(till I end my song ....)

                                                THE SCHOOL OF PHILOSOPHY

         Although we were now fairly financially comfortable, this did nothing to alleviate my inner problems, my lack of self confidence and my shyness. I did have one or two friends with whom I went out, but there was no-one with whom I could share on anything other than a superficial level.  Parties were torture to me and so I avoided them.  I would read books purporting to overcome shyness, without success.  And I had recurring periods of depression, which usually came in the autumn.

         The huge range of self help books that we have now did not exist in those days, or certainly not in Brussels.  So it was with great interest that I saw an advertisement in the Brussels Bulletin, an English language magazine, for the School of Philosophy.  Drawing upon the teachings of all the world philosophies, it claimed that it could help you with your life’s problems.

         I did not hesitate and in September 1970 I went to my first class at the School of Philosophy.  Along with several others, I sat waiting expectantly.  The first thing we were told was that we were all sound asleep and that we needed to wake up.  I was introduced to ideas which were completely new to me, but which immediately aroused my interest. I felt I had had occasional glimpses of them in some of the books I had read.  These ideas were based on the teachings of George Ivanovich Gurdieff, an esoteric spiritual teacher of Armenian Caucasian extraction, who lived in the early part of the twentieth century.

         By the end of the first term, through an entirely logical process, I was led to believe in the existence of a Creator.  The Gurdieff teachings were replaced by the teachings of an Indian holy man, the Shankaracharya of the North, who had left his post in order to devote himself to teaching the School.

         We were taught about the Hindu concept of the Self, which is not born and never dies, but is eternal.  This divine Self is in all of us.  This idea was a revelation to me and I believed it implicitly.  My whole view of myself began to change.

         We were given exercises on self observation, watching our thoughts whilst carrying out mundane tasks.  I began to notice how my thoughts were totally negative and how I constantly dug a hole for myself in the ground.  I was my own worst enemy!

         We were taught to sit still in the class, simply being aware of our bodies on the chair, aware of the sights and sounds around us, without thought.  We were asked to practice this exercise at home, extending the time to ten minutes, and to see what effect it had on our day.  We were also asked to pause between activities, even just a few seconds, so as not to carry on the energy from one activity into the next.

         We were told not to accept anything we heard in the class as the truth, but to verify it from our own experience.

         Another very interesting Hindu concept was that of the energies, which were called ‘tamas’, ‘rajas’ and ‘sattva’, the forces by which we were governed.  In the simplest terms, ‘tamas’ could be described as inaction, ‘rajas’ as action and ‘sattva’ as the balance between the two. 

         ‘Tamas’ could range from anything such as sleep, to sloth, inertia and torpor, whilst ‘rajas’ could range from normal activity up to rage, violence and destruction.  ‘Sattva’ was a state of serenity, of calm and balance.  I saw a beautiful description of it once as riding on the back of a large bird, seated between the two wings.  Too much ‘tamas’ could lead to ‘rajas’, whilst an excess of ‘rajas’ would induce ‘tamas.’

         It became an interesting exercise to try and observe these states within oneself.

         The classes were held in a private house on the Avenue de la Couronne, a long, broad, straight avenue which led into the centre of Brussels.  It was owned by the head of the School and his wife, who lived there and took the classes.  Mr. Schoup, pronounced scoop!, was a well known Dutch journalist, and his wife, who came from Scotland, was also a journalist.

         These classes became the highlight of my week and I would speed down the Avenue de la Couronne as though I were going on a date!  At the end of the first term we were asked to volunteer for a second evening, either to help with preparing and serving coffee in the break, or preparing the lecture room and sitting in on the class to act as a secretary.

         There were three forms of service we were told:  service of the Absolute, service for others and service for ourselves.  I was a willing volunteer and so on a second evening I was able to sit in a class and hear the teaching all over again.

         I also found a confidante in Mrs Schoup, as we were able to ask for help and have an individual interview.  Thus I came to see her regularly and would pour out my life story and all my troubles to her.  She would sit very still, listening, occasionally making a comment. It was very much like a form of therapy, though I did not realize it.

         My mother was bewildered by this new found interest of mine and somewhat suspicious.  After all, it was not like a man or a religion, which she might have been able to accept. It was not something I could share with her or explain, as I knew she would not understand.  This was something which touched me at a very deep level, at the level of my soul, and which I found intellectually and emotionally satisfying.  I think, subconsciously, my mother saw it as a threat, as something which might take me away from her.

