“You might want to wear gants touching this bache,” says the driver. “It’s covered in merde.” He’s got a van of material, and he’s pulling on his gloves as he speaks. I hold my torn hands up. “I get shit all over these every day,” I assure him. “Let’s just get this done.” He looks at me strangely, turns to open the boot, pauses and looks back. “No, actual merde,” he says, and it opens and we both take two steps back as the initial bouquet is released from the van. Chateau Merde, the finest vintage. I thought he was using the word to mean dirt, but no. Oh no. Something has taken place with this bache. Someone , or multiple people… And not just merde. “I definitely don’t get that sort of merde on my hands every day. I need gloves.”
It’s a hot day. He’s brought it with him all the way from Quai D’Orsay. I don’t know how it got like that, but “It’s contaminated,” says D and he’s right. It all gets rolled out onto a big pallet and next I know I’m lifting it up and tilting it into a skip that is conveniently empty as we have been so extremely diligent about recycling and processing everything that comes in. The wind is blowing towards me as D knocks it off the pallet with a big tube of cardboard and nobody will be drying this load and cutting the rings off it.
The heat is quite something, pounding down daily, hard work to stay hydrated even before all the lifting. I’m getting through litres and litres of pineapple juice and innocent smoothies and the occasional vimto, not to mention water after water, but I still feel I’m completely wrung out. I got Fi to snap me with my favourite weed here, just by the warehouse, a real survivor in the roadwork city we are condemned to live in. I don’t quite recognise myself, cooked brown, skinnier than oft, grey beard too big and grey. One thing we did get in Paris is summer.
Now I’m in my new Airbnb. I booked it by price and it is cheap because of major roadworks just outside. Fifth floor though and there’s a washing machine so I’ll be able to prepare for pulling out and returning to the things of home for a wee while ahead of a very different adventure of the mind and body. It’s been lovely sharing time and work with Ali, but he’s back now and gone untill I’m gone. No need to stay in the big apartment we had, and besides there were no fans. This place has two and I’m shamelessly going to run them all night long.
It’s quarter past nine. My feet are facing the sunset through the window. There’s very very little wakey left in me today so the noise of the fans will be soothing as I drift away.
AlBarclay 