Friday, 28 January 2011

Tea Will Be the Death of Me

I just spilt fucking tea all over Family Decent's fucking cream sofa. Tea is ruling my life; it is turning my teeth yellow and filling my belly with so much liquid that I can ring my cousin and let her listen to all the tea swishing around as I move from side to side (and she in turn lets me listen to hers) and now tea is making me destroy Parisien furniture.

And my babysitting shift was going so well- the oldest girl is sleeping at a friend's house and the other two went to bed without much arguing. Everyone is well now, by the way- I must be an excellent nurse, despite all the naps and secretive chocolate biscuit eating.

Which reminds me... they got their shopping delivery today and it is so incredible that I wanted to copy the shopping receipt onto here but I hid the receipt somewhere and now I can't find it. They got TWENTY FIVE packets of biscuits. This is for a week.

I might have a word with the French government about putting a stop to this whole gouter thing; it's getting out of hand now. And, more importantly, I keep eating the kids' gouter and it is making me put on weight. (Gouter is the snack kids all over France have after school and it normally involves half a packet of biscuits and some sort of small, token fruit.)

You know when you think about the future and you think 'Blimey, out there, years ahead of me, is another me, looking back on this moment now and she knows what the near-future holds for me.' Isn't that disgustingly mind-boggling? Now I'm thinking back to myself as a fifteen year old on a school trip to Disneyland Paris, stood in the McDonald's... Fifteen Year Old Me doesn't know that she will be visiting this McDonald's again, next time from her new home in Paris...

If I could send her a message? If I could communicate some worldly wisdom to Fifteen Year Old Me through the wind tunnels of time? I'd say: Stop resolving to loose your virginity as soon as possible... save it... save it and be pure and you can marry a Traveller and wear a massive fuck-off wedding dress...

Imagine if you could send messages to your past selves? I wish a Future Me would send me a message. What am I going to do after Paris? Where will I go, what will I do?

I met an old man the other day who said his wife came to Paris as an au pair from Ireland 45 years ago and never left. I thought 'Soz for her then.' But it was something to think about. He also guessed by my accent (that I was 'speaking' French in) that I was Egyptian, so that's something else to think about.

Maybe if I listen hard enough I will pick up a message from the future... I'm listening... I'm listening... I think I can feel something! I can feel some sort of wisdom being communicated to me from somewhere further down the timeline of my life... I'm getting a visualisation! It's me in Ibiza, seven months from now... she's sat by the edge of the pool dressed in a huge cotton smock with a towel lying across her belly... she's saying... what's she saying?

She's saying: 'Babe, put down the biscuits, you're ruining my holiday!'

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