Like myself, Coluche lived overlooking Parc Montsouris, the jewel of the 14th. Unlike me, however, he owned a full two-storey house, an unassuming red-brick remnant from the neighbourhood’s countrified past, thoroughly updated inside ( the neighbours say it had a jacuzzi or an indoor swimming-pool). But whereas Coluche lived on street level, I live perched high up as if in a tree-house, enjoying a stunning view of the gardens.

I remember Coluche queuing up at the boulangerie and greengrocer’s like everyone else, always in his sartorial trademark – a pair of blue-and-white striped dungarees buckled over a potbelly and yellow T-shirt. His round, rimless glasses  and round, reddish face, his funny tufts of curly hair sticking out on either side of a shiny baldness, were no less familiar to the French than Charlot (Charlie Chaplin)’s moustache and bowler hat. 

When Coluche was killed in a motorcycle crash on 21 June 1986, the night France beat Brazil in the World Cup, his death somewhat overshadowed the euphoria of victory. Interminable files of mourners streamed to his house the following days, bringing the limelight to our hitherto little-known street. 

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