Friday, 29 April 2011

Hilda Ogden Comes To Paris

In honour of the Royal wedding I've put my hair in rollers. If I went out and about in them tomorrow I'd be stoned to death (the Champ Elysees sure ain't Church Street), so I've spent the length of Amélie rollering and hairspraying and I'm going to sleep with them in. Not sure exactly how I'm going to sleep, but hopefully will have nice-ish hair for tomorrow.

Watching Amélie has made me want to learn French all over again, perhaps I will knuckle down and start speaking to French people again, after tomorrow obviously. When the Parisiens see what we have planned for Will and Kate's big day I think it will be rather difficult to engage them in conversation... ha ha. Wait until I put the pictures up.

Wednesday, 27 April 2011


My vow of sobriety lasted three days, what the fuck? But I have also made a vow to abstain from Something Else, which I intend to keep for six months. My friend Who Shall Not Be Named has made it with me, but I will not tell you what it is. Let's just say it has a lot to do with my post about Fucking Crazy Men and I'll let you decide if I'm using that crude word as a verb or as an adjective. While we're on the subject of Fucking Crazy Men, I would like to congratulate Alice on finding the 'fat pussy hole song' that was played to my friend Who Shall Not Be Named, have a listen if you dare, but be aware that the crazy guy in question didn't play this actual song, he 'just' had a sample of the line that goes 'Pussy all big and wet, looking good and shit/smelling like dead fish' and he mixed it into a techno track on his decks, whilst he was naked, whilst in the middle of having sex.

And since this post is called 'Vows' let me just take a moment to warn you that me and my friends have something hilarious planned for Friday and the Royal Wedding. Somehow we all feel much more fond of the monarchy living in another country and on Friday we will be celebrating the Royal Wedding with hair rollers, Pimms and Eton Mess. And something else... that I will reveal on Saturday morning, probably. Ha ha ha.

My Life's Mission

Ha! I did get to bask in the little boy's materialistic love after all- his mum told him that I wrote a note to 'the bells in the sky' requesting Smarties Easter Eggs for him and his sister and 'the bells' complied, making me a hero who holds much sway with these mysterious chocolate-giving bells. Apparently all children in France believe in them... Is it any weirder than believing chocolate eggs come from giant magic bunnies though?

The kids were really happy to see me today, if only because I'd given them Smarties Easter Eggs. I also gave the eight year old a Hello Kitty t-shirt for her birthday last week and when I went to pick her up from school she was wearing it. I can see why rich parents get sucked in to the 'buy your children's love' thing. All it took was three £1 eggs and a £7 t shirt from Asda and they were all over me, hugging me and telling me that they loved me.

Unfortunately, I was so pleased that they weren't hitting me with coats and saying 'You MEAN, you!' that when the mum got in from work I hadn't made them have a shower, do their homework or eat their dinner, they just watched telly and ate biscuits while I sat in the kitchen eating cheese and fluffing my hair up in the mirror. But that's the beauty of being Shit Au Pair- everybody knows you are shit!

Oh by the way, my friend Who Shall Not Be Named said the lyrics from the mid-sex song are:

'Big fat pussy holes that smell like dead fish', not 'Big fat fannies that smell like dead fish'.

I still can't find it on the internet though- I am thinking of making it my life's mission.

Monday, 25 April 2011

It's Out There

Today I discovered a UNIVERSAL TRUTH.

It is so mind boggling that I think it has changed my life forever.

Not only has it changed how I will live my life in the future, but it has made sense of so many confusing happenings I have already endured.

Right, are you ready for this?

Let me hit you with my knowledge bomb:

All men.

And that's it, that's all I'll ever need to know to make sense of the world and I honestly, honestly feel so much better about everything because it explains an awful lot and there has always been this little pixie on the edge of my peripheral whispering: 'How will you feel if you end up alone, very old and very fat and living with seventy cats?' and now I can turn around and say 'I will honestly feel relieved because:

All men.

You may think I making a ridiculously general statement, so before I explain how I came to discover this universal truth, let me outline the few exceptions:

EXCEPTION 1: The male members of my family seem to be Quite Normal. Apart from my dad (Quick example: he used to paint psychedelic patterns and offensive messages on garden snails with Warhammer paint and then release them again, in the hope that one day an old man would look up from his weeding and see a snail going past with 'Fuck Off You Miserable Bastard' written on it.)

EXCEPTION 2: Some of my friends' boyfriends seem Quite Normal- Kat's boyfriend Ricky, Lauren's boyfriend Ben... Ok when I said 'some' I mean those specific two. To anyone who is offended by this: Feel free to tell me in no more than two hundred words why your boyfriend is not Fucking. Weird. Photographic evidence and testimonials will be accepted.

EXCEPTION 3: The boys I would call 'friends'... I can count these on one hand.

EXCEPTION 4: Some children. I say some, because the five year old I look after thinks that Easter eggs fall from big gold bells in the sky. (This means that his mum couldn't tell him that the Smarties Egg I bought him was from me and therefore I wish I'd eaten his egg as the only reason I bought it was so I could bask in his materialistic-love, but that's neither here nor there.)

So those are the exceptions. Now I will explain how I came to understand the universe and it is all down to my friend Who Shall Not Be Named...

(Hold on to your knickers girls, because this is a horror story.)

Two of my friends met a French man at a Jamie XX gig two weeks ago, (the same night I was in Lyon). He seemed interesting and fun and he was good looking. They chatted with him all night and swapped numbers. The next day he came and met all us girlies at Tuileries and we all agreed he was nice- he was funny and friendly... and also he took his top of because it was hot and he was fit and very, very tanned.

There was 'chemistry' between him and my friend Who Shall Not Be Named and they agreed to meet on their own. When she arrived at the park he was doing handstands, on his own, but she decided to overlook this and they had a nice time. They met up many times over the next few days, both alone and as part of a group. We all agreed he was nice but she was worried he was a bit 'intense'. We decided that he wasn't 'intense', it was just that he had travelled the world a lot doing yoga and 'being spiritual' so he was bound to take life a bit more seriously than a group of binge drinking au pairs.

Feelings of fondness grew... Finally My Friend Who Shall Not Be Named agreed to go to his house on Sunday night and blatantly 'It' was going to happen. There was lots of chemistry between them and we all knew. We couldn't wait to hear the sordid details the next day.

And we definitely got the details.

It's not really my place to reveal them, although to be fair I have told you a lot more than She Who Shall Not Be Named might like, but the most important detail is this (and beware, because it will BLOW YOUR MIND):

Half through the hanky panky, the man started laughing. He said he was thinking of a funny song. He got up and went to put on said song. The lyrics of the song were this:

'Big, fat, wet fannies that smell like dead fish.'









Read it again.

And again.

Read it until you can't laugh, or cry, any more.

Read it until you are too scared to even look at a male dandelion.

And so it can be ascertained that:

All Men.

I have been trying to find the 'fat fanny' song on the internet all evening but I have only found lots and lots of worried teenage girls on health forums asking: 'What does it mean if your fanny smells like dead fish?'.

Incidentally, my friend Who Shall Not Be Named does not have 'a big fat fanny that smells like dead fish' and even if she did it clearly doesn't matter because Mr Mad also said that he is falling in love with her. They have known each other for two weeks.


To conclude (apart from four exceptions, which I have outlined clearly above for future reference):

All Men.


And seeing as I just revealed the mortifying secrets of one my friends, it is only fair that I tell you something about last Thursday, the night I refused to blog about on the grounds that even me, a scandalous No Shame Jane, could not divulge such seedy secrets. I swore to myself that I would never, ever repeat this, not even in my own head (especially not in my own head) but I am one of those people that has to share things in order to feel better about them.


Make sure you are sitting down.

During a certain moment between two people, this phrase was uttered to me:

"Is your daddy hairy like me?"








