Nanterre Massacre

At the start of the school year I began taking my little girl, Alice, to rhythmic gymnastic lessons. She loved it! Every Wednesday afternoon I'd drop her off at the gym, just five minutes walk from our front door, and go and pick her up an hour later. I'd generally arrive some five or ten minutes before the end of the lesson, and watch all these eager little girls being put through their paces with hoops, balls and clubs. A dozen or so of them having a great time! Then, one day, we got a phone call out of the blue saying that it was cancelled. The mayor's office was turning the gym over to a long-term exhibition of archaeological relics. Relics. In a gym. In the UK, people who are disgruntled about what is going on in their local neighbourhood have a useful outlet for their grievances which bypasses the bureaucratic channels. It's the local press, and sometimes grievances expressed in this way can build up a head of steam. Around our way, there's no local press. No "Nanterre Evening News". What happens in Nanterre is, well you probably remember... On March 27, 2002, Richard Durn opened fire in the town hall at the end of a council meeting. Eight councillors were killed. Cor blimey, that's six years to the day! I wonder if someone at Nanterre Town Hall has a suicide wish?