Jacky Parp-Parp Pardon

Over the course of recent bout of interviews, one question begun annoy me: “What is your next book called and what is it about?” It is a perfectly reasonable avenue of journalistic enquiry, but somehow it seems too invasive. Beyond the usual author superstition on giving away working titles and subject matter, prematurely exposing the gestating wee beastie makes me uncomfortable.

Therefore to occult the truth, I have decided to tell any interviewer who asks that my next book is called Jacky Parp-Parp Pardon. It is a children’s book influenced by Jaques Brel, Louis Armstrong, Viz, Vic and Bob and the comedy of Jacques Tati. Due to its French quality, I am moving to Provence to write it.

Cobbled Streets and Cat-wide Alleys

My broken body has forgotten sleep. Bruised lungs protest the need for rest. I want air unburdened by its city clothing of carbon monoxide and diesel fumes.

I head south. As much as landscape, it seems as if I am travelling through weather. Forests trapped by mist; encased in static silence as if every vapour droplet was composed of resin. Shoulders of mountains wet where low cloud clings to them in a tearful embrace. Fields wearing the penitent brown of sackcloth are lashed by rain. With Mont Ventoux growing in my vision, the mistral roars. Its growling gusts so forceful everything but blue sky flees from them.

The mistral chases me up Avignon’s cobbled streets and cat-wide alleys. Barely existing pavements splutter out as rues narrow and turn like dying streams. To let motorists pass, several times I have to press myself to medieval wall or ravaged plaster, scored and failing like grandfather skin. Cars here are clearly driven by owners that believe aluminium can pass through stone or flesh like a phantom when faced with a problem of width. The saints of the city must be constantly called upon to bestow the grace of millimetres.

Fording the trickle of traffic on rue des Infirmières, I finally reach my new home. Number 35 hugs the Avignon’s walls like a child sheltering beneath a parent’s coat. I have private courtyard roofed with wisteria, tiled floors and cabbalist blue shutters. It feels as if I am living in a Provençal postcard.