Victor Hugo gets his author photo taken.

"Oh, yes, Victor, very nice! Very intense. Like it. Great. Ok, shall we try another pose?"

"...Yep. Yep, that's good too. Ok, I think we've got some terrific options for that look. Tell you what, let's try one without your hand on your face. How about that?"

"......Ok. Yep, ok, that was my fault. I left you a loophole there, didn't I Vic? Fair enough. So! Now let's try one without your hand on your head AT ALL."

"...I'm not an idiot, Victor. [...] YES, that counts as 'on'! [...] Of course it does, it... Look. We're both tired. Let's take a break, shall we, for a few days. Or years, or... decades, even, and then come at it fresh."

"...........Seriously?"

"Fine. Very nice, Victor. Very intense. We'll use that one."

"Yeah. And the same to you."

Three Things

John Finnemore's Library Edition

There are two of these left. The one on Thursday 7th August is now sold out (although on past experience a few tickets seem to reappear in the final week for some reason, so if you're keen it might be worth keeping an eye out here ) but there are still tickets available for the last one, on Thursday 21st, and you can get 'em here. 

John and Kevin's Sunday Papers

As of last month, Kevin and I have made a slight policy change, in the noble cause of making our lives easier. Sunday Papers will still happen monthly, but not necessarily the first Sunday of the month. It could now be any Sunday. For August's edition, for instance, we have our eye on the 17th.


Something that's not just advertising.

I was in France a couple of weeks ago, and I visited a place where the ceiling was decorated with twelve little scenes depicting a traditional activity for each month of the year. So, in November, grape pressing. In December, hunting. In January, spinning. And in February… well, in February, apparently, what the people of rural France like to do is this:

February looks like fun.

...And the Dutch, who are probably high, may or may not have something to say about our pepper.

Quote from the blurb on the back of a packet of sea salt:

"The French, as fussy about health as they are about food, make great claims for the rare salts contained in Sea Salt."

This may be the most arm's-length recommendation of one's own product I've ever read.

"The French..." (Not us, you understand, we're not French. And not any particular French. Just, you know, the nation in general)

"...as fussy about health as they are about food..." (Silly faddy Frenchies. I wouldn't listen to any claims they might happen to make, the big Gallic fuss-pots.)

"...make great claims..." (We're not saying what the claims are. And we're certainly not saying whether or not they're true. In fact, with the adjective 'great', we're rather hinting they're not.)

"...for the rare salts contained in Sea Salt." (So, just so we're clear, these unspecified and unsubstantiated claims made by unidentified people are not, in fact, for our product, but for trace elements found within it. So, no suing, Ok? But, yeah, basically, salt is good for you.)

I have my suspicions about 'Tripous', though.

I have invented a game to play at restaurants here called 'French Roulette'. To play, you require a menu, and a very hazy grasp of the French language. Then, rather than doing what I used to do, and having one of the four or five things I could identify, you pick the most impenetrable looking phrase, ask for it, and cross your fingers it isn't liver. Yesterday, for instance, I went for 'coquilles de Saint-Jacques', on the grounds that they sounded like they might well be holy relics. In fact, they were bits of fish on a stick. But very nice bits of fish. Then I ordered 'coupe de fraises', probably because the word 'coupe' had subconciously made me expect something rather special- as if the chef had turned to the sous-chef and said 'You know, Serge, I think I've pulled off something of a coup with these fraises!' Then they turned up. And I realised that if so, the rest of the conversation would have gone like this:

SERGE: Really, Jean-Claude? Why, what have you done with them?
JEAN-CLAUDE: Well, I've cut them in halves...
SERGE: Mon Dieu!
JEAN-CLAUDE: Let me finish, Serge! I've cut them into halves... and then I've put them in a bowl.
SERGE: You, mon ami, are a culinary genius. But aren't those the fraises we've had in the freezer for two years?
JEAN-CLAUDE: The very same. And what I've rather cleverly done is only let them three-quarters thaw, so there's still a little frozen bit in the middle of each one. Like a baked Alaska in fruit form.
SERGE: Maestro. You stand alone.