By Mat Smith
I’m hungover and tired and eating brunch outside a café.
A family are at the next table; an older guy, his daughter and a woman in her twenties. He orders for all of them and I instantly dislike him. She’s telling the young girl about wherever she’s from; Sweden, perhaps. I can’t understand why she’s telling her about snow: It’s already one of the warmest days of the year.
He says that he doesn’t like America. He says he doesn’t like Paris because it’s “too French.” I don’t know what this means.
I know that nothing will make sense today.