I don't think there's anything else to be said.

Sunday, 24 April 2011

Pâques It In

Pâques is what they seem to be calling Easter over here. It's Easter Sunday and I have no chocolate to eat. I wish I had saved that chocolate hen the family gave me on Thursday. As usual I've spent all my money and on Friday morning it dawned on me that I have four days ahead of me with just two stolen kiwis and the remainder of my alphabet cake decorations to feast upon. But on Friday I was too hungover to eat anyway and then in the evening I met up with two girls Vicki and Emily that I met when me and Anna went to see the dubstep DJs the other week. The whole tourbus-ing to Lyon thing kind of overshadowed my new found friendship, but Emily said she owed me six euros for some reason and would I like to get drunk on the steps of the Sacre Coeur?

As a Greedy Person, it's not often that I experience the results of no food + lots of alcohol, but on Friday night, not only me, but also Emily, Vicki, their friend Melissa and my friend Emma, got to experience the phenomenom first hand as I got double vision, lost the ability to walk and then threw up three times in the bushes.

The next morning I had to make my way back from the other side of Paris and it was very hot and I was still drunk and people on the metro were openly tutting and shaking their heads at me. Well, they might not have been, but I have been living under the shadow of Hangover Paranoia since Friday morning, so I'm not too sure who has really been staring at me on the metro, thinking I'm a sad case of English binge drinking culture let loose in a country where a bottle of wine can cost less than two euros; and who has been innocently glancing in my direction and then suffered the full brunt of Person With Hangover Paranoia- first the shifty glances between the Starer and the Floor, then the drowsy eyes and swaying, then back to the shifty glances, then, once the Person With Hangover Paranoia has decided that the Starer is definitely staring at them, a look of pure horror followed by a look of pure evil followed by an alarming leap off the seat and a drunken dash into the next carriage.

Still, it is fun being drunk. But (and this is where my excellent play on words in the title comes in)- I am going to pack it all in. I am serious. No more sluttish behaviour and salary squandering for moi. After Emily gave me the six euros which I promptly spent on wine and metro tickets and for some reason a small bag of grated cheese, I was faced with a hungry weekend ahead of me. The girls organised a picnic on Saturday at Buttes-Chaumont and we all pretended that my small bag of grated cheese could be called 'a contribution'. Incidentally, while we picniqued, a group of men who were sat next to us took their shirts off and started grappling, which is like wrestling for the socially-inept, until one of them got a bloody nose and they all put their tops back on.

After Buttes-Chaumont we had gin and tonics and then, in honour of Kayt's friend Mandy who was visiting from England, we went to Le Bleu Note once again. We go there because it's free to get in and the music is good- it's always live and it makes you want to get up and pretend you can samba dance. BUT- We thought that last week might have been an unlucky fluke... unfortunately it was painfully obvious last night that, aside from us, Le Bleu Note is frequented by Very Strange Men who make it their night's mission to surround you on all sides and force you to dance with them.

Last night we also encountered a Very Strange Woman in there as well. I throw the term 'smackhead' around quite liberally and often it's unjustified, but this girl last night was clearly off her tits on all kids of brown substances and she locked on to us like a Junkie Satellite, talking at us in Spanish and eyeballing us. She was with her boyfriend who looked like a member of the South American mafia- he had a Moss Side Smile (a Chelsea Grin or a Glasgow Grin, you know. Actually if you don't know you don't want to know so don't Google it) and a suit on. Very Strange Woman had a fight with him at the bar; from what we could gather it was about his other girlfriend who he was also there with, and then Smackhead Lady went outside to kick cars. Then she sat next to Kayt and Amy who were having a smoke and they promptly decided to come back inside.

Anyway, it was fun but I am not getting drunk again for as long as I can manage, because my liver is quivering like an abused puppy and I find myself on Easter Sunday with no Easter eggs. There is a tiny sprinking of chocolate dust at the bottom of that box the hen was in, so I am going to lick that and then sniff the box whilst looking at pictures of Easter Eggs online.

Saturday, 23 April 2011


Ok I am going to stop getting drunk now, seriously, this is not good it's bad. It's lunch time how is all that wine still in my blood??

Friday, 22 April 2011

French Walk of Shame

Damn. I wish I had never started posting links to my blog on Facebook. Then my mum never would have found it and nobody I know would read it. Although, if I didn't post links to it on Facebook the only people who would read it are people looking for pictures of Hilda Ogden (seriously, that is where the biggest percentage of 'page views' comes from).

But I had never told anyone I know I was keeping a blog, then it really would be completely anonymous and I could tell you about last night.

Hmm. I need to sleep now anyway because I have just returned home after enduring yet another hideous French Walk of Shame, which is just like an English Walk Of Shame with several metro and bus changes involved, and more people tutting at you. I think I will write something later that alludes to the events of last night, without naming names or making me out to be a huge hoe bag. (Don't get too excited, no tour buses this time.)

Thursday, 21 April 2011

Le Easter Hols.

The Easter holidays are over!!

The family told me yesterday that they were able to get time off work at the last minute, so at 1pm today the mum came home from work and they all went to their country house for Easter weekend, leaving me freeeeee as a bird until Tuesday. If only I had not spent all my money like a Dick, I could be in England Right Now, drinking tea in London, Liverpool, Manchester, Brighton, Edinburgh- So many people to see, so little money...

I have four euros until I get paid a week on Monday. I can't even buy myself an Easter egg. I bought the kids a Smarties Easter egg each when I was back in England for Mulletover and I have amazed and astonished myself by managing to not eat them for three weeks. I gave them to the mum this morning and she said "No, you should not have, you really should not have." I was thinking 'Pleeeeease refuse to take them so I can have them for myself' but she didn't. She did however give me 'a little something'. It was a chocolate hen in a nest of chocolate eggs and also chocolate fish for some reason. I say 'was' because as soon as I sat down in my room I devoured the whole thing, eggs and fish and all.

Damn I wish I'd saved it. Or bought myself an Easter egg when I was back in England. Or even just last week before I'd spent all my money on... on... I can't even remember what I've spent my money on. I went to the cinema, I got a kebab.

Looks like I'll be back on the cake decorations for a while. The family had loads and loads of food in their fridge that I know will go off because they won't be there now until Monday night, so I tried to sneakily steal some. Unfortunately I had taken my tiny little handbag so all I managed to get was two kiwis and a satsuma and I've eaten the satsuma already.

On Sunday I had planned to honour the ascension of Jesus Christ our Lord by smoking shisha at the Paris Mosque and eating vast amounts of Middle Eastern cakes and cous cous, but I am not completely shit. I have forty pounds squirreled away, so I can go and get bent over whilst exchanging it for euros at the Gare du Nord Eurostar terminal.

Kay is lending me money so I can go out tonight, Surprise Surprise, I have about six tabs to pay off when I get paid. But I say "Nobody lend me any money!!!" and people go "Pleeeeeease come out, pleeeeeeeease come out, I'll lend you the money!" and then I feel bad for not borrowing the money. Or else they go "Let's all get mojitos, let's all mojitos, I'll put it on my card, go on pay me back, I really want us all to get mojitos!" and then I just really want a mojito.

I better go and get ready actually, I meant 'to blog' this afternoon. But then I also meant to tidy my room, go and sunbathe and go to Gare du Nord and exhange my money. Instead I spoke to Beth on Skype for an hour and a half whilst eating my chocolate hen and then I had a four hour nap.

Oh fuck I've suddely got really stressed and angry about tonight. You know when you are all chilled and looking forward to the night one minute and then all of a sudden you stand up and go I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR AND MY HAIR IS WET AND I DON'T HAVE A SUITABLY SIZED BAG!!!!!!!

Ok calm calm. Calm Calm.


Ok I should really stop typing and go and get ready.


I'm going.

