Critical Mass

Friday, 26 July

After much drum-rolling on social media, publication day finally came last week for my new novel Civilisation Française. Neil and Nancy J, Paris friends who now live in central London and have the perfect open-spaced apartment for a large party, offered to host the launch. Maybe they have the space because they are so good at entertaining, but whichever came first, the hosting skills or the perfect venue, they gracefully and effortlessly offered my book its first public airing (thank you again).

It was especially appreciated given how nervous I was about receiving guests, starting with Will people show up, via Will they have a good time, to Will they buy a book?

My computer Oxford Dictionary of English defines critical mass of the non-nuclear sort as “the minimum size or number of resources required to start or maintain a venture”. As such, my first event gave hopeful signs. About 25 people attended (thank you, those of you who are reading this!). I introduced the novel and read a short passage. Those who bought books that I signed promised to pass on the good word to reading groups and friends. The atmosphere was positive.

Unlike the ambiance in the French capital in the days preceding the opening of the Olympic Games. The city's heart was so devoid of Parisiens, not to mention a sudden drop in the tourist population, there was nowhere near the minimum number of bodies needed to maintain the urban venture that is Paris. It was downright eerie.

The spookiness was heightened by the growing carceral nature of the streets near the Seine. Barriers were put up everywhere (185kms/115 miles in one night last week), and police officers replaced la bourgeoisie as the largest riparian group.

It was a relief to get out to the Perche. The harvest was in full swing, with a multitude of hay bales to keep one company.

But today I return to Paris. My stepson Alex flies back to California tomorrow morning, and a family from Berlin who is using our apartment during the Olympics arrives by train in the evening.

Or so I hope. It's now Saturday morning. Our train was 90 minutes late and the Gare Montparnasse in Paris full of people whose locomotives weren't leaving at all, due to coordinated arson attacks on French rail lines Thursday night.

Theories on the responsible party abound. It was the ultra-right. No, the methods are more indicative of the ultra-left, maybe le black bloc. But why would they want to prevent workers going on holiday? The perpetrators must have been proxies for a foreign agent.

The identity of the criminals remains a mystery, but the attacks were an inauspicious prologue to the opening ceremony of the Games, where it poured throughout the kitschy extravaganza that I watched in dry comfort on TV.

But a curious critical human mass has returned to the streets and one that is considerably less grumpy than the usual Paris variety. It's heartening to see people from all over our divided world rubbing wet shoulders and clapping together. I'm pleased to have had a tiny taste of the city during the Games and hope the critics will be massively positive about the 2024 Paris Olympics. And of course about my 2024 book too.

I'll be enjoying some quiet time in the peace of the Perche next month and will be back to you in September.

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