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Written by Francis H. Powell
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 There is an anniversary party going on in an unusual setting. Perhaps its numbers would have been greater had there not been a debilitating transport strike. I muscled my way past all the men and woman who accost you (as a man) walking down Boulevard de Clichy. In fact I lose my temper once or twice, as one man blocks my path, in a over-elaborate way to get me see some sordid show, in the heartland of the sex industry in xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" / Paris.
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Written by Francis H. Powell
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 Last year I had spent the evening of the nuit blanche with a friend. This year I was on a mission, to film as much possible. However there proved to be a rival for my attention. Everywhere you went the rugby world cup reared it's head, or as the French would so beautifully pronounce it the "roogby world cup". When I got to Hotel de Ville and began to absorb some of the atmosphere of the naturally partisan French crowd, cheering on these massive gladiator like men, using every muscle and sinew to chase after an ovular ball, to force it over a line, I found myself distracted from my mission and rooted to the spot, watching the big screen.
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Written by Francis H. Powell
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 I am out on a limb. I am surely the only British person among a mass of mostly Serbians and probably a smattering of French. I have been invited to an exhibition, but my invitee has not turned up, so I am left to ponder the art and also take in some of the colourful looking people who have come to saver the art, beautiful looking woman, immaculately dressed and bearded men, some with long white pronounced whiskers, and deeply lined brows.
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Written by Francis H. Powell
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 It was August and Paris was in a holiday slumber. There are cultural events that take place, including the open air cinema. I went to see Lady Chatterley directed by Pascale Ferran.
The first thing to note is that the film is in French, which is of significance, because the story is ostensibly such a British subject taking on board the class system. For me Marina Hands was excellent as Lady Chatterley, but her lover played by Jean-Louis Coulloch who played Parkin (the director chose an earlier version of DH Lawrence's at the time contentious novel, was a spectacular mismatch.
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