        

         

(till I end my song ....)

                                    SETTLING DOWN IN BRUSSELS

         My mother and I were both finding it difficult to settle down in Brussels.  My mother had loved the Parisians, who were outgoing and extravert.  The Belgians seemed to be more reserved and more dour in temperament.  Shopping was no longer so enjoyable for her.

         I had difficulties getting to NATO, which was some way out of Brussels.  I had to get two buses, often standing in the rain and cold on a windy corner.  After two years of this I decided to learn to drive.  I had tried once before in Paris, but my nervousness had made me give up the idea.  Now sheer necessity drove me to take the plunge.

         We also decided to move to an unfurnished flat, with our own furniture.  My mother still had furniture which she had left behind in Canada over forty years ago.  A friend of hers had kept it stored in her garage all this time.  I had been out to Canada for the Montreal Expo in 1967, and at the same time had visited my mother’s old friends in Toronto, with the aim of seeing about the furniture and getting it sent over to Europe.

         These friends, all round my mother’s age, late seventies, were all very kind and hospitable to me.  I stayed with one of them, her name was Kalo, a very friendly and pleasant lady.  On my return to Paris she wrote to me, saying:  “what a pity it was that your mother went to the dogs.”  Fiercely loyal, I wrote back a furious letter and pointed out that my mother had worked hard all her life, had brought me up single handed and given me a very good education.  I ended by quoting the Bible:  “Judge not, that ye be not judged”!  I received a reply from her – my letter had made her think.

         My mother’s Canadian friend, Miss Robertson, who lived in England, had died and had left me some money in her will.  She had always been very kind to my mother and myself.  It was a nice surprise and I felt grateful, though slightly ashamed that I had never really appreciated her kindness.

         My mother felt that this would be a good opportunity to bring all her furniture over from Canada, and I agreed, knowing how much this would mean to her.  Also, it was exciting to think we would have these mementoes from her past.

         With the wealth of apartments on the market, we soon found a very nice, unfurnished flat on the Avenue Armand Huysmans.  It was on the first floor of a small, fairly modern apartment block, on a broad avenue in a residential area just outside the centre of Brussels, slightly nearer to NATO.  The flat was light and airy;  it had a sitting room which ran almost the length of the flat, with parquet flooring, two large French windows and a balcony looking out onto the street.  The nice sized kitchen and larger bedroom looked out onto gardens at the back.  A smaller room, mine, was on the front, and there was a bathroom between the two bedrooms.

         We had already bought a carpet, Hungarian!  It was black, with a colourful design in reds, greens and yellows.  We chose the flat with the carpet in mind.  With a few basic pieces of furniture we moved in.  There were already fitted cupboards.  We bought a round, walnut dining table in Regency style with four chairs, a small, modern wooden bed and matching chest of drawers, painted in grey and blue, for my room.  My mother would sleep on a folding bed till the arrival of her four poster bed from Canada.  With her adventurous spirit, she took all this in her stride.

         It was fun going round the shops looking for things to buy.  It brought us together and made my mother happy.  We would at last have a real home of our own, with our own belongings.

         The day finally arrived when the furniture arrived from Canada.  Great excitement!  Slowly the treasures from the past were revealed:  the four poster bed, an enormous chest of drawers, an old Regency sofa with a carved wooden back, horsehair stuffing sticking out of the black leather upholstery. There was also a grandfather chair.  It all looked rather decrepit and very large.  But I was glad to see my mother so happy, surrounded by her old possessions.

         There was cutlery and silver, china, a lot of it from Limoges in France; delicate teacups and saucers and small plates, with beautiful flower designs.  Then there were more photographs, old pictures and paintings.

         Brussels was full of craftsmen of every description, as the Belgians loved antique furniture and there were antique furniture shops everywhere.  We found workmen who were able to put the bed together, piece by piece -  each one was carefully numbered -  feed and give the wood a good polish.  It looked beautiful when finally assembled.  A mattress was specially made to fit the bed. There were specialist shops for everything!

         The sofa was taken away to be newly upholstered with a silky, soft beige material in a design of the period.  We found material with a William Morris design when shopping in London to cover the grandfather chair.  The large oak chest of drawers also needed feeding and repolishing.

         All this kept us occupied and busy for some time.  Slowly we furnished the whole flat.  The sofa, when done, looked very elegant, though it was not very comfortable and the grandfather chair was imposing.  The chest of drawers turned out to be very useful, with three large, deep drawers, in which we could keep linen and towels, and lots of clothes.

