I've finally got proper internet, none of that Free Wi-Fi shit that hasn't worked all week. I came back from the toilet before when this guy opened his door and started speaking to me in French. Now, nobody likes being accosted when they have a loo roll in their hand, so I told him curtly I didn't speak French, but then he started speaking to me in English. He asked me if he could copy my toilet key because he had lost his...
At first I was a bit reluctant because I was trying to work out what dodgy angle he could be coming from, for example, what if he isn't supposed to use the toilet and I let him copy my key and he lets loads of scummy tramps in to use it or something? But then I had a brainwave:
"Do you have internet?" I asked brightly.
"Would I... could I have your password?"
Now really this is quite a cheeky thing to ask, it's basically like saying 'Can I steal from you every single day for as long as I live here?'
However he seemed quite willing and asked me for my laptop. For a split-second I thought, what if he just wants to steal my laptop? But I realised that as he lives next door but one, I could probably find him pretty easily if he did steal from me, even with my awful sense of direction. I got my laptop out then shut and locked my door automatically, to which he looked quite surprised, "Oh, I won't take you in- my room is very messy."
I then realised that satan and all his minions couldn't drag me into this strange man's room with my laptop anyway and I regretted locking my door like a fool so I just smiled and propped my computer up in a sort of semi-crouch. While we were waiting for it to start up the lights in the corridor went off because they are on a timer so it was just me and him, stood very close in the pitch black which was, as you can imagine, rather awkward. To get some light quickly he opened his door and then suggested I go in as it would be 'more comfortable'. Hmmm...
Now, my laptop is quite head-smackingly heavy, and I had the vague notion that surely there would be no point in raping someone who lives on the same corridor as you; it kind of takes the mystery out of it. So, I followed him in to his room. I thought my room was ghetto. His room was half the size of mine with paint peeling off the walls and no storage space except for a coat stand and a cupboard under his hotplate. And his bed was L-shaped which must mean he really has to think outside the box when it comes to baby-making.
But, he did have a massive, state of the art computer and a collinder, so at least next time I make pasta I won't have to spoon out each shell individually and dry it with a tea towel. (Needless to say I've only had pasta once since I moved in.)
He did a lot of faffing around; firing up his Live Box and plugging in fire-cables and downloading Firefox and lots of other fire-related shit I didn't understand and the whole time I sat on the edge of his L-shaped bed, looking around his room and wondering why he had a map of Amsterdam gaffa-taped to his wall. He offered me a cup of tea but I politely declined, giving him a look that suggested if it was going to take as long as a cup of tea I'd rather forget the internet and go back to interpretive dancing to Cherie FM.
Finally he got the internet sorted and I felt obliged to say that I would knock on for him with my toilet key in the morning so he could copy it, which I'm not sure is such a good idea but he gave me the gift of Facebook and shoe porn, so who am I to deny him the gift of relieving himself in a toilet rather than out of his window, which is what I assume he's been doing as he said he lost his key at the beginning of the weekend. The only other option is that he had his toilet key separate to his shower key, because the shower has no grid over the drain so you could quite easily squat down and... I don't want to think about it.
In case you are wondering, this nice guy who gave me internet is not fit, even though his network is called 'guitariste' and for the past couple of weeks, every time I've seen it on my list of networks, I've pictured soemthing along the lines of Johnny Depp in Chocolat, minus the stupid accent. (For those of you not familiar, here:)
So it looks like I haven't found a conveniently-located F Buddy, which is unfortunate, but not too bad really because- and I haven't mentioned this before because I made a vow to myself not to make this blog into an extension of my socially-alientating over-sharing that makes me such a hit at parties, but my true nature is rising up inside me like a vomcano and I'm going to cross a line with this post that can never be uncrossed so here it goes- I decided before I came here that my year in Paris would be a Year Without Sex.
Yes, I'm going to confess now, I was so sick of crap sex with crap people that I decided I would be better off without it and would instead be like Amelie, not having sex but finding pleasure in cracking the top of my crème brulée, which I did for the first time on Saturday by the way and let me just say it's not really an adequate subsitute.
So far I've managed to restrain myself from being a whore, but on Friday... well let me tell you about Friday.
Maisie told me that a good dubstep DJ was playing at Social Club, where I've been wanting to go for ages because they have well-known DJs playing and I've not really found a club that I like yet in Paris and I thought there might be a 'good crowd' there, not to sound like a nobhead.
Loads of us met up for drinks at our friend Amy's nice apartment but only me and Maisie ended up going to Social Club. We agreed to stay out all night and get the first metro home which is at half five. I've not done that in Paris yet and it's a fucking pain in the arse trying to get taxis and night buses so we vowed to wait til half five.
The DJ was amazing, we had such a good time and it felt like being in a club back in England. I was rrrather wasted and kept yelling things in English because I was convinced that if the English DJ knew we were English, he would want to chat to us and it would be good for Some Reason.
It was the first time in Paris that I've been able to properly dance like I would at home, it was so fun, but then crazy French skankers started throwing themselves around like we were in the mosh pit so I made Maisie come with to the back of the club, which wasn't very hard core but I am twenty one now and I don't like madheads pushing me to the floor- go and see Slipknot if you like hurting people and dancing at the same time, don't come to a club.
