Election Blues

The Easter weekend Jazz musicians packed up their instruments and left town, friends got planes and trains back home and the sun packed itself away too, disappearing behind rain clouds.
But Marine arrived, holding the traffic up on the Cours Colonel Petit Pied in a campaign bus partially financed by tax payers money.
On the corner of the street a women lifted her fist and shouted 'faschiste!'  A cacophony of horns bleated. We found ourselves in the middle of what felt like a warped, off-tune French wedding cortège  with a kind of Hendrix's Star Spangled banner vibe.
I honked away with the others while Gab clawed at my honking arm saying that the campaign bus might misconstrue our reaction as one of support.  
I made my horn sound as dissentful as possible and hurled abuse out of the window for good measure.