When the lift broke down at Tata Yo's she thought she'd returned to her tree-house, 1923, but Sous le Soleil's stories are better, perhaps, than her imaginary best friend's, Bertrand (a nice solid name). The post still made its way somehow, so she brought it to her cramped balcony avec vue sur la méditerranée : coupons, offres spéciales , thrown back to the postman with stamps, torn from her collection, (better, perhaps, than a message in a bottle). When the lift was repaired, Yo's bedsit was filled with parcels: twinned teddies, bulk buys of soap, a special edition of l'Album des Jeunes (a good Christmas present for Anna or Claire) magic vinegar, hand warmers, parts 1 and 2 of the cruncher, … These found their place between piles of magazines, skyscrappers gathering dust, "tours de babel"? She was still in the red, despite selling these squares with smallprint. Those buyers, teachers of all people, (Joel would be spitting if he knew) lifted to her flat, their glossy hair like aureoles, matching gloves, matching smiles. Not wanting to bother whilst taking fourty years from the curtains (charging fourty quid to Yo for their kindness "doesn't it look better already?") Tata Yo sat on their balcony, cutting paper.