In the restaurant of Hotel Victoria an older lady refused to sit down. She pointed at a table where two people were having dinner and she said: “That’s my table.”

I remembered the lady well. A year ago we had a conversation near the swimming pool. She is a widow who divides her time between Hotel Victoria in Glion and her apartment in the UK. She is fond of Agatha Christie.
The loss of Eros needs to be compensated of course.

Sometimes I wonder if we shouldn't encourage young, unemployed men to stroke the bodies of lonesome widows in expensive hotels.
If the unemployed youngster refuses to stroke the widow's body the state should cut his unemployment money.
Voila, a modest proposal to heal the world.
It goes without saying that the widow should be able to refuse this offer. She is entitled to prefer melancholy to unemployed youngsters.