Tuesday, 19 April 2011

Life Skills

I can't cope. I can't cope with life and I should never have been allowed to leave home. I have three huge bags of wet washing and they are all creased and starting to go musty because I have nowhere to put them because my room is a mess and all my furniture is broken. I thought I would just have a cup of tea to calm down but I have no milk. So I am just sat on my bed, on top of the sheets that I last changed at the beginning of March, because I have washed my other sheets but they are wet and they won't fucking stay hanging up anywhere.

I can't cope with wet washing and mess and broken things. I tried to put the curtain back up that hung in front of the weird bathroom/kitchen hybrid alcove. I borrowed a hammer from the family. I found the piece that fell off. But there are no nails. Where are the nails? Why can't I find the nails? Where can I get nails from? What kind of nails do I need? How will I find out?

It's too much.

I tried to hammer the other side of the curtain rail, the bit that is still hanging on so has the nails in, but nothing happened. I was hammering and hammering but the nails didn't go any further into the wall. Why? Why? WHY???????

The other night Amy came round and she had to sit on a chair in the middle of my room and eat burnt courgette and pasta that had dried milk on it for some reason and all around her there were piles of dirty and clean clothes mixed up in a big creased dusty mess and I could see her looking around and thinking 'Why did this girl's mum let her leave home?'

I should be taken into care.

And yet... I am living in another country, in the capital city, on my own. And for a job I have to take care of three children and 'run a household'. I don't want to 'run a household'- I want to live in a squat and not wash and have a cat. But a really independant cat who can feed itself.

Oh my god. That is it- I'm just a massive tramp. I'm just a Massive Tramp who can't sort her laundry out or wash on the regular and that's why I am having so much difficulty.


I knew I should have tried harder to make something happen with Sexy Homeless Man.

Speaking of sexy men, my friend who shall remain nameless has a date tomorrow with a very sexy man she met the weekend before last, and she was telling me how he is quite intense and how she is worried that she always goes for nutters. I asked her where they were going for a date and she said 'I don't know, he's coming to meet me after his therapy.'

Still, I would rather attract nutters than no one. I know this sounds really weird, but I think I am getting a bit of a thing for one of the boy's Lego men. He has four little firemen and they are all quite good looking in a generic Lego way, but one of them has a little bit of stubble and a really obnoxious smirk on his face, with one eyebrow raised. In my head I have decided that one of them is the boss (the stern but handsome one who has the biggest helmet) two of them are old timers and quite good friends with the boss, and Obnoxious Smirk is the newest recruit. He's on the least money and the others look down on him a bit and The Boss always yells at him because he's really cocky and lazy, but he just doesn't care- he's Obnoxious Smirk so he is really obnoxious and smirks a lot. He seems like a bit of a dickhead. Sexy though.

I don't know though, maybe I should steer clear, maybe I should look for someone who is nice and who isn't a Lego figurine. It's kind of sad that even when I am choosing between four little plastic toys, I still go for the one who is the biggest dickhead. And also, I can't explain how I know this, but Obnoxious Smirk is not interested in me- I'm developing a crush on a lazy, obnoxious, plastic Lego toy and my vivid imagination can't stretch to making him fancy me back.

Hmmm. I am in two minds whether to publish this post or not: on the one hand, it might make people feel better about their own lack of Life Skills (like doing the laundry and ensnaring members of the opposite sex who aren't one inch tall and made of plastic); on the other hand, it does make me out to be a Bad Weirdo...



I'm supposed to be in work now. Right now. But I've not finished my brew. I know I should turn off my lap top, jump off the bed and run out of the door. But I'm just going to finish my cup of tea first.

Sunday, 17 April 2011


I am 99% sure that I am staying in Paris. That 1% uncertainty is there because I don't know what to actually do in Paris...

The easiest option would be to au pair again. I don't know whether this would be a good idea or not. Some days I will be crouched behind the cupboard door, crying into my spoon as I dip it in and out of the Nutella, and I'll think in my head: I WILL NEVER, NOT EVER, DO THIS JOB AGAIN. But then other days, like Friday for example, I go to work, help myself to their chocolatey cereal*, pretend to be a lion or a baby dragon, make some robots out of lego, eat lunch, take the little boy to see a castle and walk right to the top and pretend to fire arrows at the people below... (At this point the little boy watched me in silence and when I said 'Join in!' he shook his head sadly as if to say 'I will never join in firing imaginary arrows at real people. You are a Mental and it is sad.')

I have a slight intuition that the family I work for won't want to keep Shit Au Pair on for another year, but even if they did I think I should find a job where I have to speak French with the children, then I can finally start to learn French. I say finally... I guess I could be learning it right now by listening to my Michel Thomas tapes instead of writing my blog and Facebook stalking, but... I don't want to.

My friend Clare is leaving her job and I think I'll ask her to recommend me. She gets seventy euros a week, which is half what I'm getting now BUT she only speaks French with the family and she doesn't do many hours, so I could get a job in a bar as well and do babysitting. Also, she lives in her own room underneath the family's house and it has a little courtyard and it's really, really nice and the little girl she looks after is really cute.

I wonder what my family will say though if I tell them I am getting another job up the road? I wonder how the kids will feel? Sometimes I think they hate me and won't care when I'm gone, but other times I think underneath it all, maybe... This week the eleven year old went to the shop and bought me a rose. It's really big and pretty and I almost welled up, then I realised it's the only flower anyone has ever bought me and then I really did well up.

Hmmm. What should I do?

Am I being stupid going for a job that pays half what I get now? The wage I get at the moment isn't enough- last night I spent fifty euros that I was saving for Easter Weekend and I don't even know what on. I remember there was a kebab involved and some wine... Me, Amy, Mairie and Emma went to the Bleu Note again, the place with the samba music that we went to when Rachel, Jen and Rosie were here.

The music was the same, it's brilliant, but last night there were so. many. men and they don't know when. to fuck. off. We were all dressed kind of casual, I didn't even have any eye liner on, I've lost it. Ooh I got my make-up back by the way! Desperation took hold of me yesterday afternoon and I went to the ghetto and got it. Anyway, last night, the men... In England if a weird creepy man kept pulling you away from your friends and grinding on you, you would be able to tell him to fuck off and eventually he would get the message... but last night it was if somebody had sat them down and said:

"Right lads, the way you get in a girl's knickers is to keep Pestering Her. Pull on her arm, grind up behind her, get in her face and ask her why she 'No want sexy sexy?' Pester her like this all night, ALL NIGHT. And then ALL DAY.. Then ALL NIGHT again. For days. For weeks. Pester her for months. For years. Forever. No matter how long it takes, you just pester her and pester her and pester her and no matter how many times she says Fuck Off You Nasty Little Prick, if you keep doing it forever and ever then eventually, if you persevere, she will turn around and sleep with you.'

But other than that it was a good night! Then today I actually queued up to get into a museum. To see a Manet exhibition. I know, I know- my wide range of leisure activities is astounding.

*BUT I have to be cunning with the cereal from now on, as the mum has started buying all the kids their own boxes of cereal, because they all wanted something different apparently, and the other day the little boy looked in his box and said 'Somebody eat my cereal!' because his is the most chocolately and the nicest and I have been running into the kitchen and eating little cups of it thoughout the day whenever he goes to the toilet. I'm starting to think that the mum isn't spoiling her children (as much); maybe this is her way of proving I am a Sneaky Cereal Binger.

Saturday, 16 April 2011

Myra Hindley: The Early Years

I don't feel guilty that I just woke up and it's half three, because it's the Easter holidays. While some au pairs get to go home and eat fish and chips for two weeks, I have to work all day every day for no extra pay, so I can do what I want on the weekend thank you very much.

