I used to read a lot of translated French poetry in those days, in the house with the leaky rafters. Lots of Jacque Prevert and Leonard Cohen’s French writing. There would never be any food, except greasy Hersch burgers at night, and the sound of incessant rain and the water seeping in, but never managing to dampen our spirits. The lovely brown boy and me. And in Christmas and Easter there would be the choir’s voices blowing into the house in the sea breeze. And it was the sea that distracted me from drawing. Walking on the Bandstand, the high tide at midnight and all those glamorous beautiful people. Living was difficult but we were a different delirious happy. And so now.