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That was a good May
There is talk around a table about expectations.
The new woman is listened to, politely, as she recounted her personal journey — her escape — her breaking the bondage of the assumptions that we are tattooed with from birth. She is a spiritual creature who now uses horoscopes to centre and coach her clients — to cut through the blockage.
Nice woman.
Lunch doesn’t live up to anyone's expectations, however…
Previously, I lose the day to a fug of a hangover having celebrated the demise of the fascist right in the elections in France a little too zealously the night before.
I say lose — but there is that photo opportunity on the yacht in Cannes…
Memories of a train to the white, plastic dolls house moored in the picturesque harbour. The smell of OCD cleanliness and the inside of an old persons car…
The sun is blazing and the sky the bluest — reflecting the Tricolour and the brass of the band that marches by marking the end of the war.
( What were my expectations of posing on a yacht? Instagram?)
Election day. Where else but on a beach with my daughter and the whole of Antibes — waiting.
Scootering up the hill to the grand villa of artist friends to drink too much whilst watching the…
