There was a cabaret, of sorts: a chanteuse with orange hair, and a twangy voice like a Jew’s harp; and a skinny little comedian with joined-up eyebrows, who was about as risque as a wafer on an ice-cream sundae. There was less chance of the crowd at the Femina enjoying the acts than there was of it rebuilding the Reichstag: it laughed during the songs; and it sang during the comedian’s monologues; and it was no nearer the palm of anyone’s hand than if it had been a rabid dog.
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