Streets full of water, please advise
New York after the rain.
Actually, the deluge has ended, and now the ripples distorting the skyline are those of heat haze. I’ve been sweating like Sweaty Betty the Serengeti yeti. Returning to my digs, I’ve just wrung out my skin and put on a clean one. (Biologists insist that the Scots shed their skins, but this is not strictly true — we may slough our skins, but the true thrifty Scot never sheds anything. Our old skins are carefully stored on coat hangers and used to wrap haggis.)
Two Duviviers today, of which more later, I hope. LE TOURBILLON DE PARIS (THE WHIRLWIND OF PARIS) contained a striking intertitle, “This is our last dance, Jean. I’m leaving for Scotland tomorrow,” which struck me as magnificently apt. If I’d had more presence of mind I might have tried to grab a photo of it. But tomorrow’s Intertitle of the Week is even more appropriate, and applies to everybody, not just me.