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DIARY NOTES : Mad-House Maths March 30th., 2018 - Another day sets in Paris The home-bound Octogenarian trundles from the Mall's town centre Back laden with the day's shopping His hands numb from clutching load-packed plastic bags during the two Kms and more The sore reddish-smudge of a sun cocks an eye over the jagged rim of the horizon's darkening clouds at early dusk Some chick warbler tries its strength hopping on grim bold knobbly dark outstretched arms as cherry blossoms drop pink and violet on the scuffed grass instead of sprinkling snow fluffs Massive stone or glittering glass official buildings : " palaces " or " hotels " in catering country hardly impress the growing migrant force in the open shrub-lined plaza puffing hookah-groups form around barbecue grills while foot and basket-balls sting town-hall annexe walls to the tune of revving engines on lone stunt-back wheels the long night vigil commences anew All in view of the Zen-Pagoda High Court looming over the sprawling UPEC faculty complex right across the local " Palais " shopping centre The Octo thought he heard a cuckoo call Or was it the turtle dove moaning its mate from last Fall Weary of repairing his second-hand twenty-year old Laguna Sabotaged at every turn He settles for the cheapest car on the market : the basic Spandero No catalogue spells out its dashboard or engine layout He slumps into the brand-new humpless driver's seat To see how he might adapt the old radio for some Miles Davis mind-soul rap A sleek black limousine pulls up behind Out jump three men two old plumpy Andaluzian-looking dressed in rags the third metizo-Black tall and athletic tough in civil light pull-over They adjust police arm-bands and block both the p assenger and driver's seats They command the Octo out of his own car The Black shoves him to the back " You are in possession of arms ", he says " Empty your pockets, here, on the roof " The Octo has hardly the time to react As the Black frisks him and shuffs his hands in the Octo's pockets and roughs him up The other short squat gentleman grabs his official Research Fellow ID card and checks it out in the limousine's tele-speaker electronic wares Meantime the tall wide-girthed senior gentleman has edged his way to the open driver door and beckons with outstretched arm : " The car keys ! " The Octogenarian protests mildly : " Why do you want my keys ? " " We are the Judiciary Police, " he retorts. " If you don't handover the keys, We'll put you under garde à vue ! " That's 48 hours in a police cell, with no way probably of taking daily cardiac condition pills. The Octo relents. The keys contain the security lock key as well. The gentleman with the ID returns and rails at the Octogenarian. " What are you researching ? Are you looking for ways to becoming a fauteur des troubles ? " That's a trouble-maker. The gentleman in the car has obviously trouble finding machine-guns and bazookas hidden under the car seats. He hands over the car keys. Before they pull out, the Black warns : "We know you. We'll be watching out for you when you move about the vicinity! " The very next day, the Octogenarian pens a letter relating exactly what happened and mails it under registered cover with acknowledgement of receipt to the Chief Public Prosecutor (the Procureur de la République) of the region. The Octogenarian has just received a letter, dated August 20, 2018, from the latter's office stating that "no criminal proceedings will be engaged as the facts revealed in this suit are not punishable according to the dispositions of any penal text." Some ten days after his letter to the Chief Public Prosecutor, the Octogenarian found all the doors of his car left open and the contents of the glove compartment spilled on the floor. He then receives an official document, a month or so later, signed by the Public Prosecutor's Office stating that his car had been clocked for speeding at 124 km on a highway where the speed-limit was 110 in the North-Western region of Paris at 9.42 a.m., and a fine was imposed which if paid without contestation would amount to 68 euros. Since the Octogenarian has never ever been in that area in his life, he follows the procedure laid out and pays the fine, but asks for the PHOTO/Cliché taken by the traffic-control authorities, for the Public Prosecutor's office also required him to undertake criminal proceedings against " the culprit " who may or may not have stolen his car on that fateful day in order to effect the change in the number plates and the car papers all over again. The fine was refunded, but the PIC recording the offence has yet to arrive. Strictly speaking, the Octogenarian cannot undertake criminal proceedings without proof of the offence. In any case, who should he sue ? The Judicial Police ? the Traffic Police ? or the Public Prosecutor ? Or some mythical Car-Thief with an axe to grind ? Sol de France franchi Terre d'asile psychiatrique © T. Wignesan - Paris, September 11, 2018
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