Or thereabouts. The power today goes from 3 to 6 and moreover the internet at the flat is throttled, so I have made my usual pilgrimage to one of the cafes. My preferred one is Urbanista, about a seven minute walk west of the flat, where the waiters now recognise me – though I am probably also their only South Asian customer, as the other desis appear to mostly be migrant workers from Nepal. Along the way was an almighty traffic jam. Rue Garoud is a narrow one-way street but on weekdays there are cars parked on either side, and today a bright spark had decided to park parallel to one of the parked cars. This left enough room for most cars to squeak past, depending on their little rubber door-bumpers to protect them, but then a rubbish truck came along and was certainly not able to pass. The car remained peacefully unattended, the truck behind it with men gathering to direct the driver through an impossible space, and behind cars lined up for hundreds of metres down the road, emitting a near-continuous honk that echoed down the narrow street, bouncing off the tall buildings on either side.
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