After a week of garlic-filled French cuisine, combined with nightly jogging along the riverside and the normal transpiration of a man pushing 40, the sewer rats of Seine all chose to die rather than face my marathon-training colleague.
Life has not been the same since I one evening got to my cameraman Thomas' hotel room in Paris. (a room which also served as editing office every evening after the day’s shootings) With eyes screaming more of guilt than a puppy which peed on the parquets he looked at me and said:
- Whatever you do, don’t go into the bathroom, it’s not that pleasant.Naturally I went directly there.
I opened the door and immediately got punished for my disloyalty AND all the sins I’ve ever committed during 14 258 days as a living specimen when facing the jogging outfit from hell. After being struck by a nasal ramrod my nose fell off right at the spot and now more resembles a wall plug then it’s earlier, somewhat charming shape of a pig snout.
After loudly declaring the benefits of soaking and giving a crash course in general respect for humanity, I sent him off to get a bottle of Irish pain reliever. But before he got back with dear Mr. Jameson, I took his camera, took a deep breath and dived into the cave of death and disaster...
Don't let yourselves be fooled by the innocent looking outfit and nicely displayed socks. I have a photo of the underwear to. But won't post it out of general respect for humanity...You might find the outing of a dear friend, competent colleague and beloved exterminator of French sewer rats disrespectful, rude and too private. Or you can see it as revenge for the saltwater and algae-infused sneakers which I forgot in the trunk of our car during the hottest week of last summer... which my cameraman still makes fun of and in public refer “the road kill you kept in the trunk.”
There is nothing like sweet stinking revenge.
The only sad thing in this story is that the sewer rats of Seine were innocent.
Every single one of them.
// T.
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