Very soon,

in less than a month,

I'll have to pack my things in Cambridge,

Churchill College,

Staircase 52,

say goodbye,

and go away.

I won't be able anymore to fall dead asleep in the Bevin Library

instead of working,

I won't be able anymore to complain about the taste of food in the hall

for my delicate French tongue,

I won't be able anymore to make my buttocks

sore on the hard saddle of my beloved

twenty-second-hand bike,

because I'll come back where I've been said I belong:

the unique, fascinating, soft-named,

Paris.

Paris,

and the charming grumpy faces

of its self-obsessed Parisians.

Paris,

and the melodious stridency

of the refuse lorries

blocking the wet streets

in the grey morning.

Paris,

and all the time spent

in its crowded, neon-lighted,

urine-perfumed underground.

Paris,

and the purring sense of security

given by its daily

street harassment.

Oh, yes.

I'm longing so much to have again

my breasts groped,

to be called a 'salope' or a 'pute',

or to be helped while lost

by a dubious male citizen

who invites me to follow him

in the wrong direction.

Paris, Paris,

Capital city of all the World's Romance.

Paris,

  I must reluctantly return in your spiky arms;

Cambridge,

  I'm regretfully forced to abandon your ducks.

And even the flavour of Alpine cheese

won't console me of my loss.

But, while tipsy-ditsy with Sauternes or Muscat,

I'll tearfully remember and tell my merry French fellows:

'I had friends there, in Cambridge,'

'from all over the world,'

'and they were good, and they were kind,'

'and I hope I'll see them again very soon.'

June 2014