I made the mistake of St. Tropez last summer and found that for a then 12 year old, it was very boring. Sunburned northern Europeans interested in little save sex, drugs and partying held no attraction and I had spent most of my time traveling Italy. This proved to be taxing as Father insisted that I take a chaperone, in this case one Miss Agatha Greenwald. Yes, there are actually people alive still named Agatha. Sadly, she was a phenomenal bore caring nothing for art or dance. Her exaggerated glances at her watch as I strolled the museums of Venice and Milan or perched on the edge of my seat at the ballet did nothing to endear her to me. Half way through the summer I gave up and remained at the villa. This led to a series of escapes on my part in the evening hours. Unfortunately, even on the French Riviera, an unaccompanied 12 year old cannot gain entrance to any number of dance clubs. The other hazard was being mistaken for a child of the evening. During my third such ‘escape’ the gendarmes picked me up on ‘suspicion’. After they found out who I was returned to the tender mercies of Miss Greenwald the dratted woman took up station in my room each night for the rest of the summer. I took some solace in her general exhaustion.