         My mother started growing flowers out on the balcony.  Slowly we bought cooking utensils and pots and pans for the kitchen.  My mother now had space for her large collection of cookery books in the kitchen.

         During this time I had also been learning to drive a car. The driving instructor would come out to NATO and I would have a lesson in my lunch hour, which was still an hour and a half.  At that time in Belgium it was not necessary to take a driving test.  Not for nothing were the Belgians known as the worst drivers in Europe!  After fifteen lessons, and having passed the written driving code test, which was essential, I filled in a form from the Post Office declaring that I could drive, paid my two hundred and fifty Belgian francs, and received my driving licence.  Thus armed, I bought a secondhand SIMCA 1000 from an American officer in NATO and launched myself upon an unsuspecting Belgian public.

         I did have one or two minor mishaps, and several things went wrong with the car, but my mother was thrilled.  She was a great help in keeping me calm, as she never turned a hair whilst I learnt to negotiate the car somewhat precariously through the Brussels traffic.

(till I end my song ....)

                                 MOVING TO BRUSSELS

                  It seemed a good idea to visit Brussels in advance in order to find a place to live.  M. Counasse had advised me to go to Schaerbeck,  the nearest part of Brussels to the new NATO headquarters, which were situated on the outskirts of the city.  I did not like the area at all, it appeared to me as dull and drab, so I discarded that idea.  I went instead to the centre of Brussels.  At that time, in 1967, it seemed like a small provincial city, and my heart sank at the thought of moving there from Paris.

         I explored the centre, which had broad avenues, with trees running down the centre.  One of the main ones was called the Avenue Louise;  it was long and straight, a tunnel for the traffic ran down the middle.  There were shops, multiple stores, cafés, art galleries and dress boutiques.  I decided to look around and I found a very nice ‘pension’ or boardinghouse in one of the side streets, which provided bed, breakfast and evening meal.  I felt my mother would be happier there, and that it would be a good idea for us to live there for a while whilst looking for a permanent place to live.  It was a repetition of our early time in Paris, with the difference that Brussels abounded in accommodation for rent, both flats and houses.  I booked a room for us in advance from the owner, a pleasant Flemish woman.

         The great move was to take place in September.  I felt sad to be leaving our flat in Paris, the nicest and most comfortable one we had ever had in our various moves; sadder still to be leaving Paris, and the lovely NATO building, with its spacious entrance hall, paper shop and travel agency;  the bar and restaurant and all the French personnel who manned them, who would be replaced by Belgians.

         Although the Parisians themselves were never friendly, the staff  in NATO were different, and we had built up a warm relationship with them.  They were quick, lively, sharp and funny.  They seemed to be happy in their own skin, I could understand the well known French term ‘joie de vivre’ just through observing them.  Whenever we entered the bar, we would find our coffee or favourite drink waiting for us on the counter when we got there.  They took a keen interest in what was going on among us, who was sitting with whom, any budding romances amongst the staff.

The functionaries, too, in the various offices dealing with pensions, housing or other problems were always helpful and friendly;  they had the human touch.   NATO, at that time, was like a large family, even though I did not always recognize it or feel part of it.

We were given a week off  during the time that NATO was being transferred from Paris to Brussels.  We had, of course, been busily packing up all our documents and  papers, everything classified had to be labeled and placed in secure containers.  It was an exhausting time.

         When I had told Jean Pierre that I was moving to Brussels, he had been devastated.  He did not want me to go.

 ‘Restes, restes’, he urged me, and then finally, the last time I saw him:  ‘restes gentille.’   “Stay sweet.”   I was touched, but had no strong feelings about him.  My main feeling was one of relief.

The night before we left I had a dream in which I saw Jean Pierre standing at the foot of my bed, naked, looking rather like an angel.  He was saying:  “Je suis trop petit.”   “I am too small.”  

              I never saw him again.

(till I end my song ....)

                                              BACK AT NATO AGAIN

         I returned to the office, reluctantly.    I had had three months of freedom up in the mountains.  I was back again in what seemed, to me, the drudgery of the office.  There was very little to do, as usual.  My colleague was sitting reading the newspaper.  I had never cared for her very much, she seemed to me to be complacent and a ‘toady.’  I felt an uncontrollable spurt of anger.  I got up and pushed the newspaper into her face.

         She jumped up in furious indignation.  She “could not work with me” she declared.

         I was sent home.  I was in the doghouse.

