Release

Yesterday, with the permission of Dr Balon, I took the bus to Balma Calmont (a shopping mall like all the others on the face of the earth, hence no photographic evidence).  It was unsettling leaving the benevolence of the Ice Cube, but Old Robert called me over to the seat next to him and chatted away while villas gave way to fields of sheep and industrial estates. Balma Calmont is the kind of place I hate at the best of times; it boasts the biggest hypermarché in France and bland christmas music piped through all the speakers.  
Half an hour later I was sitting in the sun drinking a gingerbread flavoured coffee that cost the same as a good bottle of Gaillac.  In my bags were two packets of Prince biscuits, a six pack of Mikado sticks, a pack of little apple juice boxes  (the kind children's mothers slip into their lunch boxes at primary school), a couple of packs of Phillip Morris and a pair of half-price Doc Marten boots.  A couple of minutes later I had a little less because I gave a packet of Mikados and a couple of cigarettes to a a homeless man from Montenegro.  
I spent the bus journey back to to the Ice Cube trying to work out (as if I'd ever known) where Montenegro was.

At tuck shop time, when valium is distributed like smarties, I gave Nox the remains of the Mikado, Eve her two packets of PM, and Mathieu his little cubes of apple juice which he trade for pack of Malboros and a post postprandial coffee.

At tisane time we shivered on the terrace and I met Gabby who's in for sex addiction.  I associate satyriasis with JFK, but Gabby just seemed normal.  

The barefoot man upped his showmanship by appearing bare chested, his belly spilling over his elasticated pyjamas.