations. They preach for the fetus, so that they may torture the child.