         After a few days I was told I was being transferred to another office.

         My gratitude to NATO and its paternalistic attitude is immense. I had been looked after in my illness and now once again I was being looked after.

         My new boss was a Belgian in need of  a secretary.   Big, with a round, pale moon face, he was reserved but a very  kind man, as I was quickly to learn. In fact he was half French, as his mother was French. His name was André Counasse.   I was now working in the Infrastructure Division, which was a much more technical division, and the officers were mainly engineers, thought still drawn from the forces, navy, army and air force.  He was a civilian and was responsible for the financial side of the division, with the title of Programme Control Officer.  So his work was mainly financial, consisting of tables and figures and financial reports.  I was so grateful to him for accepting me that I worked hard and conscientiously, even though I found the work still more boring.  He was a reserved man, so we had a formal but friendly relationship.

         On my return to Paris I had to be seen by a French psychologist. He was tall, grey and remote.  I seemed to reply to his questions in a satisfactory manner.  He ended by advising me, rather condescendingly, I thought, to go and live in a country such as Canada, where the people were much simpler.   This makes me smile now, but I can understand how I would have appeared to him then.  He did, however, give me a clean bill of health.

         My breakdown did, however, have its repercussions, as soon after I found myself suffering from depression.  It was winter time and gloomy, and I was plunged into a deep chasm of despair and anxiety such as I had never experienced before.  I was given pills which enabled me to function, but there was no light in my life, nothing excited or interested me.  These depressions were going to recur from now on,  always as the end of the year and the autumn approached.

         Early the following year, around May, I was invited by my old office colleague, Yvonne, who had married  her young French fiancé, Claude, to go and stay with them.  Claude had been training to be a chef and they had started a small hotel in Brittany;   they had a new, young baby.   I was fond of them both and was pleased to be getting away from Paris,  and on my own.

         I traveled down by train.  Sitting opposite to me in the carriage was a dark, swarthy looking man, like a gypsy.  He started talking to me.  He told me about himself, he was a violinist, he said, and he had a brother who was a very famous clown, called Max.  I listened to him with fascination.  He then went on to make comments about me.  I was beautiful, I could be anything, Jewish, Russian, English or French.  I was intrigued and flattered.  Then he said:

“You are loveless.” 

I was puzzled.

“What do you mean?  Do you mean that I cannot love.”

  No, he did not.  The conversation ended on this enigmatic note, and I was left disturbed, with a question in my mind.

         I spent two lovely weeks with Yvonne and Claude and their new baby, Karen.  They were kind and welcoming and the food was good.  I told them about the man on the train, but Claude had never heard of a clown called Max.  Perhaps he was just a fantasist.

 I felt older than my years beside their youth and simplicity, just starting out on their life together.  My own life seemed to have become so complicated and unhappy.  I returned to Paris, my heart warmed by their friendship.

The year was 1966 and I was thirty eight years old.  The years were slipping by.  We began to hear rumours that NATO was going to be transferred from Paris to Brussels, and that France would no longer be a full member of the Organisation.  General de Gaulle no longer wanted the American military presence, SHAPE, to be based in France, and he objected to American planes flying over the country.

This was upsetting to everybody as no-one  wanted to leave Paris.  Many of the girls decided to leave, and some of the men too.  I wanted to stay on in Paris, and I started to look round for another job, with little assurance of finding another one as well paid and secure.  I had my mother to think of  and I still had very little self confidence.  I had also been told by a fortune teller never to leave NATO or things would go badly for me.  In my insecurity I still had the habit of consulting palm readers in those days.  My mother did not want to leave Paris, but I finally decided that I would move to Brusssels, and she had to go along with it.

(till I end my song ...)

                                                CONVALESCENCE

         Madame Dreyfus had told me to stay away until I felt completely better.  She suggested that when I returned to Paris I should not go back to our flat.  She said that she could give me a room where I could stay.  She evidently thought that I would be better apart from my mother.

         I was eventually to stay for three months in the home, or ‘maison de repos’ as it was called. *  At first I was given fairly strong drugs which kept me well sedated.  I got to know some of the people in the home, who were all women.  Some were recovering from physical injuries, whilst others, like myself, were suffering from mental problems.

