Choux, don’t bother me

The music blared just as it does when hoons drive past with their double exhaust pipes, the windows down on an ultra ugly car with extra wide tyres. 

Sitting at a cafe on the edge of the market square, wondering where on earth the horrible noise was coming from, I turned to see a  man walking toward.  Under his arm he carried a radio, the kind I was so happy to have received one Christmas way back in the mids 80’s.  His face was filled with crankiness, the kind a frenchman gets when he has been inconvenienced.  No doubt someone told him to turn the blasted thing off. 

As he approached the door to walk into the cafe, habitually he cascaded the antenna away and turned the dial to off.  Barely seconds later, he left the cafe, and in doing so pulled the antenna out, complete with the muguet that was attached to the tip. On went the dial. It blared again as he walked off. Sight unseen the racket could still be heard.

A camera crew ,with gear covered in plastic to protect it from the morning downpour, turned long enough to see what made the noise.  Not interested, they turned back to their quest.   Too many old ladies doing the market shop had turned them down and they’d finally found a lady who was prepared to co-operate.  The camera man hit the record button as I donned my raincoat, hat and collected my choux.

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