Depending On The Inflection, Ah Bon Can

Very Little Happens In My Books.

Prescription For Writer’s Block: Fear Of Poverty.

I Have A Very Set Routine. I Work Six Days A Week, But Only Half Days. I Work From 9 In The Morning Till 1 In The Afternoon, Without Any Interruptions, A Fair Slug.

Sunglasses Must Be Kept On Until An Acquaintance Is Identified At One Of The Tables, But One Must Not Appear To Be Looking For Company. Instead, The Impression Should Be That One Is Heading Into The Cafe To Make A Phone Call To One's Titled Italian Admirer, When--quelle Surprise!--one Sees A Friend. The Sunglasses Can Then Be Removed And The Hair Tossed While One Is Persuaded To Sit Down.

I Have A Terrible Weakness For Collecting Snatches Of Other People's Conversations, And Occasionally I'm Rewarded With Unusual Fragments Of Knowledge. My Favorite Of The Day Came From A Large But Shapely Woman Sitting Nearby Whom I Learned Was The Owner Of A Local Lingerie Shop. 'beh Oui,' She Said To Her Companion, Waving Her Spoon For Emphasis, 'il Faut Du Temps Pour La Corsetterie.' You Can't Argue With That. I Made A Mental Note Not To Rush Things Next Time I Was Shopping For A Corset, And Leaned Back To Allow The Waiter Through With The Next Course.