This week hasn't been too bad actually, but only because the eight year old who hates me is on holiday with her cousins. I've just had the eleven year old and the five year old. On Wednesday I took them to the menagerie at Jardin des Plantes and at first I thought it was like a shit petting centre- they had goats and deer and stuff and a Reptile House. But then in the middle of the Reptile House there was a big glass thing with a crocodile in. Just a big massive crocodile lurking in the water amongst all the shit reptiles like tree frogs and grass snakes. At first I didn't think it was real but then it moved. It was a Real Dangerous Animal and I had been about to put my hands over the wall and poke it to show the five year old it was just a model.

For some reason, the mengarie had loads of empty cages- they had scenery and plants in and stuff, but none of them had any animals in them. One just had loads and loads of dead baby chicks at the bottom and I felt like we were in Jurassic Park when they see that empty compound with a goat in it but there's no dinosaur and they're like 'It won't eat the goat because it's tied up, it needs The Hunt'. I got a bit scared then because I didn't know what sort of animal was hiding in the shadows waiting for The Hunt. I went 'Maybe it's a dinosaur!' because the five year old loves dinosaurs but he just shook his head and said 'No. You crazy'. Then the eleven year old pointed out it was probably an owl. They are no fun at all these kids.

But we did have a nice time at the mengarie. They even had monkeys. And... They Had... A Real... Baby... Chimpanzee!


It was in a huge glass cage thing all by itself, but they had put it right up against the glass so you could get a good look at it. It was asleep in a little blue blanket and he had his back to us but you could see the back of his little monkey head and his little pink ear looked like a human baby ear but not in a disgusting way in a cute way. Ahhhhh. Baby monkeys. Ahhhhhh. And it was surrounded by baby toys and mobiles. Ahhhhhhhhhhh.

So not a bad week. Yesterday me and Emma took my five year old and her four year old twins to look at a castle. I think they liked it, although every time we saw a picture of someone from the Middle Ages the five year old went "Is dead now." If we wondered who had built something or made something in the castle,in an effort to arouse the kids' interests, the five year old went 'Is dead.' Emma's twins got a bit scared so we started telling them about the princess that used to live there and one of them went "Where is the princess now?" and before I could stop him my five year old turned round and said "Is dead."

I kind of know what he means though. Wherever you are, whether you're stood at the top of a hill or on the corner of a street, I always think about the people who have occupied that exact same space. I think about them stood besides me, hundreds of years ago, with me there as well like a ghost from the future. I imagine them thinking and talking and breathing. They were a real, living person and now, as my five year old would say, "Is dead".

In brighter news, I'm going out tonight. I haven't been out for days and days and days. I got fifty euros for babysitting on Thursday (and a lift home in the car, not the scooter in the end, damn it) but unfortunately I have managed to spend forty five of it already. Erm... I have no idea what I've spent it on. Phone credit, metro tickets... I still haven't got my make-up back. I'm almost getting used to going out in public looking like Myra Hindley: The Early Years. Last night I even drank a drink in a bar with no make-up on. Next thing you know I will stop pining for a nose job and learn to appreciate my Good Health and Fortune and realise that there are more important things in life than having a nice nose and wearing make-up...

Ha ha.

Anyway, I'm going to ask Amy if maybe, possibly, is there any chance at all, I can use some of her make-up for tonight. Anna is in London now so have no idea how I am going to get mine back and I can't afford to replace it, unless I improvise. I wonder how effective a foundation I could create by mixing some crushed up biscuits with my moisturiser?

Thursday, 14 April 2011

Those Girls

I can not believe I have been walking around Paris with no make-up on for five days now. At first I thought I could get used to it.

'Yes!' I thought, 'This isn't too bad! Maybe I will never wear make-up again! Never again will everybody conclude that I must have had 'a rough night' if I forget to wear mascara, because they will get used to seeing my Naked Piggy Eyes and they will think it is normal! I will be one of those girls who sneers at concealer and foundation, choosing instead to put their trust in Good Moisturiser and Dinking Lots Of Water! I will be that girl you see swaying around Bora Bora Beach with no make-up on save for a dusting of purple glitter, smiling with lips softened by some Australian organic wonder-product as the setting sun bathes their bare face in a flattering, rusty glow...'

I've just seen myself in the mirror and it's painfully obvious I will never be one of 'those girls'. For a start those girls are always really thin and they have Rich Girl Hair (see Kate Middleton). Pfft. I could be like that too if I could afford to spend all summer on a desert island eating hair-nourishing fruit and rubbing monkey sperm onto my face, or whatever it is rich girls do when they aren't living in the Kensington flat their dad pays for, half-arsedly working as a PA for their mother's second cousin who just so happens to be Colin Firth. But hey, no bitterness here...

Anyway, the long and short of it is I need make-up all over my face and I need it now. I am going to Monoprix tomorrow after work and buying myself some foundation, mascara and blusher. Maybe some bronzer. It all depends how much I get paid for babysitting tonight, I am filling in for my friend Clare who babysits for the Best Looking Couple of France.

Seriously, I went to say hello last night so that their two little girls would get used to me and I have never met such a young, cheerful, good looking couple and they are obviously successful because of where they live. I was a bit in awe. Clare said she fancies them both and she is furious because the dad said he would give me a lift home on his scooter after babysitting. They spoke French to me for about twenty minutes until I answered 'oui' to something that clearly did not merit a yes or no answer and then they twigged that I am a Stupid English Person who has lived here for seven months but still can not speak French. I'm hoping that tonight, when it's just me and the babies, I will have the confidence to speak French and I will discover a secret ability to speak French that has been forced deep within me by the oppressive sneers of Impatient Parisians. Probably not though, but at least I am getting some money for make-up!

I am a bit worried because one of the girls is a few months old. Does this mean I will have to change nappies? Because I can't.

Wednesday, 13 April 2011

The Closing Chapter

Ok one last post about the weekend and then I'll go back to talking about pumpkin soup and Lego. At some point over the weekend I showed the Dubstep DJ (who, for reasons I can't be bothered going into, I have codenamed 'November') my blog. I can't remember how it came about or why I did it but that's besides the point. He has just posted this on Twitter:

Had/seen so many wicked little blogs about/featuring me this year biggup all the November* bloggers worldwide!

I don't care if I'm one of the 'little blogs' or not, because in my head I'll always tell myself I am.


Ok, enough now. Tomorrow I'll go back to describing what spoilt millionaire French children do to their ditzy au pairs.

*obviously he didn't write this, he put his actual name

It's A Small World

I know I said I wouldn't mention the weekend again, but I have just this second been told something hilarious. My friend's sister told me this on Facebook Chat:

did i tell u my mate slept with November? (Obviously I am using the code name)
the other night
had it on with both (referring to his mate who is also a dubstep DJ)
in the same night

It's a small world. It must be, if there aren't enough girls to go round.

Tuesday, 12 April 2011

Moving on...

After this I'll stop talking about the weekend and my tour bus shenanigans, I promise, but one last thing- I think the way I've split the story up into four parts might be confusing, so here's what order to read them in, just in case anyone is interested, which I'm sure they're not:

Getting Nowhere: Part 1

Getting Nowhere: Part 2

Getting Somewhere: Part 1

Getting Somewhere: Part 2

Ok so that's the end of that business. Now it's back to prowling the house pretending to be a lion, carrying an invisible gazelle in my mouth. I almost locked my jaw but every time I tried to drop it the five year old screamed 'YOU NO DO THAT!' so I had to carry it around with me all morning.

I have got him to have a little nap now, the eleven year old has got her private tutor here and the eight year old is away for the week, so I've got two hours to drink tea and reflect on the events of the weekend. And once I'm done 'reflecting', I'll put it out of my head and I won't bore you with it again, promise.

