in Paris A summer is over the night arrives with unseemly haste, it was not a delicious season too spent most of the time indoors fantasising about silky sand, the sun and sea reading brochures of adventures in Thailand. When I get to a new place, it never is as had Imagined it to be, say when I went to Paris I had in mind the way it was at the time of Ezra Pound, Gertrude Stein, James Joyce and Ernest Hemingway, instead it was just another overpriced city, mind I found the birthplace of Edith Piaf and the street had a patina of time went by, so I shall not be invited to a literary salon, but I got two collections of poetry accepted at Shakespeare's bookshop Iām glad I read their books, but Iām also glad I never met them