A Mule In Rouen
'And so to the task of finding a flat. I had set my heart on a romantic attic in an old Norman house, but these turned out to be dank, cold, dark places, unsung artists propped in the corner, solitary and consumptive. The little marvel who led me to the Maison de Mule was not the caricature silver-tongued estate agent, but a young girl just out of business school, stumbling in the street, fumbling with the keys and asking apologetically, 'Ca vous déplaît?', as I paced around the flat. But I was far from displeased. It was snug and warm, deeply, soothingly blue, with a view over the whole town. And through a door, source of many a merry ablution, one of those little one step baths that you sit in. I came back the next day just to check the view was still there, paid a 10% deposit, and within 48 hours of starting out, the place was as good as mine.'
"I hardly dared believe the furniture would arrive Force 8 gale, bow doors open. But there was the van beside the house, the driver asleep in in his cab. Then came the carpenter, to assess this and that, followed by Mr EDF to turn on the electric, and finally, the concierge to set the waters flowing through the old pipes. Quelle joie! Since then, been painting, equipping and drinking in that view. The whole of Rouen is spread out below. The hills on the left, the town hall, Cathedral, dungeon, and at one point where no buildings intercede, the Seine. Every skyscape, every time of day lends a different impression, with great industrial chimneys making their own contribution to whatever the natural elements are doing. Just now, the light is fading in a mainly clear, blue sky. A thin bank of cloud above the horizon, contains the reddy brown vapour from a distant chimney, creating a distinctive sunset of its own. Dead ahead, far away, a radio mast semaphors a signal across the night.'
'Café society. One cup of coffee entitles you to indefinite residence at a little window on life. The lycée bell rings and there's an influx of students at the Café Metropole, voluminous scarves, cigarettes and excitable laughter. An elegant lady crosses the floor cradling her perfumed bit of fluff, fresh from their appointment at the coiffeur du chien. Mid-morning in the 'Bovary', a dear old goose gives forth on the weather front with all the urgency of an outrider bringing news of the war. Every variation in temperature is chronicled, snow melting then freezing, the Cathedral spire lost to view. Lamenting the demise of the good old fashioned snowboot, she suddenly points her Captain Pugwash profile at the door and is gone. At the 'Bistro Parisien' there is Jean-Claude, possessor of one grey jumper and a greatcoat, an amiable monkey capable of launching into unique dance or excruciating song. Round the corner, the terrace of the 'Civet Saint Marc' offers access to all the comings and goings at market, the waiter nonchalantly manoeuvering an enormous tray, steaming cup piled upon steaming cup, finally depositing a big milky coffee in which to dunk my shiny, fresh brioche. Favourite cafés, our own little corners of familiarity and contentment. Sanctuaries from solitude and family life'.