What have the French ever done?
Apart from give us Brigitte Bardot, obviously. And produce Chantal Thomass, creator of the first babydoll negligee for daywear in 1972. Well, and dream up supremely apposite words for my blog, such as lingerie, brassiere and femme fatale. Oh bugger, I’d forgotten about Debussy and Baudelaire, too. Let me start again.
Did you know that Jim Morrison is buried in Paris? Famous for saying, ‘Some of the worst mistakes of my life have been haircuts,’ and a bit of singing for The Doors, one might expect rather an arresting headstone in Pere Lachaise Cemetery? Nope, an anti-climax. Oscar Wilde is also interred there, but of course he never wrote anything worth quoting.
Don’t get me wrong – it’s a smashing burial ground, with people dying to visit. And views of the Eiffel Tower are sublime. But I’m not a Doors fan. I could just as well have been conducting an experiment in my truck, back at the Walking With Dinosaurs venue.
I wondered, you see, whether bedsores might be achievable between loading equipment into an arena and loading it back out again. Surely a 120-hour break, given unstinting, dedicated application – and a bedpan – would be enough time to nurture a pressure ulcer?
Well, I Googled it…and am now none the wiser. From what I’ve gleaned, I could get one in the space of a few hours, but the clincher seems to be not noticing you’re uncomfortable lying on a bony bit for the requisite period. Hmm. And it helps if you’re in ill-health to start with. Drat! Want to know how this Voltairian philosophy arose in the first place?
I’ll give you a clue. ‘She’s the cutest little trick in shoe leather.’ Ring any bells? No, OK, how about the following, imprinted on a sundial during the film. ‘Do Not Squander Time. That Is The Stuff Life Is Made Of.’
Frankly, My Dear, I Don’t Give A Damn
The irony, of course, is that Gone With The Wind (1939) – in glorious technicolour, no less – is almost four hours long. If that isn’t squandering time, I don’t know what is. A half-page precis would serve you better but, if you’re blighted with a predilection for bloody-mindedness, at least stop for tea and turn yourself during the intermission.
If you survive the film – or better still, only the synopsis – and fancy popping over to Paris, here’s a tip. Tear yourself away from the Can Can girls for an hour and check out Place des Vosges, near The Bastille – musicians play in the cloisters on Sundays. Super acoustics. Wonder if Jim ever busked there…