Mon dieu

Some people, when they’re feeling miserable, fixate on raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. Stuff and nonsense! This afternoon I took my snivelling self out of the sunshine and into the depths of the Renoir Cinema, stopping only to dash into a corner shop for a mini-bottle of cheap red wine. I sank into a nice velvet chair, and settled in for an afternoon of the Nouvelle Vague.

No-one does misery like the French. I’ve loved Truffaut’s Les Quatre Cent Coups since I was a teenager, when I would close the curtains and slump in front of the VHS videoplayer for entire afternoons at a time, emerging only for light snacks and to moan about the unfairness of being born in a small village in the Lake District instead of the Left Bank.

I can safely say, that as the level in the mini-bottle sank, and I ran out of tissues, I was as gripped as I was all those years ago. Poor old world. Poor old Antoine Doinel. Poor old moi. Quel cafard!

I came out an hour and a half later thoroughly refreshed. There’s nothing like seeing the misery of a teenager to put your problems in perspective. Especially a French one.