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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) continued to peer down at the street, she was ninety per cent sure that it was the Gatekeeper who had just walked from the taxi; she grinned since she was pretty certain that he would be more than interested about all these tiny steampunk treasures in this room.

Meanwhile, la Raconteuse moved to the next group of objects by the window, as she got closer to this extraordinary tableau, it was amazing – such detail, as she stared around all the little people; but these were not people, no, these were animals and birds.

It was a delightful scene: there was a square in the middle with some shops, a town hall and a church, and just on the edge of the table there was a small button to press, and so she did.

Everything them began to move – as she smiled with glee; she could see a little group of mice who were by the church, the bride was there, but where was the groom… but then that naughty mouse dropped his top hat, and legged it; jilted she was, that tiny mouse, as she flung the bouquet away, then a little bird, a jenny wren, began to sing.

This was more than wonderful, as she pressed the clockwork machine again – such a lovely thing, as she thought to herself.

But she suddenly jerked her head as she could hear a noise beyond the room; she quickly stood up and moved to the door.

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‘Well, it’s certainly a door, and it seems to be real, but I don’t remember seeing it before, it could be perplexing, but it’s bound to have some interest,’ as the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse), continue to talk to herself, as she muttered to say, ‘only one way to find out,’ as she grabbed the doorhandle.

The door opened rather easily, which was a blessing, and at least there was some light outside, since there was a window, in fact several windows; she’d pressed her finger on the light switch, but nothing, oh well, still down.

She was about to walked to one of the windows, but then she noticed a handy shelf, it had several candles and even better, a gorgeous candelabra – it was very posh – so she lightered all of those candles with a couple of matchers, ‘now this is looking interesting.’

She could use her affectation of candour, and often she would, but this was definitely not needed in this case, because there were so many wonderful objects in all those shelves around the room; all these things were amazing, and all of them were steampunk related: mostly it was art and sculpture, but all in miniature, or at least, small.

So, la Raconteuse began to look at each object, she was particularly drawn to a clockwork clock sculpture, more than beautiful.

She happened to look outside and down; she could see a taxi and a cabbie was waving to her, and rather urgently it seemed.

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‘Well, that’s a pickle,’ muttered the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) as she peer down to the stairwell from the roof, it appeared that all those light bulbs had blown, or maybe just that particular fuse had gone, which was more likely, as she continued to peer down.

Surely someone would flick that fuse up again, as la Raconteuse pulled out her smartphone, she felt either Tom or the Bartender would not pay scant attention to sort that out and soon.

Meanwhile, la Raconteuse grinned since she’d been reading using the app for Kindle on her phone, it was an excellent quirky novel, with a genre known as steampunk, she might continue to read, but it was getting rather cold by the flat roof and the moon was up now.

So she clicked her torch on the phone, then began to walk down the narrow stairs; she was hoping that she wouldn’t fall again since she had scarred one of her knees rather badly, although at least that scab had almost gone now.

She suddenly stopped by the nearest landing as her smartphone started to ping; ‘what’s this, I wonder,’ as she talked to herself out loud, ‘it’s a ping and another ping, surely this must be a scam,’ as she tried to work out what it said.

She stared around the darkness, then looked at her phone again, it said: how can it tell me to open a door, when I didn’t know there was a door here before?

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‘That’s a puzzle,’ said the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) as she continued to stare at that large book about gardening, ‘it says we need several different types of veggies but we need to be careful since some of them wouldn’t be happy together.’

‘Good grief, I didn’t know all of those things,’ as la Raconteuse continued to talk out loud, ‘toms don’t like spuds, fancy that; this great book is a mine of knowledge, isn’t it… so glad it came in that big cardboard box with all those other things.’

‘But, sorry I’m hogging this book, although you, Tom, you are reading the other new one, the one about gourmet food, and that looks also interesting,’ as la Raconteuse peered at the other one for a bit.

