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Bernard is in Montmartre, using up his phone's free minutes by giving a sit rep to Orlando aka the great Inquisitor, when he happens to oversee two pupils doing what people have done in Paris for centuries. Now, personally he thinks that school uniforms are both a blessing and a curse. It is a blessing because with pupils wearing the same dark blue and dark green, the school crest even printed onto the back of the casual jumpers, you can identify your kids anywhere. It is a curse because with pupils wearing the same unmistakable outfit, you can identify them anywhere, even when you are on the streets of Paris, enjoying your two hours off and they are standing pressed up against a wall with a conveniently fitting art installment, snogging their faces off.

'How far along is Gerry with fourth form's sex ed?' Bernard asks Orlando casually, interrupting Orlando's mild rant about Horrible Tuesday yesterday('If you like French food, then that is great, go to France, but for fuck's sake why do I have to eat snails? I think it's snails. I fucking hate International Food Day.').

'Why?' Orlando asks back, his fear of escargot trumped by his terror of teen pregnancy. 'What is happening?'

'Have you ever realized that school uniforms are both a curse and a blessing?' Bernard muses.

'Bernard,' Orlando says. 'Focus. What is happening and whose dick is involved?'

Bernard hums, tilts his head and regards the situation on the other side of the road, in front of the art installment.

'No one's,' he concludes.

'No one's?' Orlando asks back, sounding fractionally more relaxed.

'Well, one,' Bernard corrects himself, still watching while he ambles over to a street stall selling pretzels. 'But it's on the sideline.'

'On the sideline?' Orlando asks, now sounding annoyed rather than worried. 'For fuck's sake, it's three in the afternoon. How are you drunk already?'


'Oh, I'm not,' Bernard corrects him, fumbling with the assorted handful of Euros he found in his jacket pocket that technically are supposed to pay for the kids' ride on the tube.

'Bernard!' Orlando growls back in Yorkshire.

'Yes, Orlando?'

'Tell me what is going on.'

Bernard bites of a chunk of his pretzel and looks back to the graffiti dutifully. Liv Steele is still standing much too close to Alisha Faroud who is backed up against the wall of love and has a sort of dazed expression on her face as she licks her lips. Liv's expression has changed – at least Bernard suspects that it has since she snogged Alisha because he doubts that Alisha would've much enjoyed the snogging if Liv's face had looked as thunderous as it does now. Her wrath is directed at Christopher Thompson. Christopher's shiteating grin while looking at his two classmates abruptly changes to a look of surprise and then pain, when Liv turns around and knees him in the privates.

'The penis in question just got some action,' Bernard reports around his pretzel.

'What?!' Orlando shouts loud enough that Bernard supposes he would've heard him without the help of the phone as well.

'Orlando,' Bernard says, contemplating. 'Can you tell me how many pounds four Euro twenty are? Because I think I just got overcharged for my pretzel.'
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