The idea of Paris

The Accordionist is playing Edith Piaf. Sat next to the Crepe stand he serenades the scent of salted caramel as red, white and blue bulbs pulse in time with his fingers. The night is balmy, a city made fresh by afternoon rain. I am struck by the memory of Paris but really it is justContinue reading “The idea of Paris”

Every word I wrote

“Writing — has self-respect in it. You’re working. You’re trying. You’re not lying down on the ground, having given up. And one thing I love about writing is that we can speak to the absent, the dead, the estranged and the longed-for — all the people we’re separated from. We can see them again, understandContinue reading “Every word I wrote”