any sort of argument with him about eating meat.
  We drove along in silence for a while until Serge spotted a sign for a déchetterie (a rubbish tip).
  'Eh, quick! Turn off here, Johnny. These places can often yield up little treasures.'
  We followed a track through the woods to arrive at a fenced-off area where garishly coloured plastic bin receptacles and several heavy metal skips piled high with rubbish stood in a yard strewn with bits of old newspapers and cardboard boxes. There was a wooden hut at the gate with a black and white collie dog tied up with a piece of hairy baler twine outside. It came crawling towards us on its belly with its tail wagging. The hut door was open but there was no one about.
  Serge went over to a mountain of old metal and started to pull at a twisted bicycle, threatening to bring down the lot on top of him. I fussed the dog and wondered how far the nearest accident unit was if Serge injured himself.
  A man emerged from among the trees, zipping his fly and buckling his belt. He was wearing a badly stained, fringed Western-style shirt, a blue US Cavalry cap and cowboy boots. At a guess I'd have said he'd just had a crap in the woods.
  There was a scream of twisting metal and Serge jumped back, narrowly avoiding being crushed, as a big square tank, a heavy iron bath and assorted rusty agricultural machinery came crashing down.
  The junkyard cowboy watched as the dust settled and I got the impression that new acquaintances were limited in this particular neck of the woods.
  'That's some scrap iron you've got there,' said Serge.
  The guy nodded and finished buckling his belt. Serge took him by the hand and shook it.
  'We're on the look out for any interesting bits and pieces, discarded bric-a-brac and stuff. We've just been doing a spot of business with old Papa Jacques Perrier up the road and he recommended we pop in here.' Serge was making it up as he went along.
  The man nodded to me and began to untie his dog.
  'You've been up at Jacques Perrier's place? He doesn't get many visitors these days.'
  'He had us round for lunch,' said Serge, smugly. 'His sister cooked for us â fried gésiers ⦠Delicious!'
  'You saw his sister? How was she?'
  'Estelle's fine, just fine,' said Serge, like he was an old family friend.
  'That was terrible what happened to her though, wasn't it?' said the man. 'You know, during the war?'
  Serge was nonplussed. 'World War Two? You're going back a bit there, mate. I was just a kid.'
  'What, you don't know about the family tragedy? I thought everyone knew.'
  Serge was starting to get bored.
  'No, but you're going to tell us all about it.' He looked at me with a pained expression.
  'Her two sons got killed in battle on the same day. It was an awful shock. But that wasn't all â when her husband heard the terrible news he went straight off and hung himself.'
  Serge pulled a face like he didn't believe it.
  'It's God's honest truth, ask anyone. Estelle found him hanging from a beam in the barn. It finished her off, they reckon.'
  The man was relishing the story. He clearly didn't get many visitors here at his tip.
  'When she'd buried her husband and her sons all she had left was her brother Jacques. She moved in with him and he's looked after her ever since. In return she washes, cooks and cleans for him⦠does everything a wife would do for a husband.' He winked at me.
  'So have you got anything you might think we'd be interested in or not?' said Serge. He was unmoved by the tale. He predictably pulled out his wad of euros with a flourish from his back pocket.
  The man's eyes widened. 'What about that tin bath? That's got to be worth a bit.'
  'I'm not after shit,' said Serge rudely. 'Do I look like a gitan to you?'
  My answer to
  We drove along in silence for a while until Serge spotted a sign for a déchetterie (a rubbish tip).
  'Eh, quick! Turn off here, Johnny. These places can often yield up little treasures.'
  We followed a track through the woods to arrive at a fenced-off area where garishly coloured plastic bin receptacles and several heavy metal skips piled high with rubbish stood in a yard strewn with bits of old newspapers and cardboard boxes. There was a wooden hut at the gate with a black and white collie dog tied up with a piece of hairy baler twine outside. It came crawling towards us on its belly with its tail wagging. The hut door was open but there was no one about.
  Serge went over to a mountain of old metal and started to pull at a twisted bicycle, threatening to bring down the lot on top of him. I fussed the dog and wondered how far the nearest accident unit was if Serge injured himself.
  A man emerged from among the trees, zipping his fly and buckling his belt. He was wearing a badly stained, fringed Western-style shirt, a blue US Cavalry cap and cowboy boots. At a guess I'd have said he'd just had a crap in the woods.
  There was a scream of twisting metal and Serge jumped back, narrowly avoiding being crushed, as a big square tank, a heavy iron bath and assorted rusty agricultural machinery came crashing down.
  The junkyard cowboy watched as the dust settled and I got the impression that new acquaintances were limited in this particular neck of the woods.
  'That's some scrap iron you've got there,' said Serge.
  The guy nodded and finished buckling his belt. Serge took him by the hand and shook it.
  'We're on the look out for any interesting bits and pieces, discarded bric-a-brac and stuff. We've just been doing a spot of business with old Papa Jacques Perrier up the road and he recommended we pop in here.' Serge was making it up as he went along.
  The man nodded to me and began to untie his dog.
  'You've been up at Jacques Perrier's place? He doesn't get many visitors these days.'
  'He had us round for lunch,' said Serge, smugly. 'His sister cooked for us â fried gésiers ⦠Delicious!'
  'You saw his sister? How was she?'
  'Estelle's fine, just fine,' said Serge, like he was an old family friend.
  'That was terrible what happened to her though, wasn't it?' said the man. 'You know, during the war?'
  Serge was nonplussed. 'World War Two? You're going back a bit there, mate. I was just a kid.'
  'What, you don't know about the family tragedy? I thought everyone knew.'
  Serge was starting to get bored.
  'No, but you're going to tell us all about it.' He looked at me with a pained expression.
  'Her two sons got killed in battle on the same day. It was an awful shock. But that wasn't all â when her husband heard the terrible news he went straight off and hung himself.'
  Serge pulled a face like he didn't believe it.
  'It's God's honest truth, ask anyone. Estelle found him hanging from a beam in the barn. It finished her off, they reckon.'
  The man was relishing the story. He clearly didn't get many visitors here at his tip.
  'When she'd buried her husband and her sons all she had left was her brother Jacques. She moved in with him and he's looked after her ever since. In return she washes, cooks and cleans for him⦠does everything a wife would do for a husband.' He winked at me.
  'So have you got anything you might think we'd be interested in or not?' said Serge. He was unmoved by the tale. He predictably pulled out his wad of euros with a flourish from his back pocket.
  The man's eyes widened. 'What about that tin bath? That's got to be worth a bit.'
  'I'm not after shit,' said Serge rudely. 'Do I look like a gitan to you?'
  My answer to
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