Classic

Classic French cinema at chez Raheny this evening.
With dozens of Gitanes smoked hungrily, the sound of a Citroen DS's tyres grinding to a halt on a gravel drive, sultry looks, soup slurped noisily, Claude Pieplu's inimitable voice, adultery, polo neck jumpers, a provincial town where the petit commerce hasn't been annihilated by supermarkets, comical kissing scenes (concerto for strings of saliva), more Gitanes, more noisy eating, religious imagery, a glimpse of a boob, tedious in-car shots, old telephones, letters written - stamped - posted - and read, and burned in a crystal ashtray, a mayoral sticker on a windscreen, a legion d'honneur on the lapel of a suit, Stephane Audran's passionate "je t'aime", torn pieces of bread dumped in the soup, and a half ballon de rouge, and slurped noisily. 
And kids forced to wear very itchy tergal wool blend trousers.
Oh no, that wasn't in the film.
That was my youth. 
But the film brought it all back to me. 

Especially the slurps.