Made myself a fantastic preparation of milk custard for lunch, burning my fingers and capsizing half of the curdled-looking result. I buy milk from “Joan”; our conversation is always the same – “Bon Jour Madame – du lait?” “Oui M’sieur” and off she toddles down a flight of steps into the cool bowels of the earth – whilst Darby blinks rheumy-eyed by the fire. She reappears with a basin, fills a small jug and says “voila”. I take it, and hand her a quarter sous (2d.) – “Merci Madam” – “Merci M’sieur” – “B’jour”, “B’jour”.
Walk March 