So far the Easter holidays have not been as bad as I thought. Yesterday I took two of the kids to see their dad at work, he has his own luxury luggage label or something and he had a stall at this sports car show room thing. There were loads of cars being shown before they went off to the Grand Prix or whatever that big race is that's on this week. The latest Ferrai was there all covered up mysteriously and the dad said that in the evening they were going to unveil it. There were lots of very rich men milling around and I cursed the fact that I left all my make-up at Anna's on Friday night. It looks as though it will be a fresh-faced few weeks until I get paid because I won't be seeing Anna for a while. Oh well. I guess if I did manage to bag a billionaire Ferrai-dealer they'd probably expect me wash and stuff.

Monday, 11 April 2011

Getting Somewhere: Part 2

Just got home from my fourteen hour day with the kids, I agreed to do extra babysitting tonight because... because I'm a soft touch perhaps? I let the eleven year old stay up until she wanted on the basis that if her mum and dad caught her I could jump off the sofa and say 'I WON'T SAY IT AGAIN! GO TO BED!'

Hmmm. I don't know how I'll ever write about being an au pair again. It seems so boring now I can't believe people have actually been reading my blog. But before I decide to quit my blog forever, let me finish describing my half-exciting weekend. I stopped the last post at the point where I woke up and someone said we were in Surrey...

I could tell they were joking, but it made me realise that for all I knew we could be in another country. I still didn't really believe we were on a tour bus travelling somewhere. The reality hit me as soon I tried to put my clothes on and manouvre myself out of the bunk bed- fucking. awkward. Tour buses might have a reputation for being Orgy Transporters but they were certainly not designed for Seedy Times. Once I'd managed to extract myself from the curtained capsule I went downstairs to find Anna and one of the 'act' watching The Office and drinking tea.

And out of the window I could see... France. Miles and miles of the country I apparently live in went rolling past us and I remembered that when I first came to Paris I planned to see as much of France as possible. So far the furthest I've been is Disneyland. I decided that for the travel opportunity alone, I was glad that we'd come on the tour bus. It was quite relaxing drinking tea and watching the countryside slip by, looking at the green fields bright in the sunlight. But for every bright square acre of land we left behind it meant that yet another bright acre of land stretched between me and Paris.

After half an hour or so the fields all started to look pretty much the same, so I went back upstairs and 'napped' some more in the bunk bed with November. (Keep up, November is my new code name for the Dubstep DJ I blogged about last November.) When we finally arrived in Lyon it was about noon and we stepped off the coach into a beautiful summer's day. I know it's only April, but it was so hot and the sky was so blue. The only dark cloud was the fact that I looked like 'a dirt' and I've not used that phrase since I lived in Liverpool but it's the only naming word appropriate for the way I looked, smelt and felt.

At first I wasn't sure if we were going to be allowed in the hotel. What if everyone had only been pretending to be nice and really they were about to spin round and leave us on the streets of Lyon to be picked apart by judgemental French people? But November (I don't really like this code name by the way but I think it will just be easier to stick with it) said that of course we could go in the hotel, use the showers, hang out, have a nap, etc...

After a shower I felt a bit more human but I still looked ridiculously English and seedy. The dubstep DJs were going into the city centre for lunch so me and Anna tagged along, but that fear was coming and I didn't feel right at all. I didn't want a free lunch- I know my friends will be choking on their brews at that but honestly I felt really awkward. We went into this restaurant and I refused to order anything. Everyone was insisting I eat something (makes a nice change from everyone yelling 'YOU CAN'T STILL BE HUNGRY!?') but I just came over all para and had to go for a walk. I was very hungry but also starting to worry. How exactly were we going to get back to Paris?

(I've just remembered, as I left the restaurant Kat rang me because I'd sent her a drunken text the night before hinting at what was going on. I told her where I was and who I was with, hamming it up a bit because she lurrrves dubstep and knows a lot about music. She didn't believe me.)

I bought a pair of fresh knickers from Tati, which is like Primark but more expensive and more disgusting, and that made me feel a bit less helpless. I went back to the restaurant as everyone was finishing their food and one of the DJs made me little sandwiches out of his meal, kind of like I was a stray cat but I do like being a cat so I didn't mind. (The food, by the way, was amazing, and I am definitely going back to Lyon, it's supposed to be the best place in France for food, although I'll take more than five euros next time.)

After a lunch of water, charity sandwiches and paranoia, I tried to calm myself down a bit and enjoy the 'adventure'. Then back at the hotel, November slipped me 100 euros for the train fare and although I did do my usual show of refusing it, I obviously took it in the end as I would have been stranded otherwise, and I felt that at least now I could enjoy their show that night and appreciate the randomness of it all, secure in the knowledge that I'd be back on my way to the City of Light by sunrise.

(I even let him buy me some pizza in the evening, although I only ate half of it, I swear my stomach has shrunk.)

That night we sat backstage with the DJs before they went on and they were so chilled and, frankly, not arsed about the fact they were going out there in front of thousands of people. I suppose none of them had slept for a few days and they had had me and Anna to put up with for the past twenty four hours. Also, I guess they've been doing what they do for years and years... it was so weird talking to November about how he used to DJ (or whatever the right word for is) in clubs when he was thirteen- when I was thirteen I wasn't even allowed to go to the under-18's night at The Palace in Levenshulme.

So everyone was pretty subdued before they went on stage. Nobody was talking much and I didn't want to get too drunk in case I fell asleep but as always I found myself drunk anyway, but it actually made me feel more awake and I had a nice chat with the two 'lighting guys', one of whom was a lovely girl who let me use some of her lovely make-up and we swapped numbers and said we'd meet up in Ibiza. Even if she was fobbing me off I don't care, she was really cool and she had MASCARA in her bag and she let me USE it.

The Dubstep DJs weren't on until 2am and there were a lot of acts on before and after them. It was an electronic music festival thing in a big warehouse and there were loads and loads of backpacker-types who had obviously travelled a lot further than us to get there, so I didn't feel as much as a scuttler hidden amongst the crowd. We didn't see anyone who was on before the Dubstep DJs because I literally just wanted to Sit Down and Die, but then I thought 'I've travelled six hours to be here, I might as well drop my knees and throw my arms about.'

(I just asked LND Kat how I can describe dubstep dancing and she said she always pictures the Cookie Monster in her head, bouncing around dead low, scrabbling at the bass and cramming beats into his mouth instead of cookies.)

After the show we didn't really know what to do- I knew the Dubstep DJs weren't leaving until six am and their set finished at 2am. The first train back to Paris wasn't until 7.15 am and I was so, so knackered that the thought of raving for another five hours made me want to rip my heart out and sell it exchange for a private helicopter home.

We went back to the tour bus and had a nap in the little bunks. I could hear the bass from inside the warehouse and the odd snippets of song. I couldn't quite make out the lyrics but they sounded like: 'Welcome. Overstayed. Welcome. Overstayed.' But it was all right because, as naïve as this makes me sound, November was just a generally nice person. I'm glad I got on the tour bus. It was made worth my while and I'm not talking about the one hundred euros. Still, in the morning when it was time to go, Tag-Along Paranoia got the better of me. I barked a goodbye and then literally dragged Anna out of the tour bus.

We tried to get some sort of taxi to the train station sorted but Fate wasn't on our side, so we ended up walking to the tram station. Luckily there were loads of people waiting who had been at the festival. Unluckily I ended up sat next to the weirdest of them all and after slurring at me in French for about fifteen minutes he grabbed his dick, grabbed my hand and then tried to get the two together. Shy guy.

Once the tram finally arrived we were made conscious once more of the fact that English girls dress differently to French girls. I'd like to point out that me and Anna both had our LEGS, ARMS and CHESTS completely covered, yet somehow we were a target for groping because of 'the way we were dressed' as one lovely little prick yelled at us in French. We had to change our travel plan half way to the station because we realised we were going to miss the train, so we hopped off at a different station and got a train at half seven. The ticket was just a little bit less than the money November Dubstep DJ gave me and the journey took just under two hours, so all my worrying was for nothing really. But I stand by what I said earlier that the only people who don't worry are the ones who really need to.

