In her final column, written before she died last week, the writer remembers meeting three boys on the French Riviera. Who could have guessed they would take her joke seriously?
Heartbroken, weepy, 18 and desolate after being dumped by my first serious boyfriend, I went to stay with a girlfriend in Cannes. Lucky me to be able to buzz off to the French Riviera. My friend’s family ran a small B&B, in which I stayed. Every day, I walked to the beach, alone, while my friend was working and often passed and chatted to three amusing British boys, who were giving out leaflets. But they were in trouble. They had put their possessions into left luggage and couldn’t afford to get them out, even with their leafleting wages. They couldn’t go home, the price was rising, their luggage was trapped and they were stumped. And hungry.
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