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Yes. Certainly. So I showered, shaved, plucked, rubbed, styled, splashed, dressed and jumped into the Jenson and hightailed it to Waterloo where I leapt onto a departing train to Gay Paris. I thought of taking the helicopter but landing in Paris is frequently difficult and always illegal. Not that the gendarmes are too opposed to the odd backhander. Furthermore, after those dark and twisted days during the riots in the late sixties, when army tanks, crimson and black bloods filled the streets of the Eastern Quarter, I know that I can always call on Chef Inspecteur L’Actose to aid me. That big fat moustached, sorbet-swilling Parisian has owed me for a quite some time. Incidentally Sami, if you are reading this, you still do. Mais oui, mon ami, ne vous rappelez-vous pas le vampire avec seulement une jambe et un pistolet tres grand?

Let me explain. In 1968 I was resident Professeur de Philisophie at the University. I had left my quite jungle abode in Ecuador to take up the post as I had reached the point in my correspondence with one of Mata Hari’s illegitimate daughters that immediate physical exploration was necessary. That being so I had accepted the post and moved my belongings to an old chapel in the Montemarte district. I had been there a few brief weeks when the lectures that I had been giving in Free Thought and Seizure of the Moment (or Carpeing of the Diem) had helped to trigger the unstoppable wave of youth resistance against the particularly austere French government of the day. Yes, that is right. The riots were all my fault. I stand unabashed against the historical backdrop of the era and wave my flag proudly. Such insurgence was inevitable amongst the hot-blooded young children of De Gaulle. I simply hastened the tsunami.


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