This is the nearest bar to our house which, I should mention, is a very, very, very fine house with two cats in the yard, life…I have to confess that the cats have been dead for a couple of years but the feling (sic) remains. Out through the gate in the wall and across the yard, leaving a vegetable garden to my right, and in a about 40 steps I’m at the bar. As there is rarely more than three or four people there, more often just two of us, the nomenclature of “bar” is bar is hyperbolic. My neighbour’s cave is where I go when he invites me for a “coup de rouge” which event may occur at 9.00am or 9.00pm. It’s a place where I am invariably content to be. Conversation never includes sport or big tits which leaves more interesting things to discuss such as our respective new aches and pains, the failure of all governments world wide to achieve any of their aims with special attention to France, eating and drinking. This is a place where wines rarely age. Most of them are harsh when young and will only get harsher with age, so are best drunk quickly whilst trying to keep a smile on rapidly blackening lips. It’s a place of comfort where the sanity of having chosen to live in such a place becomes clearer to me each day.