petite anglaise

My local park temporarily belongs to the axis of evil in the summertime. Parisians tend to live in miniscule shoeboxes with plastic red geraniums on the windowsill instead of gardens, so the park is a back yard I share with a few thousand neighbours, plus some tourists thrown in for good measure. Finding a patch of grass to sit on is almost as challenging as spreading your towel on a Côte d’Azur beach.

So, picture the scene: after half an hour of pushing a grizzly toddler around while searching for a some unoccupied territory, I finally find a shady spot, take a (medicinal) swig from my hipflask, unstrap toddler, unpack toys…

…and as if by magic, the shopkeeper park warden appears, whistle blowing angrily. He stands over me, hands on hips, brimming with self-importance, giving me plenty of time to admire his carefully ironed uniform, should I wish to.

“Can’t you read, Madame? This grass is out of bounds! It’s au repos.”

I couldn’t help but wonder: when he was a little boy, did he daydream about becoming a defender of the nation’s lawns? Did he fantasise about owning that uniform?

I’m familiar with the concept of a sports car, a throbbing motorcycle or an electric guitar as an extension of manhood. But a whistle?