         There was a French girl there whom I liked very much.  She was an English teacher and so spoke English.  She was slim, with a boyish figure and light brown, curly hair, with an attractive mobile face.  She seemed vulnerable, with a deep inner sadness, though she never talked about it.  Her name was Nathalie.  She was sensitive and articulate and I admired her.  She was very kind to me and I would have liked to be her friend, but I felt that in intellect and in sensibility I was not at her level.  I was still quite inarticulate and gauche, confused and mixed up, and unable to express my feelings clearly.  I could always write better than I could talk.  Nonetheless, we were drawn together through some emotional need and affinity.

         Another girl who intrigued me, though quite different, was a girl from Paris.  She was tough and streetwise, with carrot red hair and freckles and a snub nose.  She had a strong Parisian accent and spoke mostly in ‘argot’ (slang) so I could hardly understand her.  I felt she was making fun of everything, myself included.  I envied her vitality and her directness, as well as her toughness.  I could only imagine the kind of life she had led.

         Villard de Lans was a ski resort and it was winter time.  The mountains were covered with snow, and there was a layer of packed snow on the roads.  There were many people, mostly French, who had come for the skiing. As I began to get better  I was allowed more freedom and I started going for walks and into the town.  There was a skating rink where I used to go and watch the people skating. 

         I decided that I would like to learn to skate.  I had all the time in the world.  I bought myself  a beautiful pair of white kid skates and some corduroy trousers, and every day I would go down to the rink.  There were two skating instructors, one was  

thin and pale, always in black, the other was plump, red cheeked and jolly.  I chose the jolly one, and I stumbled around on the ice, frequently falling, but I persisted though I was not a courageous skater.  Gradually I began to get the hang of it and was able to skate round the rink with a certain amount of confidence, and to enjoy it.

         As dusk fell, the ice would turn blue, the music began to play and people started to dance.  I wanted to learn how to dance and this was when the thin man started to teach me.  Slowly I gained more confidence and I learnt how to waltz round the rink to the strains of the music, usually Strauss waltzes.   My favourite times were in the early evenings when the sky was darkening and the stars were coming out.  There were few people left on the rink.  I would skate round and round, free, happy, like a bird.

         Afterwards, I would have a drink at the bar, a glass of tea.  “How old is she?” somebody asked.  “Cette femme n’a pas de classe” the thin man replied.  I did not know what he meant then.  “Without age, ageless”, I learnt later on.  It was something I stored up in my mind.

         I sometimes went to the Catholic church on a Sunday.  With plenty of time for thinking, I was again starting to have questions about religion.  The priest was a dark, handsome man.  I asked if I could speak to him.  I went to visit him and he started to explain to me the meaning of the Trinity.  He was learned and intellectual.  It made no sense to me.  Once again I went away disappointed and turned my mind to other things.

         My mother came me to visit me and stayed at a small hotel in the village.  She brought with her a beautiful fur hat which she had made for me.  Someone from the Canadian Club in Paris had been to see her, she told me. I was glad that she had not been entirely on her own.  She also brought with her some old photographs.   She had been corresponding with some of her old friends in Canada;  she had resumed contact with them after many years.  One of the photos was of herself  as a young girl of seventeen, wearing a graceful, lace blouse.  She looked beautiful and serene, like an angel.  I had never seen my mother like this.  For most of my life I had known her as old and careworn.  My eyes filled with tears.  This was a mother I had never known.

         One day I received a phone call.  It was Jean Pierre, he was very worried.  “How was I?” he asked.  I assured him that I was on the mend.  I was surprised, yet pleased to hear from him.  We had not seen each other for some time.

         The months went by. I was beginning to feel much calmer and better in myself.  All the fresh air and exercise I was getting had improved my physical health.   I had been away three months and it was time to return, even though I did not want to.

         I came back to Paris (with my new skates)  and went to Madame Dreyfus’s address.  She showed me to my room.  It was an attic room at the top of her house, it was dark, with wooden beams, and a small window looking out onto the street.   It was winter time, and it was gloomy and cold.  She left me and I was on my own.  I had caught a cold and I felt fluey and miserable.  “What was I doing here?”  After a day or two I decided to return to the flat.

         It was early evening.  As I opened the door I heard my mother, she was having a bath and talking to herself:

         “What I have done wrong?”  she was saying, “I’ve always done everything I could for her.”

         I felt my heart turn over.  I knew I could never leave my mother.  Some time back a fortune teller had read my palm and had told me:  “Never leave your mother, or it will kill her.”

         “Hello Mummy, I’m back.”  It was a moment of peace between us.

         The next day I went to see Madame Dreyfus to thank her and tell her that I had decided to return home.  “Oh, ce romantisme!” ** she exclaimed.

