Monthly competition May 2026

(15th March 1969 Wedding – Songs: Where do you go to, my lovely,Peter Sarstedt and The way it used to be, Engelbert Humperdinck)

Marie Claire

The sun filtering in through the yellowing net curtains barely lightens the dim, soulless room, mirroring the dullness I feel inside as I watch you staring at me with blank incomprehension.

We have lived a long time, you and I, Marie Claire and have come a long way from our humble roots in Naples.  Childhood friends, we both eventually clawed our way out of those dingy back streets and ended up in Paris, but you somehow climbed higher than I did.  I have never dared dwell on exactly how, not wishing to sully my idealistic vision of my beautiful friend.  You became part of the Jet Set, living a life of decadence and luxury, whilst I eked out a living as a songwriter.

But you never forgot the close bonds we had as that young boy and girl and for this I am grateful; treasuring the occasional meetings we enjoyed.

Now, on this early Spring morning, I am trying not to shed tears, as I acknowledge the way it used to be between us will never return.  You do not recognise me and all I have left are my solitary memories of our amicable relationship.

A carer knocks quietly at the door before entering to administer you some kind of medication and to sit you up straighter in the high backed chair.

My sad musings are disturbed and I ask the carer if I can help in any way.  She replies that all I can do is be there for Marie Claire and hope there might be a brief glimmer of recognition but not to hold out too much hope.

When she has left the room, bustling away to tend to the several other residents in the private care home, I take Marie Claire’s wrinkled hand, praying that this tactile gesture might jog her brain into recognition.

She pulls her hand away, as if in fright.  Then the blank stare returns and she sits as still as one of the statues in the Paris museums.  A seemingly empty shell.

I wipe away the tears which have refused to be stemmed and, unexpectedly, the words of a song which we had both loved when we first came to this city pop into my head.

‘Where do you go to, my lovely’.

As that young aspiring songwriter, I had envied the skill of Peter Sarstedt and imagined he must know my Marie Claire and had written the song about her.

Perhaps he had, for the words did reflect the life she had come from and the life she was then leading and would continue to lead until this cruel disease had beset her.

I wonder where Marie Claire’s mind now goes.  Is she able to dream or to have flashes of remembrance?

I kiss her gently on the top of her head and depart.

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