Metamorphosism

Recently, somewhere in the South of France, perhaps

Paco: That's him.
Stipo: You sure?
Paco: Sure I'm sure.
Stipo: Absolutely sure?
Paco: Pretty sure. White hair, look at that white hair. Needs a haircut bad. Who's he think he is, Jim Jarmusch?
Stipo: He's not smoking. He's supposed to be a chain-smoker.
Paco: Pff.
Stipo: He hasn't smoked once the whole time.
Paco: Pff.
Stipo: And he doesn't look like a... he look like a finance minister to you? Even one on vacation? Finance ministers don't drive Doblós and sleep in tents.
Paco: Still, I'd rather err on the side of prudence, you know?
Stipo: He look seventy to you? I mean, tired's one thing, but he's no seventy. Pooped, okay. Sapped by the mistral, okay. Culturally shocked, okay. But come on.
Paco: I say we do him anyway.
Stipo: Call it.
Paco: Heads.
Stipo: It's tails.
Paco: I still say we do him anyway.

My condolences to those mourning Wim Duisenberg. Still, when a finance minister is found floating in his pool, is "heart attack" the first thing you think? Is "natural death" the first thing that goes through your mind? Totally possible, even likely, given his age. And it's not like he was in a bathtub, fully dressed or suspended from Blackfriar's Bridge. But still.

The South of France was nice, BTW. Highly recommend it.