Atmosper, Saturday morning

Zoubida is under pressure.  I know this because when I say 'merci Zoubida' as she sets down my coffee, she throws me a scowl.

I suck it all up; coffee, scowl, cigarette, passing people, all.  Then pick up my empty cup and take it back to the counter.  At which point, dear Reader, I find myself in the thick of gypsies who slip 12 euros into my hand and ask me to take a bet at the horses.  I choose six random numbers then the race is on. 
The gypsy race is on too.  Popo asks me for some good English names because his niece is about to give birth to a little boy, I suggest Donald, Zoubida suggests Dean.  They go for Dean and make phone calls all round .  'Dean Delaurier it is!' 

I toast the unborn Dean Delaurier, Pay for my coffee and thank 'Zou', who gives me a smile of gratitude.