paris calling

Came home this afternoon and heard giggle from the kitchen. It was mother. She was sitting on a chair, dangling with her legs. The image of a little girl. I knew who she was talking to. There is only one person whose calls will transfer her into that. I knew it had to be my father on the other line..


My father. Tall, dark and mysterious. The one they talk about in movies, the one they describe in literature. He lives in Paris, Jean-François. Mother ones lived with him but decided to move back home to England, because she missed the weather she explained. But I knew that was not the real reason. So she moved, well we moved. But they continued to be together. Long distance romance. Every once in a while he'd be in England and they'd carry on like nothing had happened. Same thing when we were in France. Then father met his french love and they moved in together. But nothing could change the great love between my parents. One or two or even three persons to love is only natural. And I got along really well with his new female friend. So who would care..


So our lives were filled with love. Everybody loved everybody. C'est l'amour, elle est comme ça, explained my father. And I never questioned it. I never thought about it as something other than perfectly normal. I just lived with it, like everyone else..