Accordion Man

Market day and it rained like I've not seen rain in a while. I skittered through the Couverts, feeling underdressed and found my flock at two seperate tables outside Atmos.  My impulse was to join Gen Z but the Boomers had spotted me so I ordered a coffee and sat and was talked to for the time it takes to drink a grande crème.  

They went their way on their sticks and I glanced back to Mu's table where she was now alone with Oscar and was beckoning me over.  Given that these two children grew up together and from the age of 5 always swore they would marry and live in the bothy above the beehive wood, I thought she might be comfortable with that easy intimacy but my maternal barometer sensed my daughter's neediness so I pulled up a chair and sat with them.  

Baptiste was wearing his dungarees and a pair of wellies. He swapped his banjo for the accordion and came to our table. I asked him if he could play L'internationale  which he did with aplomb, making the line 'c'est la lutte finale' rhyme with 'et Macron est bouffon' which got him lots of centimes in his cap. 

He rounded it off with gusto and sat down next to us to roll a cigarette.