Mondo bello

Last night saw the usual procession of limos stopping to drop 'people' off at Mamo's restaurant next door. One convoy consisted of the usual darkened glass black people carriers, front and rear, with the heavies, and sandwiched in between was a red sports car so low slung it had difficulty in negotiating the speed bump in front of our house. Clearly, security conditions weren't quite right, so the convoy went round the block again, the sports car roaring manfully as it negotiated the speed bump at approximately baby crawling pace. Second time round, the security detail judged things to be optimal. The burpmobile rolled to a halt in front of the restaurant door, gave one last blast of its throbbing exhaust, and deposited a diminutive but perfectly formed blonde into the restaurant.

A few minutes later, another convoy arrived. Somebody worth greeting, because Mamo and the whole équipe were there to salute the arrival. First out was the ubiquitous helper-door opener, next came a large but slightly superannuated dog, and finally a poor chap who struggled, even with Mamo's considerable muscle to help him, to get out of the car. Quite tall, and dressed in a Graham Green style tropical suit. What really impressed me, even at forty metres distance however, was that his enormous teeth glowed in the dark. Behind me, the BH said quietly, but with a certain frisson betraying life-affirming matinees at the cinema during important moments in her life, 'Celui-là, c'est Jean-Paul Belmondo.'

Those whom the gods love, die young. James Dean and his ilk. Belmondo has lived long enough for his beauty and vigour to founder on the rocks of time. Still, the fall from grace was from a height we can only imagine.