Thursday, 3 March 2011

Sour Puss

Tunisian Man has stolen his internet back, for good this time, as far as I can tell. What a fucking nobhead. How am I supposed to spend my time now? The weekend that has just gone was as quiet as a marshmallow landing on a carpet: I went for lunch on Saturday; babysat on Saturday night; and then on Sunday most people were still in England for half term and I had no phone credit and no internet, so I didn't do very much at all. I ate macaroons and watched Audrey Hepburn films and then, inspired by Funny Face, I walked to the Eiffel Tower just for a gander and to see if I could jazz my spirits up.

I got fucking lost on the way back so after I made it home three hours later, I just lay on my bed staring at the wall until somebody texted me with an invite to dinner.

I went out with Clare and Amy and her three friends visiting from Liverpool. We went to this restaurant that has a cat. The cat cheered me up no end but there was a woman there on her own who was Hogging It. The cat was sat on her lap all night and the woman was feeding it her sea bass. I was so jealous I wanted to storm over and slap her across the head with it (her fish, not the cat). I have conspired to return one day on my own so I can have the cat all by myself. I might sprinkle myself with cat nip as well.

Oh I'm so Pissed Off. How dare he stop me from stealing his internet?

I'm writing this at the family's house where the internet is bountiful. I've had withdrawal symptons from my blog. I've been mentally blogging amazingly witty and insightful posts throughout the day but unfortunately I can't remember them.

What have I done since the last time I blogged? On Tuesday night I went out and got very drunk for no reason, then had to get up at 8am for work and spend the whole day lying on the couch with a splitting headache while the five year old joyfully kneed me in the face and yelled 'I eat you!' down my ear.

Oh fuck off everybody. I'm in a terrible, terrible mood. My money situation is making me want to gouge my own eyes out. I have hundreds of euros hidden in my knicker drawer and I don't need them in my knicker drawer I need them in my FUCKING ENGLISH BANK ACCOUNT so I can pay off my credit card and book Ibiza and get plane tickets to my cousin's wedding in Serbia. I was the one who rallied everyone to go and now they've all booked and it's too late for me. Now I'll never find my Serbian Traveller Husband.

Arghhhhhhhh I fucking hate French banks! And English banks! I'm reading A Week In December by Sebastian Faulks and there's a character in it who is a hedge fund manager and he's a millionaire, but when you think about it, all he has is hypothetical bets. People with speculated make-believe money are millionaires and here I am with wads of hard cash and I'm penniless, because Royal Bank of Scotland keep charging me for Who Knows What and I'm powerless to stop the Ibiza dream and my cousin's wedding from slipping away...

Fuck Fuck Fuck.

I've been reading the Time Out Guidebook that my mum's friend left me. It's so full of things to do that I'm paralysed with choice and I can't bring myself to do anything.

Why can't my life in Paris be like Funny Face? I want to go dancing round Montmatre in leggings and skipping around parks in a beautiful wedding dress! Mind you, I guess Audrey Hepburn had a wash once in a while, and I bet she didn't stomp around with a face like thunder and a jumper stained with crêpe batter.

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