Morning stroll with the dog through the latest batch of garbage and smashed bottles. A small dog, lost, races out of a busted building with hysterical barks. Unpleasant at any hour, but first thing in the morning? spare me the sound of hysterical barking. I change routes on the return trip. A young cat – still almost a kitten – approaches my dog. Something unusual happens: instead of getting into her chasing stance, she wags her tail. They rub noses. If this were a made-for-TV episode, I’d hear: “Sammy, is that you?” – “Loretta… Loretta, I can’t believe…” (against a background of timid violins wishing to soar).
The cat trots along with us. The two of them stop every so often for another nose rub. All the way to our door where I have to break up the budding relationship and shut the door to plaintive miaowing.
Thus ends this installment of True Friendship Amid the Rubble.
Now, I wait for a decent phoning hour – say, eight am – to find out if I go to Albi/don’t go to Albi/deal with a happy young man with a signed contract for a training session/deal with an angry me and a despondent young man gypped again, gypped again, gypped again.*
Last night involved a verbal walk into looming unpleasantness with a father and his fourteen-year old daughter serving as interpreter. We have a month in which to figure out their next move. At this point, they still want to believe we’ll find a way for them to stay legally in France. I promise to check while laying out the more realistic (and unpleasant) options they’ll have to tackle soon. The mother’s tenuous mental balance won’t improve as the daddy’s temporary authorization to wander without the right to work approaches expiry.
Voilà for the current snapshot on Life in Real Time. Apart from the fact I’d like to know what happens next in terms of contract/no contract for the young man, I sure would like to know if I’m in for a day of wandering in Albi’s industrial sector, or one of chasing down my characters wherever they may be slumbering. Something like life-sized puppets dropped off in mid-action.
Allez. Seven am, breakfast, and whatever comes next.
*ouf. At seven fifty am, at least one piece of good news: the contractor has business in this town and will drop in to sign the contract before noon.