After the little 'talking to' I was given on Friday night, I decided that this week would be the week that I shed my scruffy, half-arsed caterpillar skin and transform myself into a Super Au Pair Butterfly. But first, I had the weekend to revel in. I always used to hate the thought of 'living for the weekend' and naïvely thought that life is only worth living when you experience sheer joy and pleasure every second of every day, but being an au pair is definitely a job where it's ok to look forward to the weekend.
(In my other job of course I could do what I wanted every single day between the hours of nine and four, but there's so only so much fun you can have with fifty cents and a bowl of reheated wheat, no matter how much free time you have in which to enjoy said shiticles*.)
Every weekend I've been cramming the delicious food and museums in. On Saturday I kicked off with a chocolate éclair and a cookie to get change for the metro, which now that I think about it was such a rash decision; I wish I'd gone for one very expensive thing instead of two generic things you can buy in Morrison’s, but we live and learn. Then I went to the Musee D'Orsay with Kay, where we were disappointed to learn that the big, famous painting of an ungroomed vajayjay they have was on loan to the Louvre. After that my heart wasn't really in it. (Although my close friends will be wondering why I had to go to a museum to see an ungroomed vajayjay when I could just- whoa! I can hear my Overshare Alarm blaring, better stop there.)
Incidentally, Kay fixed my sofa-bed the other day! I now have a fully-functioning double bed in case any prospective Dubstep DJs are reading this... although if I'm not getting a taxi home where will my fondue-money come from!?
Actually the financial repercussions from that controversial Taxi Money are still affecting my social life; tonight I didn't have to pay for wine at dinner with eight people I had never met before. They said it was their treat for meeting me, but really they meant it was their treat for hearing the story. I don't whip the story out at every social occasion like an abnormally large and nicely-formed penis, but someone turned to me who I was talking to about dubstep and said 'Did you see (insert name of secret dubstep DJ here) at Social Club the other day?' and well- withholding the truth is as bad as lying.
Going back to my bed though, here is what Kay wrote on my Facebook wall about it:
Enjoy your double bed tonight!!! (ok ill stop going on about it now, its just how i did it in like the flick of a finger after all that pushing and pulling - very proud moment)! xxxx
Roffle. (If you spell them phonetically, MSN acronyms are ironic, not a sign that you need to Close The Laptop and Walk Away.)
Anyhoo… after Musee D’Orsay where we unfortunately didn’t look at a lady garden in its natural and healthiest state of wild abandon (some people might say), me and Kay went to… drum roll please… a writer’s group at Shakespeare and Company. I have been wanting to go to the writer’s group there since before I moved to Paris so I was vair vair keen and so on but also quite nervous. The other people in the group were… let’s say intellectual and if not snobby then... well I don’t quite know what. People read out anything they had brought along and the rest of the group offered their thoughts. One man read out a short story, someone else a poem and two people read out extracts from novels they are working on.
I was really nervous and felt quite a lot of pressure as I was clearly the stupidest person in the room, apart from the dog that one of them brought with them for some reason. It kept leaping about and barking and at one point it was sat next to me wagging its tail in my face and edging closer and closer until I screamed ‘I’m scared of dogs!’ at which point everyone in the room stopped and stared. I’m not even scared of dogs. Well, I am quite scared of them sometimes but this dog was fine but I was all edgy and nervous and trying to concentrate on this woman’s prose about a man playing Proust or something and the words just sort of leapt out of my mouth like a mad frog out of a matchbox. (Except matchboxes don’t have snaggletooths in them.)
This is why it is always best for me to not speak in academic situations for at least three weeks, otherwise random crap spurts from my moth before I have time to think. I want to go again next week and take some writing just so they know that I can at least write a little bit and am not just a random dog-phobe. Although, and you probably think I making this up now but I swear I am not, I started writing something at the weekend called Dogs and Violence which is about a girl who is scared of dogs and thinks violent things about them. I know it sounds mental but I think I am going to take that and read it out, because even though it will fuel their suspicions I am Disturbed, it might help explain why I am so certain that dogs are Something To Be Feared.
