Paris Sunday

Sunday, February 11th., Hotel Matignon, Paris.

When I got up the snow was falling thickly. Naturally the snow turned to rain. The chances are ten to one that snow will degenerate into rain in a large city. I took a young friend to lunch at the Tour d'Argent. No need to be coy - a rather pleasant looking young lady friend! I think I may have neglected to tell Dorothy just exactly what my plans were.

Tour d'Argent

Of course tradition compelled me to order duck, and of course the waiter gave me a slip with the ordinal number of the duck which was served to us. This piece of ritual seems to be fixed forever in the proceedings of this ancient, good, and expensive restaurant. Though I cannot imagine why a customer should be interested to know how many ducks have been eaten by previous customers, or that his particular duck is the tenth or the hundred thousandth so served! Perhaps the idea is that the ducks acquire greater dignity in not dying anonymously? Does this enhance their flavour?

In any case our duck was very flavoursome though I gave it perhaps less attention than it deserved, being engaged in a mild attempt at verbal seduction. We were the only foreigners in the place. I threw my ordinal slip on the floor. The next moment the waiter picked it up and gave it to me again. Out of regard for his emotional loyalty to the restaurant I put it in my pocket.

After the usual trouble over taxis on a wet day in Paris we drove to Notre Dame. The damp cold in the huge and gloomy interior was intense. Hundreds of girls in thin white or half white sat or stood shivering, waiting for something or other to begin. Some preposterous religious ritual I should think. The mere spectacle of them made me turn up the collar of my overcoat. We went out full of fatal germs.

Then my young friend told me that she had forgotten to bring her goloshes from London, that she could not possibly cross any more broad wet pavements in her fragile shoes, and that she must buy a pair of goloshes at once. This announcement of course necessitated a close inspection by me of her rather nicely turned ankles and calves. She asked me, as an old resident of Paris with local knowledge, to take her to a shop where she could buy galoshes notwithstanding it being Sunday. It is on such occasions that a man must keep his nerve. I remembered a department store in the Rue d'Amsterdam and we drove there. It was open. They had no galoshes! I was prepared to give up but my young friend was not. She said to the taxi driver: "Where can I buy galoshes?" The driver instantly replied: "Avenue de Clichy."

Off we went up the hill to the Avenue de Clichy where, at a certain famous retaurant, I had frequently eaten the glorious dish at which Anglo-Saxons turn up their noses: tripe. No tripe today though. Instead we entered a large, busy shop containing millions of pairs of shoes. The first thing we saw was a range of satin shoes. "Oh!" said my friend, "I like the look of those and how cheap they are. I couldn't get those in London for that price." Etc... She bought a pair of satin shoes in something less than half an hour. If there isn't a lunatic asylum in Paris for shop assistants, there ought to be. She was about to leave the shop when I said: "Galoshes?" She said: "Yes, I suppose I may as well get a pair as I'm here." She did get a pair, and put them on. My interest in her lower limbs had waned. I don't suppose the entire business took more than an hour. Soon afterwards I felt the need to sever myself from mankind and went to my hotel for a sleep. At my age I really should have known better.

Later, in recovery, I dined with other friends at that notorius establishment "The Ox on the Roof", where the excessive stridency of the orchestra lifts all conversation to a shout. Thence to a cinema to see "White Shadows", presented by the great French film firm Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer! This film has pre-recorded sound effects which is interesting. At 11.20 the show finished. Outside, wind and rain, but not a taxi. I walked to the hotel in the wind and rain. End of a Paris Sunday.