Thus a stocky, recently-retired, red-faced American with one of those skull-numbing, denture-perfect grins and thinning, died hair, his arms raised high and the palms of his thick, hairy hands turned upwards in mock defeat. On my way home from work, I was walking past the Market Place Post Office in Reading when the image popped up in front of me. It just popped up, sprung to life, floated into view out of nowhere. It is time to go to bed, but that face is still hovering in front of me. That French is still echoing in my mind. So many hours later, the nauseating apparition remains as good as real. And I despise fiction!