It’s funny to think of me sat there in that musty room at Shakespeare and Company, surrounded by shelves of ancient, ancient books and calm, intelligent, possibly sneering strangers. Four or five hours later I was surrounded by strangers shouting putain at me in the unisex toilets of a club called Le Cave and there was no ‘possibly’ about their sneering. They chased us out of the club and as we left I vaguely remember threatening darkly to batter them all. We were on Rue de Princesse which is a hive-like little street filled with bars that Real French People go to. Me, Amy and her friend Caz from home were definitely a horrendously drunk novelty. After our pitch-fork moment at Le Cave, we tried another club but there was some confusion and Caz was suddenly calling the bouncer a cunt and, always unthinkingly glad to call someone bigger and stronger than me a cunt, I joined in gleefully. We then went back to Le Cave and stayed until four am and then it really was time to go home for the hideously-behaved English girls who had started drinking seven hours earlier. I’d recommend Rue de Princesse, although it was expensive, but slightly cheaper than most places in Paris. It was about ten euros for a cocktail I think. I was just about to say that we didn’t any cocktails but then I got a flashback of us all chinking mojitos and toasting something. And a tall bald man bought us more shots.
English people are disgusting. But fun, very fun I think. We seemed to be having more fun than anyone else anyway. With Caz at the helm we were making three or four new friends and enemies a minute. She bought us shots on her card and I always admire someone who can’t keep their bankcard in their purse on a night out.
I’ve gone off on a lot of random tangents tonight. I should go to bed soon if I am to wake up bright as a Chubba Chubb tomorrow and continue on spiritual journey to becoming Super Au Pair. Today I didn’t exactly nail it, but I made a quiche (minus the pasty at first but I realised my idiocy just as I began to pour it directly into the oven. Sometimes when I do things like this I don't want to leave the house because I am scared of what I will do). And I changed the bedding, which was long overdue by normal people’s standards. (She will change your bedding once in four weeks, she’s suuuuuuuuuuuuper au pair!)
When I left the little boy chased after me for a kiss and kissed me about thirty times. Is this all it costs to buy a child’s love- quiche and clean bedding once a month?
But I am seriously going to buck my ideas up mister, you betcha. I have even bucked up my ideas on the au pair pals front. Until Friday I was the au pair loner at the park which was tragique. There is a gang of English-speaking au pairs who chill near the trees and I’ve never struck up a convo with them, nor them with me. I have been feeling like the playground reject, which is exactly how I felt in the other park I took the Family Thrift kids to. In that park in the 7th Arrondissement there was:
- African Nannies
- Chinese/Vietnamese Nannies
- English Speaking Au Pairs (made up of me and that girl who I never spoke to until after I left)
- American, French and English Mothers (they never spoke to me, the ‘hired help’)
- French Mothers Who Don’t Like Americans or English People.
The last group was actually spearheaded by a French grandmother and they were always fighting with the African Nannies. It was exactly like The Warriors, only with buggies and babies in trench coats.
The order of things is slightly different in this park, yet I am somehow still the playground reject. However, on Friday an au pair from Norway who is ‘in’ with the English Speaking Au Pair gang started speaking to me because nobody else had arrived yet and she’s invited me to go to the cinema with her tomorrow night. Also, at dinner tonight one of the girls there said she knows me from the park. What she actually said was ‘You’re the au pair whose always running after her kids’ and I had to convince her that I am running with them, with them...
She was the au pair who I talked to about dubstep so it looks like I might have an inning with the Playground Pack. However, that phenomenon we call coincidence will not stop knocking on my whoreish door… She said that one of the girls she chats to at the park knows the Dubstep DJ (that I tangoed with and who paid me more than enough taxi money if you’ve not been paying attention).
Apparently she is one of his good friends.
*Shiticle = a shit article and/or an article that is shit, for example: a cabbage-themed cermaic bowl; a JUST IN! Novelty Phallic Shaped Hip Flask; and 'Why We Owe The Arabs Nothing' by Robert Kilroy-Silk).