‘Gosh, that one looks even better, miles better in fact, and all those beautiful photos… ooh, lovely salads on this chapter, with different edible flowers; look, there are nasturtiums, pansies, pot marigolds and borage; hmm, the only one I would know is that last one – borage flowers – good for gin and tonic,’ as she giggled.

‘Listen,’ said Tom, ‘shall we go up to the flat roof to see how things are doing; I’ve already put out those bags of top soil and compost,’ – ‘oh yes, sounds good.’

So, la Raconteuse headed out to those new raised beds, and good there were, but the first thing she said was this: ‘it’s hardly a mortal enemy, it’s just a slug, but it’s huge… ugh.’

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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had signalled to the lovely Bartender at the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, as she held up one finger and smiled; she knew she had enough for today, but what a lovely day she had.

Such a beautiful walk by the river with Hūnga and the tall, thin man; la Raconteuse would fling a nice stick to Hūnga, and Hūnga would bring it back; he would drop the stick by her feet, then sit on his hunches while looking up to her and woofing.

It seemed that Hūnga was grinning back too, since la Raconteuse had been flaunting a new red hat, and rather startling too; indeed, the tall, thin man was also wearing a cap, and why not? although he would remove it before walking into the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro.

Then, la Raconteuse started to grin again as she thought about that big cardboard box; it turned out that there were various useful things, and nothing worrying in it at all, in fact, when they came back, that big box had gone, and new things had been put into places.

She mused as she looked around, all those pretty vases which held sprouting bulbs now, they are going to be daffodils she had been told, how lovely, and there was one on every table.

But even better Tom had been up to the flat roof, it was where la Raconteuse used to write there, but now Tom had repurposed the place – it’s going to be a productive garden.

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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) was very much revived now after that excellent coffee at the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, while she chatted to Mimi who had been stacking the clean glasses and other things by the counter.

“Do you need any help around here?” asked la Raconteuse.

“Gosh no, nothing needed around here,” said Mimi, “however, there is one thing you can do, as she held up one finger and grinned; “just wait for a couple of minutes, I will be back,” as she darted back through the double doors, past the kitchen, past the Manager’s Office and beyond.

Then the tall, thin man appeared from the double doors, he must have been in his Manager’s Office all the time; he was now carrying a large cardboard box which was clearly rather heavy: “hmm, intriguing,” thought la Raconteuse, as she smiled radiantly to the tall, thin man, as he put that box on one of the tables.

But then there was much barking behind the double doors: “why, it must be Hūnga!” said la Raconteuse, as Mimi and Hūnga appeared just then; “now that’s going to be fun,” grinned la Raconteuse, “I’m thinking we should go for a lovely walk, what do you think, dear Hūnga?” – as Hūnga woofed back.

And so, since it was a gorgeous spring day, la Raconteuse, Hūnga and the tall, thin man all went on a walk by the wide river and by the cherry blossom trees, and that big box was forgotten for the moment.

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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had been busy tidying up around her little apartment, not something she did very often, but needs must, although after more than two hours she was beginning to flag.

Still, it was definitely worth it, especially her lovely table where she writes; it was mostly for working on her laptop, but she often printed things out for prudence sake, one wouldn’t want to lose in that way after all, as she shuddered for a moment.

Now everything was in order, she had pruned all those unnecessary pieces of A4 paper, and the useful ones she had used her paper hole puncher to put them into several binders, as she smiled to herself being pleased with what she had done.

Her vintage Velos lightning-perforator two hole puncher which she’d used it in the office when she worked there (and then nicked it on that last day), now she tried to pinch it open carefully, but it seemed to be stuck, but then, of course, it sprung open and all those tiny round paper bits, almost like confetti, dropped all around the table and floor.

More than irritating as she glared at the once clean and sparkling area, as she trudged to the kitchen cupboard.

But then she had a thought as she looked outside, it was such a lovely spring day; she should go out and have a quick walk over to the Six-Sentence-Café-and-Bistro, since that would be the perfect coffee to drink just now.

