The day of the show stands out now of course. What was it that I did in the morning? That particular date, before four, what did I do? At four, I was at the evening, but prior to this, I am struggling to remember. It should be like yesterday. Was it yesterday?
The return from the park I do not remember, but return I did. Back to the house no doubt, to collect my equipment, to meet Maité and Victor and then to travel to the venue for the evening show. The place reminded me of a farmhouse, or perhaps Morden Tower in Newcastle, but set into a very strange area of Paris. The street itself was very old, the buildings only a few storeys high, with low-slung darkwood beams. Around the corner were serveral dusty plazas, entirely devoid of traffic or people and an abandoned, resting market, the aluminium ribs of the stalls still standing. In the backstreets were renovated old townhouses, some with large panoramic fronts of glass, converted into architectural studios. All around dominated huge angular and segmented tower blocks, mass-living at odds with the streets at the base of these buildings, streets in which barely a cat stirred, so much so that one felt as though one were walking through a film-set after-hours and without permission.