After the dubstep DJ this other guy came on who had a beard and hair down to his elbows and we weren't feeling him quite so much, so we went and sat down. Also I was wearing very high heels which you don't really do in Paris, as you have to walk five miles just to get out of the stupid metro, so my feet were killing. We sat down and had a bit of drama with a Stupid Bitch who put an ice cube down my top and rightly or wrongly, I threw it into her face but luckily she was too drunk to kill me. After that little bit of drama we realised we were bored and we still had two hours to wait until the first metro.
Then Maisie said the DJ was at the bar.
"Let's go and talk to him!" I said but Maisie said it would be 'cringe'. She didn't seem to realise that I am 'cringe'. So we went to talk to the DJ. I'm not going to be (any more) tacky and name names but let's just say we got talking and he was nice, he had a Magnetic personality. Somehow, my friend Masie agreed with him that we would all go back to his hotel with him. He was thinking 'Threesome', we were thinking 'Mini Bar and Bed While We Wait For First Metro'.
We walked back with him to the hotel, which was really quite swanky and we were all chatting and bantering etc and it was really fun, not sleazy in the least. When we went into the hotel, the concierge kicked off and said that the DJ wasn't allowed three people in his room. But the DJ insisted, with a conspirational 'lads together' wink, that we wouldn't be staying the night...
So, in the DJs room, me and Maisie drank all the little bottles of whiskey and gin from his mini fridge and informed him that there would be no threesome at which point he stopped, mid-way through removing his trousers, and expressed alarm and disappoinment. But it was o.k, he was a nice guy and we just chatted for a bit before I decided enough was enough and that the big double bed needed taking advantage of...
Unfortunately, our slumber was disturbed by the bastard hotel receptionist who would not stop banging on the door. The DJ answered the door, unexplicably now with no boxers on, which was slightly worrying as we'd been sharing a bed with him with the understanding there would be no funny business, and the receptionist guy said only two people were allowed in the room. For a joke, Maisie locked the DJ out of the room and we seriously considered leaving him out in the corridor all night in order to get a good rest without any mithering from his mansnake, but we both agreed this was a bit too heartless of us. Eventually we let him in again and tried to resume our sleep, but the receptionist guy knocked again and would not leave until one person left.
Me and Maisie both got up to leave then, thinking that there wasn't much longer to wait until the first metro, but then somehow and erm, this is the bit that's kind of hazy, Maisie ended up walking out of the door muttering 'You owe me' while I stayed on the bed in a not very lady-like state of undress... (Although on a private note, we're even now Maisie and you know exactly what I'm talking about- that thing you begged me to delete off my blog because your mum started reading it.)
At half ten the next day, another hotel worker knocked at the door to announce that the DJ's driver was there to take him to the airport. He was flying straight to Barcelona for another gig. I got up and fished around for my clothes and was so, so hungover that I was shaking and could hardly stand up. I looked in the mirror and wanted to jump out of the window so that nobody else would have to go through the horror of observing my face and hair. Thank Jesus and his lovely friend Mary Magdalene the Whore that I'd taken a pair of flat shoes and a toothbrush out with me because I'd planned on staying at Maisie's.
As the dubstep DJ fished around for his passport etc, I sat on the bed and vaguely mentioned how awful it would be to get the metro. He said "I'll pay for you to get a taxi' and stupidly I went 'Oh no, no it's all right'. Why do we always do that? You can be absolutely starving and yet, when offered a cake at someone's house, before you can stop yourself, you've declined and insisted that you're not hungry in the slightest. Well, I kept doing that until eventually he said 'Last time I'll offer, do you want me to go to the cash machine and get you a taxi?' and I said feebly 'Yes Please.'
We went downstairs and he said my shoes looked like Cinderella shoes. (Was he implying that I was a poor young girl with no nice clothes whilst he was an international dubstep DJ?) While he settled the bill, I sat in the hotel reception vaguely feeling like a hooker and then we walked to the nearest cash machine. He got out a bunch of money and asked me how much it would cost to get back to mine in a taxi. As I haven't got a taxi back to my new place before and it's quite far away I told him I wasn't sure, so he gave me a hundred euros.
Let me just say there is only a two letter difference between 'ho' and 'hero'.
We walked back to the hotel where he got in his car and I went into the lobby and asked them to call me a taxi which ended up costing me sixteen euros. I got home, got in the shower, then sat in bed drinking tea and reading 'Tess of the D'Urbervilles'.
Instead of sleeping all day like I wanted to because I was so, so tired, I forced myself to have a quick nap and make the most of the day, so I went to the Christmas market at Tuilieres with Lauren and ate nice food and drank red wine and nearly bought my gran some chocolate gingerbread but I felt weird buying my gran a Christmas present with my Sex Money.
I mean, is it Sex Money or is it Taxi Money? I thought it was just free money but is it? Or am I like Holly Golightly, asking for fifty dollars for the powder room?
Whatever it is, it bought me a pair of running trainers, a sports bra, a crepe, a hot chocolate, this speciality cheese and potato thing that came with red wine at the Christmas market and a delicious fondue with Lauren on Saturday night...
And I'm not going to name names, but I got to tell my mates in a salacious way that I bengad* a famous DJ.
*Oops, I meant banged.