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Paris Photographer – Louis Paulin

‘Odd,’ said Joan, ‘we haven’t seen our lovely friend, the red-headed woman, for several days, have we?’ – ‘no indeed,’ as Scatty looked up for a moment, as she laid down all her cards, and shouted, ‘Rummy!’ as she grinned happily, ‘all out, again,’ as she gathered the cards together, then began to shuffle them again.

Meanwhile, on the next table, Francis and The Old One were concentrating playing poker, while outside, Mr Cushing was busy cleaning his gorgeous limousine, he had just finished polishing the car, when he looked up to see the red-headed woman standing near him.

‘Fancy a drive, my dear?’ said Mr Cushing, ‘I think I know where you want to go,’ as he stared at her, while she gripped her bag more tightly, then nodded.

‘Can I come too?’ as The Old One appeared outside, ‘I lost again, poker is not my strong suit you see, my pride has been injured yet again, but never mind, it seems we have a job to do.’

So off they went, the three of them, it was such a lovely day, and soon they arrived at that particular farm, and even from there, they could all see the poor farmer was clearly still brooding over life’s injustices, well wouldn’t he?

The red-headed woman jumped out, trotting to the farmer, the two of them began to walk in step together; then they popped inside the farm house, then a moment later, the red-headed woman appeared again, and said, ‘all done.’

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Paris Photographer – Louis Paulin

The two gargoyles, who were still on that belfry, while on they smartphones, they relayed a message from Reena, to the red-headed woman and Monsieur Bourbon; it was all about the diamonds – so many useful facts continued to flow – as the red-headed woman and Monsieur looked rather amazed, as they read what Reena said.

The two gargoyles shut their phones then put them in their satchels, they had already ditched their hats and coats, and as the red-headed woman looked up, the two gargoyles were about to fly off, as both of them gave a little wave to her.

She wondered where they were going, since it seemed that they were no longer interested about those gems; all that effort, and nothing now, as the red-headed woman grimaced.

‘Well,’ said Monsieur Bourbon, ‘the brutal truth is those synthetic diamonds are not very valuable, or at least what I thought that very clever lady, called Reena, had explained, is that right?’

‘Indeed, it seems so,’ as the red-headed woman had managed to grasp much of what Reena said, as she read again while scrolling down and back again, then she looked to Monsieur Bourbon, as she said, ‘the blunt truth is there’s no point to keep those gems,’ as she put her phone down then pushed her knuckles on her jaw.

‘So what should I do,’ she muttered to herself; then she said, ‘okay, this is the best idea, I’ll give back those stupid diamonds to the farmer, I guess.’

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Paris Photographer – Louis Paulin

‘Oh, this is a blow,’ muttered the red-headed woman, as she wondered to herself, while she tried to put her shattered thoughts into some semblance of order.

She looked to Monsieur Bourbon, and then to the gargoyles, as she said this: ‘no, quiet… we need to put our thinking caps on, don’t we; but meantime, we will need some sustenance, at least for me and Monsieur – some hot chocolate and some croissants for dunking would be best.’

So those synthetic diamonds were put in that strong safe, just in case, as they all adjourned to a little café, a good place where no one would be nosy, and certainly not near a certain Inspector Clouseau, or at least she thought so.

‘Okay, tell me more,’ she said, as the two gargoyles leapt up to the nearest very tall building, in fact, a church with a belfry, as they both grinned, ‘so what, Monsieur Bourbon, shall we do now?’

‘Well, my dear, it’s quite true, those gems are not completely worthless, although not great, and of course, the real problem is these have been nicked, obviously, come on, we know each other pretty well,’ as the red-headed woman, raised an eyebrow, ‘but we are not quitting, are we?’ as Monsieur Bourbon finished he second croissant.

Meanwhile, the two gargoyles had been both busy on their smartphones and right by that gorgeous belfry; after a few minutes there were a few beeps, including Reena, as the two of them grinned a lot.

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