Spent the afternoon sitting in the Square Louise Michel, that hilly garden with steps leading up to the Sacré Coeur, the hot sun streaming down the back of my neck, writing a new song by Falstaff called “Dirty Laundry.”  It’s basically about playing hide and seek, hiding in a laundry basket, and finding yourself among the kind of dirty clothes and disgusting smells whose descriptions never fail to delight small children.  Writing about stinky socks and greasy napkins and soiled underwear made me think of The Twits.