ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
It’s three in the morning and one local real estate agent laughs and says he’ll sort it out later.
As the reasonable hours wind down at Gary Breman’s Old City District terrace, it becomes apparent that later is right now.
“I’m going to run up and down the stairs for an hour,” he said.
“That should help me find everything. But in particular, I’m looking for that fresh deck I got this afternoon before work,”
“I refuse to believe that I left it behind and I also reject the notion that I left it behind at home or at the day-time-hour pub we went to after work. I will find them, even if it costs me my sanity.”
Making short work of what’s left of his sanity, Gary enlisted the help of all the quiet young men and women who’ve materialised in his Rue du Lapin two-bedder.
“Don’t just stand there,” he said.
“They are John Player Specials. An olive pack and a whole heap of warning labels. I’d never advocate smoking, it will kill you slowly and painfully, but I’d burn down half of Europe to find my durries,”
“Can I borrow one?”
More to come.
