The town plane trees stand imprisoned in concrete, their leperous arms raised up with small baton fingers in a plea for spring to send new clothes and a neighbour also leperous with whiskers and the detrius of life and in need of new clothes spouts old wisdom in great gusts of French while his dog Poupoul looks on in disgust. He's heard it all before. He says non to wine but manages to drink a lot and with each emphasis he pulls his chair closer to the table till he cannot move so he must leave but after he is up and away he thinks of something else and he is back with the dance of the chair and his big secret. He is an Anarchist!! I can't remember if I've met an anarchist before but he fits the bill.
I feel we are going to be good friends.