Summer 1990.

July - August 1990.

I've always maintained that luck is the biggest player in life, what you do with the hand of cards your dealt is down to you. Just as a chance meeting led me to the bookshop in October 1989, and saved me from eternal rot, another one happened on my return to Paris.

I awoke from my sleep during the trip back from Amsterdam, to arrive at the old bus depot at Port de la Villette (now at Port de Bobigny). I was in pretty much the same situation, minus the substance abuse of Holland - nowhere to live, no money and alone. For no particular reason I chose to hang about the bus station for a while, a decision which ultimately lead to my getting back on my feet after a year of homelessness.

Had I not stayed a while among the busses, I'd never of bumped into a guy I'd met whilst living in the bookshop, Kieron Kilcoyne. Aside from being one of the kindest human beings I've ever met, he was squatting in an apartment in the North of Paris. Naturally, he invited me to stay.

The next two months were amazing. In spite of a certain degree of hardship, these were to remain the happiest eight weeks of my life for a number of years. I spent the summer performing in Rue de la Huchette during the evenings, practising my juggling at the Champ de Mars (under the Eiffel Tower) every afternoon and drinking in good company all night. I met some outstanding people that summer, and performing regularly earnt me all the trappings of being a (very) minor celeb! I'll avoid too much detail, but I hope you get my drift. Coming back to the squat to watch the sunrise over Paris from the balcony is unforgettable. And quite romantic...

In mid July, while hanging out with the ladies from the bookshop (Shakespeare & Co) a minor disaster struck. I was minding an Austrian girl's eight year-old son when the library above the shop caught fire. The fire burnt for a good hour before it was put out, and a fireman was quite badly burnt. I still remember his screams as he teetered on a third floor window, engulfed in a fireball. The Austrian kid (Syrius - you can see his mum in a picture on this page) was nowhere to be found. I spent a seriously uncomfortable four hours searching the cinqiéme for the little bugger, who finally turned up in a comic shop. If that doesn't turn you off having kids, what would? Needless to say, as the local fire-breather, I was questioned by les flics. I didn't do it (not my style), and the old bill agreed with me on that one. Electrical fault.

The end result of the fire (apart from a benefit to raise money to replace books) was that half a dozen girls had nowhere to stay. Until I mentioned the squat I was in.....

To be continued...?

STOP PRESS 12/05: Part 4 currently being written. Don't hold your breath.
07/06: Getting there... 05/08: coming soon...