         I did not think so, that was how it was.

 *   rest home

**  such romanticism

(till I end my song ...)

'Le grand amour',  'Club Mediterranee' and 'Breakdown' will be inserted later.

(....... till I end my song)

                                            LIFE IN PARIS

         I had started thinking more about God.   Although I had decided at the age of fourteen that I did not believe in him, and was no longer a churchgoer, my curiosity and my enquiring mind had never let the subject drop altogether.  I had decided to call myself an agnostic, rather than an atheist  –  I just did not know.

         I began going inside the Catholic churches, of which there many in Paris.  Some of them had dim, dark interiors, with perhaps one guttering candle penetrating the gloom, with a strong smell of incense and dust;  others were like stage sets with a blaze of candles, statuary, gold, paintings and stained glass windows, and again the smell of incense.  These made me catch my breath.  I felt I was in fairyland.  I looked at the people kneeling in the pews, listened to the chanting of the priest and the congregation, and I was filled with the sense of devotion which I felt was emanating from them.

         I decided to go and see a priest.  I chose a church near to where we were living.  He was bald, with a large paunch, and looked as though he did not see much of the outside air.  He listened to me quite kindly as I shyly confided my desire to become a Roman Catholic.  He told me that I would need to receive instruction before I could be admitted into the Church.  I made an appointment to see him again.

         When I told my mother, she was horrified.

         “There’s never been a Roman Catholic in the family!” she declared.

         That this was illogical did not seem to enter her mind, since she was an atheist.  My desire, however, plummeted as quickly as it had arisen.  It was not, it seemed, based on any firm foundation.  When I returned to the priest I told him, with some trepidation, that I had changed my mind.  His face immediately became very stern.  He said, in chilling terms, that he hoped “that  Grace would not be withheld from me forever.”  With these words ringing in my ears, I turned my back on religion.

                                    ---------------------------

         I must have met Jean-Pierre on one of my outings with Arlette.  He was an Algerian, what was known in those days as a “pied noir.”  This was a term given to people of European descent in North Africa, meaning “black foot”, who returned to France after Algeria became independent in 1962.  He was also a Jew.

         He asked me to go out with him.  He was small, dark, serious and intense, and some years younger than I was.  I looked younger than my age, and in terms of life experience I was much younger than my years.  He was also ardent and passionate, qualities which appealed to me, so I said yes.

                                    ---------------------------------

         The years went by.  I became tired of working like a slave for M. Woirin, with his endless dictation.  Typing was never my favourite occupation and I was not very good at it.  I applied for a higher grade and began working in the Political Research Section for Mr. Newton.  He was a quiet academic man, very reserved, and there was little rapport between us.  He had health problems, a rather red face, and I knew he kept a bottle of whiskey stashed away in the drawer of his desk.  He liked to take a nap in the afternoon, with a large white hanky over his face and his feet on the desk.  He did not like to be disturbed.  I had as little work to do in my new office as I had had too much in the old, so I became very bored.   At least I had little typing.

         The flat near the Arc de Triomphe was soon giving us problems.  The only outside light we had came in from the courtyard, which was surrounded by other flats and tenants, so we were living in a permanent half light.  The adjoining streets were not very salubrious and my mother did not enjoy doing her shopping there.

         Once again I began the search for a new home.  We found one in a quiet cul-de-sac, rue du Gènéral Clergerie, a stone’s throw from NATO and near the fashionable Avenue Victor Hugo, which was in the 16^th arrondissement. *   The owner was Belgian, which meant that the flat was in perfect order, freshly painted, with all the proper accoutrements, cutlery, china, kitchen equipment, in complete contrast to the French people’s more slapdash approach, who rarely bothered over  such details.

         But it had one great disadvantage, which was that it was very tiny and not really suitable for two people.  It was on the ground floor and was entered through a small garden, straight into the bed sitting room.  There was a double bed, one armchair, a wardrobe and a dining table in the corner with two chairs.  This led into the bathroom, with a wash basin.  Attached to a cupboard door  in the bathroom was a baby Belling electric cooker which folded away into an alcove, where all the cleaning and other kitchen materials were kept.  It was a remarkably economic use of a small space, and for this reason it was priced at a rent that we could afford.

         We were once more seduced by its attractive appearance and location, and setting aside our better judgment,  we decided to move in.  There was simply nowhere else available.

*  ‘arrondissement’ means a district of Paris