Four elderly, well-preserved ladies were sitting in the back of café Le Cirio in the center of Brussels.
A handsome man in his early fifties was feeding ham to his dog.
Oh, café le Cirio.
More than five years ago a Belgian friend introduced me to this café. I’ll be forever thankful to him.
It was five o’clock in the afternoon. My godson’s mother and I were drinking “half en half”; my godson was enjoying hot chocolate.
I said to my godson’s mother: “When I’m old I’ll go to Switzerland. I’ll walk a few hours a day, I’ll read the newspaper after lunch and then I’ll take a nap. Before dinner I will work on a new novel, I’ll know that the novel is going to be a minor addition to my oeuvre, but hey I’m 87 years old. Before I’ll go to bed I’ll call somebody for small talk or phone sex.”