As we waited for the train on the platform, the sun rose, which was perfect. Recently every adventure I embark upon seems to begin with either a sunrise or a sunset and end with the vice versa. I wanted to look at the yellow sky forever but tiredness got the better of me and when I woke up we were in Paris. I never thought I'd say this, but it felt like coming home. I stumbled on to the Line 1, got home and in my bed in no time at all and then woke up to calls from the girls- they wanted to know where I had been all weekend.

I went to meet them at Tulleries where we drank wine and ate bread and chatted to the random guy Georgie and Kayt had met at Jamie XX the night before. (We also watched the sexiest group of friends playing football ever, it was a miracle they were all friends.) You guessed it, I ended my day with a sunset over Paris, over the Eiffel Tower in fact. We had a clear view of Le Tour and it sounds dramatic but in that moment I decided to stay in Paris. What am I going home to? I love love love my friends back home and I love going out in London but I can still do that if I live in Paris.

Things happen in Paris. I feel if I stick it out I could get myself somewhere... well, ok- we all know I'm never getting nowhere, but at least in Paris I'm happy. I don't know what job I'll do or where I'll live or how I'll master the French language (being in Lyon taught me that it's not just Parisians who can't understand me, I really am Shit at French), but as we took our wine and sat on the edge of the Seine, drinking and giggling and marvelling at the glittery water, I realised I don't need to rush off to London. I don't need to do anything. I wanted to take a picture of the scene so I'd remember the feeling of calm optimism, but I broke my fucking camera on Friday night didn't I?

That's why there's no photos from the weekend, by the way. In fact, I guess for all you know I could have made the entire thing up.

Getting Somewhere: Part 1

There's a little bird singing outside my window. The sun is not long in the sky and yet here I am, not sleeping. I don't think I'll have time to finish my 'story' before work but I just felt like getting up early. I must say it's a much nicer way to start the day than leaping out of bed five minutes after I'm supposed to be in work like normal. But let's leave today for a while and go back to Friday night...

Me and Anna got on the tour bus for a look. I was half-expecting it to be like a Mega Bus, without the big yellow man painted on the side, but when we climbed on it was obvious they were never going to travel round France on a Mega Bus. It was huuuuuuge, with seating areas and televisions and games consoles and televisions and a little kitchen and about sixteen little bunks with beds in that all had thick curtains you could pull across for privacy. (I think it's important to mention the curtains.)

It was fun to have a look round the bus and chat to everyone for a bit, but I kept thinking about work on Monday morning. If we went to Lyon, which they told us would take six hours by coach, would we be able to get back by Monday morning? There was also the question of money. I thought of the five euro note crumpled up in the bottom of my bag and wondered how I could make it stretch from Paris to Lyon and back. But then the Dubstep DJ from November (shall we just call him November from now on for simplicity's sake?) said "I wouldn't ask you come to Lyon with us and not make sure you can get home."

He also said "I wonder how many you can fit in these bunks. Do you mind coming in for a minute to see if it can fit two people?"

I didn't see the harm in obliging him in his little bunk-experiment, so I slid in to confirm that they could indeed fit two people in. There was even space for movement in there, although only if one person lay on their back. I still wasn't sure about Lyon. But I kind of got distracted... Five hours later I woke up on a moving tour bus. I heard someone say on the other side of the curtains as they walked past:"When shall we tell the girls we drove them to Surrey?"

SHIT- after getting up early I'm going to be late for work now, I'll finish this later.

Sunday, 10 April 2011

Getting Nowhere: Part 2

"Anna. You have to wake him up." I said.

I knew I was being all tense and stressy but I have literally been looking forward to this night since we booked the tickets and now some random artist was about to fuck it all up for us. In the end Anna rang him and he said she could go in and use his printer. When she came out, I looked at the tickets and they didn't have a bar code on. I knew they weren't right and I think Anna did as well, but we just wanted to get out Dust Sheet Hell, out of the wasteland and onto to the metro, so we left our qualms unsaid and power-walked to the metro. I was uneasy. I don't know if it's left over Mind Messing from last weekend but at the moment I can feel this shadow on my my shoulders and as we walked through the deserted industrial estate on Friday night, I could feel it darkening my thoughts. We were going to miss the gig, I knew it.

Luckily Kat rang me to say she was going to be really late, so we arrived at the venue at the same time as her. The Danish girl was able to buy a ticket on the door and I was worried they'd be sold out, so that was one less thing to worry about. But then of course, we couldn't get in because we had the wrong FUCKING tickets. I was about to ring Georgie and ask her if there was any way she could get someone to put us on guestlist, because she had offered before she knew we'd bought tickets, but everyone on the door was really nice and someone got the bar code up on their I Phone for us. We got in, finally. The night had arrived.

They didn't start until 1am, so I felt a little foolish for my worrying, but it's better to panic a little bit about things unnecessarily rather than to not worry at all- that's when life says 'Ok Mrs Laid-Back, let's see how much everything can go to shit when you don't give one...'

I'm not going to discuss the music, seeing as I sometimes dance around my room to the alarm tone on my phone I don't think I really have the musical expertise, but I know y'all didn't come on here to read about music anyway. What you wanna know.- and when I say 'you' I mean Harriet and my mum, my only two readers, although mum I deleted you off Facebook for a reason, please, if you've found your way on to my blog again stop reading NOW don't say I didn't warn you, please, don't. Just don't. Stop. Now.- what you want to know is did I have another rendez-vous with You Know Who.


Towards the end of their set, I realised it was ridiculous to expect a repeat of last November because the venue was massive and it was a completely different gig, but Francesca the Dane was for some reason dead set on getting back stage. "Lift me up I'm going to jump on the stage!" she kept yelling. My only thought was: 'Please don't let me have anything to do with this.'

But then I realised what a miserable bitch I was being. The door to backstage was right next to us and I could see two English girls trying to wrangle their way in. The bouncer was arguing with them and had his back to the open door.

"Go now Francesca!" I said, pushing her through the door. Half a second later I found myself running up the stairs after her, with no memory of asking my legs to move. Kat was behind me and hot on her heels was the bouncer shouting 'Mademoiselle! MADEMOISEEEEEEELLE!'

For a moment I thought it was over. I almost gave up and turned round but we were at the top of the stairs right now and the backstage area was right in front of us. Did I actually think we were going to get backstage? To do what exactly? Steal peanuts and pretend to fit in? What Silly Girls I thought, we weren't going nowhere, but then I ran, literally banged, into the Dubstep DJ who I 'met' a few months back.

"Hey, you alright?" I breezed, smirking as the bouncer ran right past me because I was putting on a good show of Not Being A Gatecrasher.

It could have ended there. Any number of soul-crushingly embarrassing things could have happened but instead, the Dubstep DJ gave me, Kat and Francesca backstage wristbands and the bouncer reluctantly stomped back downstairs.

Once we were backstage, we just kind of sat there laughing to ourselves. The problem now was getting Anna in, but the Danish girl sweetly offered to go downstairs and give Anna her wristband. Before she did this though, Anna bounced in on her own, claiming some randomer had given her a wristband on the dance floor. But Francesca decided to go back to her hotel anyway, so we said good bye and Anna arranged to take her on a tour of Montmarte the following day.

There were a lot of people backstage, lots of English people and a few Americans, plus lots of alcohol. It wasn't a bad place to sit and wait for the first metro... I've decided that if the public transport ran earlier in Paris I wouldn't get myself into trouble.

I can't really remember how it came about, but one of the Dubstep DJs was talking to me and Anna about how their next gig was in Lyon and they suggested for a joke that we go with them (just for the craic you understand). I thought they were obviously having us on. Surely the last thing you need on tour is two strange girls drinking all the alcohol and gradually getting more and more unattractive as their make-up rubs off?

