Faux French Bistro #life seems eerily simple, Sat here in this faux French bistro. Ping! 'Oh piss off' comes a sudden interjection, Cutting through tacky French ballads a misdirected dejection. 'PPI ads by text? The bloody cheek!' As he rattles on, prattles on. Something about mortgages? I regret to say I've failed to listen. As passers by continue on, Strolling, jogging, trudging along. As I write my musings I hear further muttering. Something about the theatre? I begin to listen a little closer - did he say hotel? This sounds suspiciously like a romantic get away. Or an impromptu run away? What of the children, My maternal, metaphorical umbilical asks? 'They're *fine*!' he retorts, almost snorts. He could've said 'never mind the kids - social services have a three strike policy.' 'Your mother will be *fine*' he adds, trying to sound less of a cad. He almost has me swayed, pictures of our chaotic household fade. Into scenes of fine wine and fine dining. Cheekily booking in with no baggage, bar a stray dummy. A smashed biscuit for Mummy. The blushes are spared. Rare moments like these are how my handbag came to look like this. Hand in hand, a stray kiss. The circle comes round and we're in this bistro. And to me, it's bliss.