Merium! Congratulations, Merium, darling! We are thrilled beyond words for your good fortune! Three cheers and let's get in touch to exchange addresses so little Esme Bunny and her leaning Tower of Pisa cone can be on their way.
To everyone else, thank you for playing along. You know I'm going to have to wish you a generous amount of ice cream in lieu of the prize, don't you? Except that I wish for you the most lovely ice cream. Something fresh and exotic and so delicious you'll forget about the heat or anything else which could be considered a nuisance.
You take your cone to the park and walk along a pretty path. Soon you chance upon a little old man who is sitting on a bench. You ask him if this seat is taken and he makes a gesture indicating there is no one else he would rather share a park bench with in the whole wide world.
He admires the color of your cardigan, which is the perfect shade of yellow. It brings out the color of your eyes, he says, in the faintest accent that tells you he is hardly finding his way around his first language. You grin and lick your ice cream, wondering how it is this darling old man can be in the possession of such charm.
That's because his name is Anatole. Maybe you don't know it, maybe the whole world has forgotten, but this man was once a hero of le Résistance. He crossed the Channel and parachuted back into France more than once, I can tell you. He knows his way around enemy lines, if you know what I mean. How many lives did he save? How many times did the name "Anatole" cross the lips of a grateful citizen, how many times was it cursed by the forces he fought to foil? Beaucoup, dear reader. Let's just leave it at that.
As it happens, Anatole knows practically everything under the sun. He's not showy about it, but you get this feeling if he doesn't know something, then it must have been utter tripe in the first place. He knows what to do with a tin of sardines, to say the least. He listens to your hopes and dreams, he really takes it in. He sighs and nods gravely when you talk of your sorrows. Don't be surprised if he even betrays his emotions.
He's Anatole, franchement. How many times do I have to tell you?
He asks about your love life. Why is it that you blush and begin to stutter? Why do you overexplain things and rattle off disclaimers? Dear me, why are you giggling uncontrollably? And how is it he can lean over and pluck a rose from a bush, offering it to you in such a way that your soggy cone, the children playing in the fountains, indeed, the entire park disappear for one moment, as if nothing else in the world exists but you and this oddly yet utterly charming old man?
That's because he's Anatole, darling. And I wish you an afternoon on a park bench with him.