shopping

Whilst the ruffled gold of wheat fields wave those of you lucky to be down south in to drowsy desire; whilst the spears of barley mesh into a pattern of lolling summer light, whilst the chorus of sunflowers turn their cheeky smiles towards you and give you a tutti wink......



It is hot in Strasbourg. An infernal pit sans aircon has us all burning up. In 35 degrees oboists loosen their collars to squeeze out humid air from the bulging red toad necks, pretty single violinists don strappy tops to show off their bronzed bowing technique, horn players throw away their ties and the floor is covered in damp footprints as one by one we abandon concert dress entirely. A Swedish member of the cello section cannot cope at all. He slouches pallid and drained underneath the weight of the chaleur, reaching tragically for his mini fan in all the recits. He has given up the vital job of turning the continuo player's pages all together so our section leader, with not a crotchet off in the entire piece to gulp Vittel, let alone turn a page, is whipping them over furiously whenever he has an open string and his left hand is mometarily free.


Whilst the slow amber moving picture of nature plays down in Provence, I sought comfort elsewhere. And I found it: A very dangerous drug which promised to cure my home-sickness called

The sales at Cotélac.