Eating outside at night is clear evidence of summer; being comfortable and warm whilst eating outside is clear evidence of a perfect summer night. It only takes one forgetful old man repeating a well worn story for the umpteenth time to bring such a night to its knees, begging for mercy. So here I go. It was a warm and gentle night and the photographer said to his assistant “come for a swim, assistant” and the assistant said “but I have no swimmers” to which the photographer said “bollocks, you can swim in your pants and I know a secret route to the swimming pool through the maze of corridors in this very expensive and exclusive hotel”, where we were staying because we’d been shooting a highly paid advertising job and the client was paying, “enabling us to reach the pool unseen” and so saying walked boldly through an unmarked door into the heart of the packed restaurant whose clientele were now like frozen figures from a Bateman cartoon as they looked in amazement at the man in smart black underpants with a folded white towel over one arm, starkly lit by a flaming crepe Suzette, like a disturbed waiter who had spent his tips on drugs. By this point I am alone at the table, Jenny and our friends having left out of fear that I might remember some other oft repeated tale……so it was left to me to eat the best part of a perfectly ripe Reblochon with a bunch of sweet, dark skinned grapes and good bread…..a very good night, I thought.