Lundi 18.06.07 Break-in. Break-out.
I’m just thinking that Nicola’s probably showing off her tan or recounting some wacky tales to Nicki and Tom in Dublin when I get a message from her. Her house was burgled. Bastards. It was broad daylight, her mother was only gone an hour or so and they made their way in through the back window and went wild. They rifled through everything in Nic’s room, stole her laptop, camera, television… All her mother’s jewellery and anything else they could see and swipe which is of value or worthy of a quick sale. Thankfully Nic’s good jewellery was hidden under a stereo which she says was too cumbersome to move let alone lift.
When I talk to her she has to laugh when I ask if her collector’s edition Michael Jackson doll was taken too. Nope, it’s still standing on top of her wardrobe with it’s crotch in a gloved kiddie-fiddler hand. Sorry. I couldn’t resist. It probably spooked out the robbers. Oh, I’m so bad. Hang on, isn’t it Wacko Jackson who claims to be bad. Ouch! I felt that slap from all the way over here.
The weather merits a few hours at the beach. It’s funny that in my final week I’m more vigilant with sun-cream application than I have been over the past nine months. C’est comme ça!
I bump into Benoît sleep-walking his way back home after another nigh-shift at La Meynard. We arrange to meet up for drinks later.
He has just finished his meal when I join him at Point du Bout. We head to Boule de Neige for desert and planteurs before continuing our alcohol consumption in Le Malibu where Bruno is hanging out sans Bea!
I tell Benny Boy about Nic’s news and he reassures me of our own false sense of security with his usual scary-statistic sadism. After last week’s shooting we certainly do seem to live in a sort of ghetto.
Benoît has lived in many rotten parts of Paris so it’s not much of a surprise when he outlines his former Bad Boy antics. Un/fortunately the call of professionalism prevailed and reformed this wild child... However, he has a certain rebel reserve which allows him to accompany others in their divilment. For a while I’ve been itching to visit the Rasta ranch; especially the unoccupied wooden cabin in the wood - so we do. It’s a tiny four roomed hut which, with a few planks of wood and licks of paint, could be transformed into a pretty nice place. Rumour has it that nobody actually owns any of these huts but the residents in this enclave are a law unto themselves and would probably dig up the papers once someone finished their dirty work.
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