I was in an odd shop that looked more like a bookstore than a grocery store, and there wasn't a lot of food out on display. There were mostly ornate boxes sans text taking up much of the shelf space. The cashier resembled Daryl Hannah if she'd lived on a 1968 West Coast commune, and the behind the counter fussing between her and the Jean-Pierre Léaud circa «Love on the run» (1979) lookalike was hardly stifled and kept from customers' eyes and ears, despite her much-appreciated attempts. I wasn't finished shopping, but placed my goods on the counter to pay up anyhow, hoping the Léaudesque goon would leave poor Daryl alone. A Robbie Williams song played on the ceiling speakers. I hid the bag of purchased items under a table near the door and resumed shopping. Léaud disappeared somewhere, as did the Williams tune. Hippie Hannah commented on my smart idea not to carry around a heavy basket when I could split my goods into two pay groups. I smiled and let her think that was my plan, but mostly I was just glad Antoine Doinel's doppelgänger was out of my life.