Paris . . .

. . .  was yesterday, and the day before that.  So many lovely cups of coffee, so many delicious glasses of vin, both sparkling and still, and absolutely no tales to tell.  Not yet anyway.

OK, so no Paris landmarks, who is to say I was even there?  Such famous landmarks are the subjects of so many postcards, images et al and I, subject to sensory overload simply in being there, was not about to add to the slush pile. So we wandered aimlessly, finding purpose around every corner and  happy to have snatched some time in this glorious city.
Back in London where the Underground has gone on strike (is this a return to the good
old bad days of winter discontent . . . ?) we wait for another flight back to that Land of the Free where the TSA guard our safety with threats of impending doom if we so much as look at our cellphones whilst larger than life images of Robert de Niro, Debbie Harry and others welcome us though we are family, if not friends, and they are out there, waiting for us to join them.  What is taking you so long, they appear to ask and we would tell them, if only we could get out of there fast enough.
Time to go . . .