Quails' eggs for breakfast is dreadfully passé, dears. The current big thing in Paris when breakfasting with friends is oeufs d'autruche, shared like fondue. It certainly makes one choose carefully with whom one spends the preceding night.
And on that note, all change on l'étape d'amour! Such a restless night, darlings, pondering dear James and Sebastian - their weaknesses, their little flaws - whilst poor Georges tossed beside me. One must be realistic about these things. A man who collects stamps at fifty nine, and who assumes one is remotely interested in this sticky foible, is surely a man who, at sixty five, will bore the pantaloons orf one with mumblings of woe over the elusive gaps in his collection. The stamps that might have been. Quite. James must go, dears.
Sebastian is, for now, reprieved - although if the tiresome man mentions the 4000 radio stations he can pick up on his digital receiver just one more time, it'll be the orf button for him too! One gets ruthless at my age, dears - one's tolerance levels begin to diminish around fifty and by eighty five if there's a trace left it is but as a wistful memory and quite quite intangible when one tries to grasp it.