A Photo Salvador Dalí kindly took of Shirley & I at our favourite Parisian Café back in ’24

It is June 1924 in the magical period of the ‘Années folles’.  We are in The City of Love.  Paris by any other name. Moreover, we are young and devoted to one another.  Overnight, spring has turned to summer and it is as if the tantalising romantic May dance of titillation has been fully consummated beneath the clear blue skies of the summer equinox.  There are no shadows under the high sun of noon this day as Shirley and I walk the Luxembourg Gardens.  Ever the actress she has adopted for this trip her very best mid-Atlantic accent in order that she will fit in when we meet up with the others, mostly arty-farty American writers of the ‘Lost Generation’, on the ‘left bank’ a little later on.  For now though, we…