I am now a tumbleweed or writer in residence at the English language bookshop Shakespeare and Company, located opposite Notre Dame. Owing to limits of time, I cannot transcribe my travel journal, so this is a mini post.

On my last night staying with Roger he took me to the little restaurant round the corner for an excellent farewell dinner – prawn and avocado followed by a superb steak frites (saignant, bien sur!) The next morning I lugged my stuff across Paris for what I hope will be the last time.

S&Co is exactly what I need. I spent the day yesterday shelving books, reading a particularly antiquated murder mystery I’ve discovered in some darkened corner of the library, and listening to all sorts of music on the piano, from Mozart to blues, to an extempore composition by a music student who happened to be passing through on the way to an open mic night.

Dinner – well what do you expect from dinner in Paris? Something decadent, luxurious, rich and gastronomic. I had filled pasta with tomato sauce. Firstly, because it’s cheap, and secondly because I’d never cooked in their kitchen before and wanted to viddy the lie of the land. Along side this I had a perfectly serviceable bottle of Merlot. The cost of this feast? FIVE EURO. I bloody love Paris. There was even cheaper wine than the two euro bottle I got, I do wonder what the stuff for under a euro is like. The bottle I had would easily be a five or six quid number if you were to buy it in Tesco.

After fixing a broken typewriter I’d discovered in a little alcove, I made a double bed from cushions in the middle of the floor and fell asleep, Notre Dame just faintly visible through the reflected streetlights of a Parisian night.

This morning I woke at around eight, packed away my temporary bedroom and had a shower and a shave. I then went off in search of coffee and nearly got lost, because as I am sure you all know, I’m not at my best before my morning coffee. On my return Saskia (the other tumbleweed currently in residence) made us some espresso before we opened up the shop.

I’d chosen 10-12 for my two-hour shift today, but it worked out as more like 10-11 shunting in books from a delivery, before a half hour break for a coffee. I sat on a chair outside, drinking coffee, gazing at my Cathedral sized alarm clock, wondering how much the tourists along the way had paid to do the same thing. At 11.30 I went on a special mission with a couple of Spaniards in a van to pick up a bunch of books we’d bought. They were friendly and we chatted in a mixture of French and English (I didn’t attempt any Spanish) whilst listening to jazz and driving round the Latin Quarter.

More instalments at irregular intervals soon, later, or not at all.