Read by Ed Cooper Clarke
Aaaah! J’adore the smell of Poissy in the morning, this little place on the outskirts of Paris, the birthplace of kings, the birthplace of my king, Louis IX, my master, mon amour, ma raison. Poissy exudes royalty, its perfectly pleached hedges, its aroma of oils and spice, tabac et parfum, its fine Dukes and Counts in tailored silks, debating philosophie and art on the lawns to the sound of a soft harp. Even Poissy’s sunshine is somehow regal, its air noble, its water majestic … Oh, bon matin garcons, ou est mon petit dejeuner? Attend … wait … arretez, stop … get your hands off me! … Where are we going? Louis! Louis! They are taking me! Unhand me, sir! Louis!