It was about half five at this point and everyone was leaving to wait for the tour bus. We followed everyone outside and waited. I still wasn't sure if they were joking or not, but even if they were being serious there was no way we could go to Lyon: I had no idea where it is; I had five euros in my purse; and I had made plans with about ten people for the Saturday, including Lauren and it was her last day in paris. We couldn’t actually go to lyon. But then… aren’t I always banging on about how you should put good times above everything else? To not be reckless and not go to Lyon would be going against everything I believe in…

Kat was having none of it, she had a flight to England the next day and although she wanted to come for the jokes she couldn't miss her flight. We tried to convince her- 'Think how funny it would be!' 'Think of the story you could tell!' But Kat was adamant and she was right to be- I suddenly realised how ridiculous it all was. We could go home now and I would still have something vaguely interesting to tell people, yet we wouldn’t wake up on the other side of France destitute and very hungover. And you can’t do the walk of shame in france. People look at you funny if you wear heels to a club at night time- there would be riots if me and Anna embarked upon a cross-country Walk of Shame in France.

Kat really had to get home. She only lives (lived, she's gone back to the UK forever now, along with all the teaching assistants, sob) twenty minutes away so we said our goodbyes and she left me and anna waiting on the kerb with the dubstep djs and their tech crew. I still hadn't really spoke to the Dubstep DJ I rendez-voused with in November and I didn't want him to think I was trying to be a groupie- I was just trying to add a bit of adventure to the weekend... I always get That Fear that I'm overstaying my welcome. ( I think it started in uni when one of our lad friends told me that they couldn’t get a girl to leave their flat after a party and I swore then and there to never be That Girl. Ever since then, I’ve baffled many people at house parties and gatherings by seeming to have a good time and then all of a sudden leaping up and saying ‘I’ll go now, BYE’ and running out into the night without any further farewells.)

So. Aside from my fear of beig a Seriously Bad Tag-Along, I kind of wanted to go to Lyon, even though I knew I shouldn't. Me and Anna kept saying to each other ‘It will be funny, it will be funny!’ But how funny is it really to wake up on the other side of France, with no way of getting home and with a bunch of people you don’t know. After the nightmare of getting to the venue earlier, did we really want to throw ourselves into this situation?

I thought I’d try and find out if it really was cool for us to hop on, so I said to November Dubstep DJ something like "We’re coming to Lyon so erm is that alright?’ He said ‘Yeah of course!’ and then he said something nice to me about my appearance and I couldn’t help but be a little more convinced despite myself. No matter how much I scoff at compliments and try and rise above that ridiculous girly ‘flattery will get you everywhere’ nonsense, I was actually flattered and it almost swayed me. Disgusting. I hate myself for it. It’s like when I go to the market and I always buy fruit and veg from this one stall even though their stuff isn't the best at the market, just because one day I was walking past talking to the five year old boy in English and one of the guys who works there called out: ‘Mademoiselle! You are very beautiful’ and I've never bought fruit and veg from anywhere else since- how embarassing for me.

Anyway, I kind of wanted to go to Lyon. But really… what were we thinking? We’d only wake up the next day, hungover, with a bunch of strangers on their tour bus, with no way of getting home and with not even a concealer between us to ease the pain of travelling across France in last night’s clothes and last night’s make-up.

But. 'Think of the Good Times', a little voice in the back of head told me, a voice that weirdly sounded a lot drunker than my actual voice, 'It will be fun...'

And apart from Fun what else is there in life?

The tour bus finally arrived. Everyone started loading up and getting on and me and Anna held on to each other.

Should we? Should we really?


Getting Nowhere: Part 1

So the last time I posted I was sat on my bed eating bread and questionable butter, wondering what to wear. (In the end I did go for what I wore the night before, but with leggings and my Adidas jacket to undress it a little bit. In hindsight, this was a lucky decision.) I need to split this weekend up into different posts, so to start I'll go back to that moment in my room, before the night began and the madness that followed.

I didn't think it would be that late a night. It seemed as though the dubstep DJs were on quite early, so me and Anna had arranged to meet at about eight pm, go for pre-drinks at her new appartment, meet Kat (Paris Kat, not LND Rave Princess Kat) and then go the venue for about eleven.

But life doesn't always help you out does it? I fannyed around until about half eight, then couldn't get hold of Anna. Her phone was off and I had no idea where her new appartment was. At about nine pm I realised she'd texted me the name of her metro stop, so I set off into the night, hoping I'd get hold of her on the way.

I finally did just before I got on the metro. She wasn't at home; she was travelling back from somewhere, but she told me to wait for her once I got to her metro. I won't say the name of her metro stop in case any Bad Stalkers are reading this, but as soon as I got on the metro I realised Anna's new neighbourhood might be a little bit grimey, mainly because I was wedged between two Romany Traveller women and their gaggle of absolutely filthy, downtrodden looking kids (soz but c'est vrai), plus a shopping cart overspilling with rags that had a huge, blackened doll's house balanced on top of it.

I rang Anna when I got off the metro and she told me to find a little café or somewhere to wait for her. I walked out of the station to find myself in an urban wasteland. There was a closed supermarket and a kebab shop, with groups of teenage boys hanging about sporadically, not talking to each other but instead silently watching with interest the girl looking lost ascending the metro stairs...

I found a bakery that was still open and sat on a little wall outside it, trying my hardest to not look lost. There was a kebab shop two doors down that was still open as well, and a man appearing to be the owner was stood outside it, staring at me. I thought he must be annoyed at me sitting on the wall or something, but a few minutes later I looked up and somehow all the lights in the kebab shop were off and it was locked, but he was stood in the exact same position and looked like he hadn't moved.

A few minutes later I looked and he was still there, only now he had moved a tiny bit closer. The girls in the bakery started locking up. I rang Anna and she was still on the metro. I felt like a dick for getting worried and hastling her but every five minutes I looked up and Kebab Man had moved a little bit closer, but he was managing to stand in the exact same position with an expression on his face that suggested he hadn't moved a muscle.

Finally Anna rang me and told me she had arrived and just in time as well. I stood up to leave and noticed that Kebab Man was stood about one metre away from me. Once I'd met up with Anna we had a mssive trek to her place and it became clear that her new neighbourhood is on the edges of the banlieu. I was on edge myself because we didn't have our tickets printed off either and we still had to get ready, get back to the metro and meet Kat. Anna also informed me that we needed to wait for this Danish girl called Francesca she had met that afternoon in a shoe shop; they were chatting and the girl said she had come to Paris for a week by herself, so Anna invited her out with us.

Francesa showed up and she was like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. She had a cute little black bob and was dressed in red and she was kept giggling and taking photos of everything although she admitted that when she got off the metro and saw the area she thought that perhaps Anna was working for a sex trade trafficker or something. We got ready really quickly and then just before we left Anna said she would go and print off the tickets. Her landlord is an artist who lives in his studio attached to Anna's appartment, and he said she could use his printer. When she went into his studio though, he was alseep. We crept in to the dark and found ourselves in a tunnel of floorlength dust sheets. I don't know why I was so on edge but it was horrible. We had no tickets, we were lost in the art studio of a sleeping stranger, we were supposed to be meeting Kat half way across Paris in ten minutes and we had a long way to walk before we even got to the metro, not that we could get on the metro, without our tickets. We were getting nowhere.

Stay Tuned

Watch this space. I need to sleep now but when I wake up... I am going to be writing a very long post, the likes of which have not been seen since Fifty Dollars for the Powder Room.

Stay tuned kids...

Life is FUNNY.


