France

Alexander, on June.

Alexander: And my semi-obscure French word for June is rightfully, in my opinion anyway, “frisson”.

Alexander, reading The Economist.

The Economist: When France imposed a state of emergency in November, following the terror attacks in Paris, it implied some constraints on liberty. But the freedom to smoke was probably not one many observers had in mind. Fully 32% of French 17-year-olds admit that they smoke daily, and by law pupils can do so only outside school premises. Yet head teachers now fret that, by letting them out of the school gates during the day to light up, they face a greater threat: terrorism. Improbable as it seems, the country’s biggest head-teachers’ union, SNPDEN-Unsa, wrote last month to the Prime Minister, Manuel Valls, demanding clarification. Did the ban still apply under the state of emergency, as the health ministry insisted? Or, given the security risk of gathering on the pavement, could head teachers make an exception, as the education ministry seemed to suggest, and allow smoking on school grounds? This, argued some, was the lesser danger. “Between a cigarette and a Kalashnikov, the risk is not the same,” said Michel Richard, a head teacher at the union.

Alexander: Under threat of being denied cigarettes, I’m afraid I’d have to take my chances with the Kalashnikov.

Two friends, on magic.

Cecily: Maurice likes you very much. He sends his warmest regards.

Nino: He’s lovely; your true guardian angel. He reminds me of my mother.

Cecily: I knew he’d be special when we first met. I catalysed it. I saw him order a margarita and ordered the same, because I knew that way he’d talk to me. He still thinks it was more serendipity than strategy, but who am I to sap away that rare magic?

Two friends, on loving once.

Nino: I should not have hesitated with you.

Cecily: We weren’t right to be together forever. You know it. But we will always be something special. You know that too.

Nino: What do you think could have been wrong?

Cecily: We’re maybe both butterflies. And we seek plants to settle with. Not other butterflies.

Two friends, on the country house.

Christian: I live in fear of mutant spiders hiding in my luggage and journeying back to Paris with me from my country house. I rather suspect my gardener, Monsieur Poupée breeds them. And my Dutch lesbian neighbours sell them on the satanic market in Utrecht!

Cecily: The satanic market in Utrecht is the only place I’d want your mutant spiders to be. So, I am grateful for your Dutch lesbians and their industry.

Christian: Monsieur Poupée is an odd one, isn’t he? I didn’t realise he had a key to my house until recently — it’s all a bit Agatha Christie.

Cecily: Your country home is indeed a queer place, with extra queer neighbours, and a feeling that Miss Marple is hanging about in the shadows, ready to swoop in when one of us inevitably goes rogue over too much Bordeaux and boeuf bourguignon.