I have no doubt that the waters of the gulf still flow unceasingly, filling the glittering port, and streaming on to lap at the curving beaches, so endlessly blue; that the sound of southern voices carried on by a languid Mediterranean wind still echos through the narrow streets at midnight to fall to rest at Place des Lices. The cobblestones will always reverberate with the click-click-clicking of outrageous stillettoes, as they have done for as long as I can remember. Sometimes I wonder what became of all that construction at Papagayo last year, or I yearn to know what scandals are being discussed at the villa; I wonder if Karl and Inge sailed over from Cannes, and if the apricots were as sweet this year. But curiosity, like a desert rose, dies away almost before it has bloomed, and my attention is trained once again on more local concerns. That party goes on without me. As it must from now on. For the first time in many years I am not passing the summer in St Tropez and (can I confess it ?) I don’t really miss it.