Bonjour

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Je m'appelle Paul Lefebvre.

I'm hooked on the The Bureau, a cerebral French spy drama on SBS.

Mon Dieu, c'est incroyable. It's sex on a stick or in this case multiple USB gadgets used by the DGSE, FSB and CIA in an addictive game of alphabet soup and counterespionage.

Each episode is a history lesson, counselling session and language class in French, Russian, Arabic and pigeon English. It's multi lingual, multi faceted and masterful in plot.

40 episodes screened across SBS's On Demand service have harpooned my social life for weeks on end. Nothing comes between me and binge sessions. That was until last night, when my Smart TV played dumb, locked me out and erased my network settings.

Fearing Syrian subterfuge and Putin's mob attempting to steal my bread recipe, I changed the sim card on my wi-fi device, smashed my phone, grabbed a new pay-as-you go handset and left the house.

The mule dropped me at my sisterons place in Northbridge. Maggs the labrador was there and allowed me to enter the safe house.  I had time, for now, but knew I couldn't return home.

Once a panacea for porn in the 80s, SBS still offers quality French. This seductive series, rated as some of the best TV ever produced in France, is erotica for grey matter. It infiltrates your every thought pattern and each character forms a part of a new-found network of friends. Shifty ones.

In need of a new identity and some dough, the mule drove me to see Jonas a baker in Mosman. Married to Marina Loisseau and a himself a former agent provocateur, Jonas is accustomed to the rise and fall of spooks.

I needed Jonas to develop a new strain of sourdough starter. He worked long into the night while kept watch for movement outside the bakery.

By 6am his job was done. We bid adieu and with a fresh batch of mother yeast under my arm I headed back to my sisterons place to watch the final episode of The Bureau.

Baking sourdough and watching catchup TV into the early hours really mucks with your mind.
Can you tell?

Au revoir.


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