Home

I have to think hard about where Mu is.  Where Mu is is where there's a shower.  Right now she's house sitting at Lisa Galton's.   
I'm still in beach mode so feel a bit under dressed and I'm carrying a plate with a bit of cake and a razor so I dip down the back streets to be less seen.  
Madani is sitting on a bench in the lamp light. His arm is all trussed up in a bandage.  There's a going on in the Trinitaires, French and Arab voices above the sound of music.  Bernie pulls me to the back of L'autre jardin where the plonge is stacking the machine and then cringes away from the machine gun fire coming from the cinema doors.  From Loic's house, in which I know there are at least 6 children,  a small one cries a cry that can only end in hiccups.  There is the sound of cutlery and plates, an owl up in the umbrella pine on the corner of Maréchal Joffre and a bunch of kids cycle noisily down the Cours Pons Tande as the tables are wiped down outside La Flambée.
We are home again.