This post is number 45 in a series.
Just under forty years ago, I knew where I wanted to be: Paris. Fresh from Grosvenor Square, it was possible to change anything and everything. Of course it all came to naught, but that first week in May as the news filtered across the Channel, Paris was where it was at. A couple of years later, no sit-in could start without Street Fighting Man to ensure adequate dialectical doodads, and the revolution’s teeth had been pulled.
I was forcefully reminded of all that yesterday. We bought patio furniture. Today, the fight continues; it won’t go through the door onto the frigging patio.