If you want proof that coffee is a drug, look no further.

Last night, after ascertaining that long distance calling from the flat is free, I called my mother. She’s fine, she misses me, spring is a long time coming – and as we were getting caught up, the line went dead. At first I thought something was wrong with her phone, but no, it was mine. I’ve tried everything, unplugging, changing batteries, but the line is still just dead.

The first time I stayed in this apartment, some of you may recall, when I arrived, the electricity didn’t work or the telephone or the internet, and later during my stay the heating system broke and then – best of all – the toilet. Now, again, the telephone. The concierge does not have the internet, so this meant going to the kindly tabac man, buying a 5 euro phone card, and going down the street to the phone booth. Luckily Noemi was there and is going to come by. A friend is coming for lunch today, and I don’t think she knows which flat is mine. She was going to call.

Travelling without a cell phone, story # 6,493. Do not do it. I have said this before.

But it’s a stunning day in Paris and will remain so all week. Michele who’s coming today has been a friend since the mid-Sixties too; she was a student, then a colleague of my father’s. We’re going to meet her husband Daniel later and go to a vernissage, an art opening of the daughter of a friend of theirs.

And I will be sparkly. I am sparkly now. Thanks to this fine black drug coursing through my veins.