Jacques Brel sang for me this morning in a voice that echoed Gitanes and Pastis and dark dungeon cafes, young girls with heroin stained armpits and dull eyes, of glistening wet pavements, low grey skies, the smell of moules frites and angry charcoal seas and dark nights pierced by cathedral spires……….
Ne me quitte pas, he sang. Ne me quitte pas…….his voice floated down the staircase, deep and resonant and longing
Sipping a bowl of steaming creamy coffee, standing on my terrace, watching the sunrise over the Dordogne.....
Non, moi, je ne quitterai pas.....
