The long drive down to Bourg-La-Reine we talked of Bach fugues and how to us they don't feel overly mathematical at all, other people must be crazy.
All this because I recognized a piece on the radio.
Eric the red (not to be confused with Eric the pervert and Eric the giggling maniac who surround me on three sides in this open plan office) is a disconcerting man, but kind enough on occasion to be convinced into giving me lifts when the timing and direction suits him, and my rendez-vous for a bright gold velour fold-out couch for 100FF last night was four minutes out of his way.
He calculates these things y'know. On Monday, it took him thirty seven minutes to get home, on Tuesday it took forty three.
Disconcerting. Too softspoken and too quick with a raucous joke at unexpected moments, well studied in martial arts and classical music and literature, and yet there is a worrisome dissatisfaction to his pale and freckled face, when he speaks so wonderingly of his ten-year-old daughter of two-wives-previous... Something rings wrongly.
~
The owners of aforementioned loudly french sofa-bed also happen to be sweetly reminiscently k�b�kois white trash, complete with beer bellies, mullets and an unrecognizable breed of beer-swilling dog.
Mullets, in Paris.
I spent longer than I'd planned visiting said couch. Mitsou and I had unexpected things to discuss.
Mitsou being the shiny black, beady-eyed dog with all the attitude and personality of a collie-sized rat.
She's lovely.
The RER ride back, blue leatherette seats and red carpeting, banlieu accents and students flirting whilst discussing the rammifications of Charles de Gaule's "Vivre le Quebec libre!" speech.
Me, giggling behind my "Barefoot in the Head" ancient Corgi SF novel, trying to push the thoughts of furniture and bed prices to the far reaches of my consciousness.
Uninspired, yes, but the dregs of a manic panic episode dissipated on that train, and Nancy's loving phone call that shook me from my sleep this morning all but ended it.
Reading over my insurance paperwork, words slurring on the page through a slightly overfilled heady glass of shockingly inexpensive port, I made lists and remade lists and tried to ignore the clamouring silence of the bare walls and bare floors and naked spirit.
And today, pretty little HP consultant Arnaud remembered the name of my favourite Star Wars character for me.
Max Rebo.
If you wanted to be any star wars character in the world, who would you be?
Me, I'd be Max Rebo. :)