Masking The Truth

All Saints' Day in Paris, or as it is known here, Toussaint. The weather has already turned crisp and cold, in contrast to this time last year when I was still unable to wear my flash new winter coat in mid-November. I went out last night on my bike, making the mistake not to wear a scarf, and it was a bit uncomfortable.

I don't really hold much with Hallowe'en, mainly because it is a phoney holiday. I can understand how people get a laugh out of dressing up for it but too often there is too much expectation in the thing; making an extra effort to have a good time on Hallowe'en is like replicating the movement of cycling while standing up. There's no real need and it's not any better than the real thing.

I had a surreal experience last night where four women wearing hideous masks - sort of a cross between Walter Matthau and Richard Nixon - arrived into the bar I was drinking in and said hello to me, by name. My discomfort at talking to such hideous-looking folks, even though they were only masks and I knew that the people behind them were known to me, was barely concealed. And when they pulled off the masks, among their number was an ex of mine, which somehow made the experience even worse, though we are on cordial terms. But I was still a bit repelled, which must underline what an awfully superficial sort I am.