Town Mouse

Tom Hodgkinson

When it comes to Paris versus London, I would choose Paris. It’s just so convivial and beautiful.

Mrs Mouse and I visited a year ago. It was cold but we sat outdoors under heaters with our onion soup, looking outwards at the passing people, and marvelled at the good humour and general stylishness of the Parisians. We wished that London were a bit more like it: more tables and chairs out on the streets; more elegance, beauty and delight in being.

I understand that Parisians, conversely, love London. I was reminded of the dialogue between the two cities when reading a lovely short book, Bacon/ Giacometti (Eris).

One of its editors, the art critic Michael Peppiatt, has constructed a conversation between the two artists. Like one of Plato’s dialogues, the meeting never actually happened, but the two artists were great mates and talked a lot. Peppiatt’s imagined encounter is based on real conversations.

The artists say they love each other’s city. ‘I love being in London,’ says Giacometti, ‘and London is so completely different from Paris. Everything looks different; even the trees in the parks. And the people! They seem to inhabit a different kind of space as they queue so calmly for the bus or make their way along the street. And then these little secret bars and clubs you’ve taken me to!’ The men are chatting in the Colony Room Club in Soho.

Bacon replies, ‘It’s terribly nice of you to say that, Alberto, but I always think Paris is so much more beautiful and stimulating than London. I mean, it often feels terribly provincial and dreary here, and there’s not really much happening in the arts.’

That was in the fifties. Since then, London has become a little less dreary and provincial, and bars and clubs are less secretive. Nevertheless, Londoners can instantly relate to what Bacon says. London feels grey and unsophisticated compared with Paris. Though we have exactly the same weather, life in Paris is lived so much more on the streets.

There is something ploddy and leaden about London, whereas Parisians have a light touch. They can be brilliant without seeming to make much of an effort. Think of Jean-paul Sartre revolutionising philosophy while smoking Gitanes outdoors at Les Deux Magots.

Ollivier Pourriol is the Parisian author of a new book, The French Art of Not Trying Too Hard (Profile). He says the French character mixes ‘noble arrogance and popular insolence; seriousness on things light-hearted and lightness at moments of great seriousness; in short, a desire for effortlessness synonymous with both elegance and pleasure’.

It’s this sort of enviable insouciance that the London mouse envies in his Parisian counterpart. And in Paris you still don’t get that fake American ‘Have a nice day’ cheerfulness which has invaded London chain restaurants. Parisian proprietors are still allowed to be charmingly grumpy. It’s a grumpiness that declares dignity, freedom and a refusal to be a slave.

When George Orwell is down and out in Paris and London, his life as a plongeur in Paris, however seedy and grotty, is still vastly preferable to the life of a povertystricken Londoner. No wonder Samuel Beckett chose to live in Paris.

As poor teenage mice, my friends and I used to stay in tiny chambres de bonne. We’d go busking in front of the Pompidou Centre, and just walk around for fun, as we couldn’t afford to sit in the cafés. In Paris, being skint seemed almost romantic.

Paris is, above all, intensely sociable. So it was a joy in December to witness in London the reopening of the cafés and pubs after the Cromwellian shutdowns. Everywhere you could see people sitting on benches and at café tables, all wrapped up in woolly hats and scarves, just enjoying themselves.

I found myself the other day sitting on a bench in the freezing cold, outside a café in Richmond Park, with a cup of tea and a brownie. I was on my own, but there were several groups of people chatting nearby. Waves of pleasure swept over me.

Thank heavens for outdoor heaters, small tables and onion soup. I hope, as I have been hoping for years, that we’ll be seeing more of these three essential items for good living hitting the streets of London town.

In lockdown, how we missed this simple joy of being alive in the moment, in the company of other human beings. How much we enjoyed it when it came back. Hell was no longer other people, as good old Sartre put it. Other people are quite heavenly – as long as you wear the appropriate clothing.

‘Parisian proprietors are still allowed to be charmingly grumpy’