Mort

 Now I think of it there were bats flying in the Tuileries as well, over a decade ago now. The only light came from the Eiffel Tower which was serving as a lightouse, I assume decoratively. We sat on deckchairs by the pond and she asked me what I was thinking about, and I told her the truth, which was "Mort Drucker". Specifically, I think, this picture, which I've just looked out again:

 I explained that Mort Drucker was an artist for Mad Magazine, which I'd started buying when I was eight, and that I remember this drawing of his particularly confusing me, because I knew that human chins and cheekbones didn't actually look like that, but I also knew without a doubt that this was a drawing of Roger Moore. So I went to my mother and asked how a cartoon could be recognisable as a specific human being, and that's how I leant what a caricature was. And I can't remember why I was thinking about that, but I do remember how happily I answered that question in the Tuileries beneath the bats, even just saying the words "Mort Drucker" aloud, sharing that memory, made me excited, felt like the last door opening on something. It's weird what one remembers. Weird, but not random. Arty. I'm sorry to hear Mort Drucker passed away today, but ninety-one is a good age. Mort wrought magic, I thought. Here's today's Defoe: