Never fear, oh my dedicated and most adoring public, for the above title is not in fact true – it is something Octavia missheard the other day when I told her I was reading J.P. Donleavy. I hope that the clarity of my voice isn’t depreciating, as I have just completed an interview for the shop website (and I daresay a self-promoting link will follow) before trekking through the buckety rain to the little internet cafe from which I write you these missives.

Before expanding on what’s been going on in my life of late, I should add a little supplement to last week’s blog: we had some interpretive dancers in the shop. The concept was that anybody could pull a random book off the shelf, turn to a random page and read it however they chose and the dancers would interpret the tone and lyrics. To help kick things off they’d got the services of a few practiced readers, one of whom my good self, and for a couple of hours we toured the shop. One guy read cookery books as poetry, somebody read a page where she repeated the last word of each line, and amongst other things I read a page of Kant backwards. The dancers varied from twirling and moving around to standing almost entirely still, perhaps just their fingertips in motion, and the mood ranged from serious to hilarious.

But enough of poncy art stuff – what else has been on the go? I was delighted to receive a visit from Paige on Friday night, and we went out to a place I’d seen offering muscles chips and a beer for nine euro. Paige had rented a garret out on Metro 1 close to Argentine (I have no idea what all the little numbers describing Paris mean – I only know metro stations and landmarks.) We repaired there for some bubbly doing things in the alcoholic style to which we are accustomed.

Saturday was particularly excellent, as we headed out to Montmartre (I’d never been on this journey, and couldn’t remember if I had with the folks) where we wandered around the hillside gazing at the view, drinking mulled wine and watching the world go by. We also had a rather excellent meal involving a huge quantity of beef (Paige is thankfully giving up this vegetation milarky). In the evening we went to Milly’s house as she was hosting a Christmas party. Much mulled wine, Patrick smashed rudolf with a candlestick, and Milly and Paige conspired to play Gangnam Style over the hi-fi. Joshua would be proud.

The next day, somewhat tender, we recovered in the shop, Paige kipping in Patrick’s bed whilst I did my shift. Panmelis was away on holiday, so Patrick and I ran the tea party, and may or may not have spiked some of the tea with whisky. That night Paige and I were supposed to go for a dinner thing but didn’t owing to knackardness, and instead went out for a meal on Isle St Louis and had onion soup, duck and cheese and of course much wine.

Monday we had an event – Topsy Turvey Tales – which involved a band, cinema and book signing. I was on mulled wine duty and it went so well I imagine I’m going to knock up some more tonight. After that it was off to au Chat Noir again, where I read a  couple of new poems.

Last night as the staff were at the party the shop was in the hands of the tumbleweeds. Funily enough it ran even more smoothly than normal, and we celebrated by heading round to the old man bar for a leffe with the other Patrick, occasionally described as Lebanese Patrick, before heading to Bistro des Artistes. Des piss Artises.

Yet (and this is a post of remembering things I left out) one of the most bizarre occurrences was after a couple of weeks at the shop when I was starving at one in the morning and foolishly went round to a Cafe Grek (ie kebab house) for a sandwich (ie kebab with chips). The guys in there all kept pointing at me and saying – “you Richard Gear! No? Richard Gear!”

Nope, I don’t get it either.

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