Sainte Mariette

You have to be catholic or watch the French news or have a calendar to know which saint  day it is.  I am not, do not and have not.  So I didn't know.
Josette came round to N° 10 at 12 on the dot with a bunch of flowers.  She pushed the door open and wished me a happy fête and could she have a glass of wine.  
I was trying to move a chest of drawers down the stairs in our slow transition to the mill.  
I sat her down in a chair, received the flowers with grace and gave her as much of a hug as one can to someone so tiny and thin.
I lugged the chest of drawers into the boot and popped Josette into the front seat.
At the mill I poured her a glass of wine and myself a stiff gin, put the flowers in a vase and sat down to listen to her tirades
Mixed marriages are all well and good, but not between whites and blacks or Arabs.  Nico, a café crème, laughed so much he choked on his cuba libre. 
Homosexuality is an illness which needs to be treated, although her best friends are gay.
She talks about her lovers; Roberto from the Relais de Mirepoix, Yvan from Castignoles.  They are figments of her mind, dream lovers and the reason why she is banned from every café in town.