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As I undertake my fifth blog, the holidays recede into the past. For Kedakai and me, they're a deeply satisfying memory. I hope the same can be said for you.

Now we face the considerably less jolly prospect of winter's long cold grip. Of all the months of the year, I suspect that January and February are the least anticipated and, in the northern hemisphere, the least appreciated, as we await, with growing impatience, the first glimmer of Spring late in March.

As an antidote to these lackluster days I hope you'll accept an excerpt from my book Inside Inside -- which, thanks to tens of thousands of you out there, is enjoying sales that fulfill the publisher's and my wildest hopes.

One of the chapters of the book that has leapt from the pages to the headlines is the account of the rites of passage I underwent as a very young man in Paris. Some of it, I admit, is too scandalous to include, bleeped, or unbleeped, in my blog (I guess you'll just have to read the book), but maybe this account of my first evening in Paris on a cold, wet March night a long time ago may brighten your dark winter as it brightened mine: