After an evening at the pub, Gaston and I met in the kitchen, the most important room of a flat, for a very serious conversation.
I was quite excited, not because of alcohol, to tell him about how I felt towards the autumn and I started to try and convince him with a lot of selling points regarding this amazing season. But Gaston remained stoical, quite as himself actually, he was looking at me, his eyes dull with lack of interest and disbelief in my argumentation. He shrugged and concluded that he couldn’t see any interest in the end of the summer and being back to work after 2 weeks in the Pyrénées and pointed his finger at the window. He made a good point: it was raining cats and dogs.