Coffee with Helene Cixous on what must be the banks of some river more important. We speak in muffled tones, in fluent french and broken english. The setting sun is only everything I can see. Barely an outline. Such a roar. This coffee tastes like something else, and in that dreamishly qualified way, its no matter.

Suddenly she is shouting and reading and laughing and it's all very surreal. It is how nothing has ever been said. Mais, il me rends comme les pleurs. Ecriture feminine indeed Helene.

This is all rather rudely interrupted by a disembodied voice informing me that Elton John spent well over four hundred thousand dollars on flowers in a year. What can be said? The man likes his flowers.