Friday, 8 April 2011


Am I on crack? I can't wear what I wore last night to go and see the dubstep act tonight. If I wear what I was wearing with flat shoes I'll look like a prostitute and not in a sexy Secret Diary of a Call Girl way, I'll look like one of the real ones you see mooching about Manchester Piccadilly, wearing trainers with little black skirts and bare legs, and they've all got no teeth.

Hmm. I finished work an hour early as well, meant to use the time productively but so far I've just eaten a baguette with butter. I've just realised that I've had this butter since November. Does butter go off? Anyway, the mum said I could go early because she has just got back from a business trip to Germany and she said it must have been hard work dealing with everything while she was away. I didn't even notice she wasn't here.

And guess what! I have just booked my plane tickets to Serbia!!!!!!!!!!!!! I did it with Lauren's French bank card and everything was in French, feel very proud of myself, but now I have said that something will inevitably go wrong. Maybe I have booked three exotic pets on to the flight or something like that. There was something about a hublot- I'm not sure what one is but I thought surely it's better to have a hublot than not to have one, so I ticked the box saying I wanted one. I hope it's not something bad. What if it's like a lump of warm, jellified fat they drop into your lap half through the flight? It sounds like that. Hublot.

But hublot or no hublot, it's all good because I'm going to Serbia for my cousin's wedding in May! Wow. Obviously the main reason I am going is for my cousin's wedding, but if I don't come back with an Eastern European gypsy husband and my very own caravan to clean, I will be disappointed.

Speaking of 'men'... anyone who was reading my blog five months ago (just me then) will remember what happened last time I went to see a member of a certain dubstep trio play in Paris. Tonight it's a big venue so I'm sure nothing untoward will happen, but still. Would be kind of a larf...

Unnecessary Food

It's so fucking hot. And yet- I find myself in black jeans, a vest top and a cropped jacket, because I'm sick of randomers in the street asking me if I'm cold. What is wrong with them? It is 20 degrees outside! I bet in England everyone is sunbathing on their lunch breaks and walking around in hot pants, but in Paris everyone is wearing jackets and tights and boots. On Tuesday I was wearing leggings and a dress with long sleeves and the grandmother came in the house and said "It is summer for you!?"

"NO!" I wanted to scream, "If it was summer I would be wearing three carefully arranged fig leaves!!"

I know it's only April, but it's hot. I want to get my legs out and wear dresses but I can't because everyone will stare at me and make sarky comments. I did get my legs out last night though, for the first time in months and months and months. People just don't do it here, not even on nights out. But it was my last night out with Lauren before she leaves, so we decided to go to Le Mix for some dancing and some general hilarity. We also decided to dress up a little bit, not completely 'little dresses and big heels English', but we did fake tan our legs. I've not had my legs out for so long that I had forgotten what they look like- not too great as it turns out, although it doesn't help that I have three cigarette burns on my thighs from last weekend. I look like I've been indulging in some hot ash related S&M.

Luckily my dress just covers them but it's the only one that does so I'm going to wear it again tonight. In fact I'm going to wear the entire outfit again tonight because we got so drunk last night that we didn't make it out to the club. We drank six bottles of wine (there was six of us though) and then stumbled to Hippopotamus for burgers and steak and Kat (from Paris, not London) fell asleep at the table. Everyone was staring at us because we were drunk, but what I'd like to know is, if you're not drunk, then why are you sat in Hippopotamus eating steak and chips at four in the morning?

No wonder I spend so much money in Paris- at four in the morning you can't get a kebab for love nor money yet there is always a Hippopotamus open somewhere willing to sell you steak and chips for 25 euros. I didn't get steak last night and I'm very pleased with my Drunk Self for getting a burger instead. I only have fifty euros to last me the month and I don't need to spend half of it on steak, particularly when I had already eaten three meals and about sixteen biscuits.

Looking back we were never going to make it to Le Mix- it took us ages to get drunk and we did it whilst lounging around on beds and sofas. It was a good night though and kind of fitting that mine and Lauren's last night out in Paris together involved being very drunk and spending a lot of unnecessary money on unnecessary food.

It meant however that this morning I once again found myself on the 82 bus at half seven in the morning. But this time it really will be the last time, because after tomorrow I will never stay at Lauren and Drew's again.

It's all very sad BUT I will get to see Lauren tomorrow morning before she gets her Eurostar AND when she was drunk last night, Kat booked herself a ticket for Magnetic Man so now there is three of going and it's going to be soo good! The other person going is Anna who I have not seen for ages, but apparently since the last time I saw her she has a new job and a new apartment and she has just been on holiday to Nice with her new French lover... do you ever get the feeling that other people are having more fun than you?

Wednesday, 6 April 2011


I feel really drunk but I haven't even drank that much, whenever I'm drunk I am DEFINITELY STAYING IN PARIS next year and that is my plan right now, but yesterday I was LAUGHING at the thought of staying in Paris and was 100 percent going back to England at the end of July.

I need somebody to tell me what to do please.

Tuesday, 5 April 2011

I Need to Mulletover

What a joke. I was really, really late to meet Sarah, this morning's jogging partner, at the metro and she'd gone by the time I'd got there. I tried to go jogging by myself but with nobody to keep me going I couldn't make myself go further than round the corner. I stood behind some bushes for a bit so that if anybody saw me on my way back they'd think I'd been on a proper run, then walked home in defeat. When I got back I checked my phone and realised I'd only been out for fifteen minutes.

Oh well, at least it made me have a shower. I've not washed my hair since Saturday and it got pretty skanky at Mulletover. Speaking of which...

They only announced the venue this week so I didn't know what to expect, but I was picturing some sort of carpark/warehouse thing with brick walls and vaulted ceilings. For once, something turned out exactly how I imagined it and Kat said it was the same for her. The space was Great Suffolk Street Warehouse in East London, I gather it's a relatively new venue. I might never have been to the space before, but like I said a few days ago about people being places in spaces, the place I was at on Saturday was the same one I always go to when I'm in London- our little self-contained rave unit in the middle of something bigger.

As always I can barely remember any of the music the next day. I've got the memory of a small fish. But Kat sent me the links for some Mulletover-type tracks:

The night was just as good as I expected it to be, but it seemed like we were there for an hour, not six, and the lights were coming up. It was over. We walked out of the darkness as if from a dream and outside the streets were light.

We had to wait until the whole place was empty because one of our number had gone missing. We couldn't find them and somebody realised they had his phone in their pocket. It was a bit grim. We couldn't find a taxi so we walked to Waterloo and got the first train, but I didn't mind the walk. I wanted to stay out as long as possible to try and stop the day from getting me, but you can't hide from Tomorrow in dark tunnels and beats.

We got back to Ricky's about half seven and five minutes after we got back the Missing Person showed up, thankfully. It's worrying things like that. Can everyone keep themselves safe please?

I got about three hours sleep, then got up at ten am and had time for a cup of tea and a phone chat with my mum. I even watched a bit of Hollyoaks but nobody knows because they were all still asleep. I said my goodbyes but it was different this time. Last time I saw Kat it had only been three weeks since Annie Mac and we knew I would be coming to London for Mulletover in a fortnight. But now... I have no plans to return to London.

The Eurostar journey was fine, except instead of a window there was a bit of plastic next to my seat so I couldn't watch England slipping away from me. Maybe it was for the best. I slept for most of the journey but I kept shouting out in my sleep and waking myself up, as well as the man next to me. When I closed my eyes and rested my head on the seat, I could hear the bass from the night before under the roar of the train... it was a bit disconcerting.

I didn't feel sad when I got back to Paris. I got home and went straight to Georgie's for dinner. There was six of us and Georgie had cooked something really lovely and hearty for us all. Out of the window, I watched the end of another day (drinking French wine this time, not the horrible coral pink concoction I made in a glass bowl yesterday that Kat kept spilling everywhere), but no sunset this time because the day had been clouded. Still, that's three sundowns- two in Paris and one in London. I can't believe I was only in London for 24 hours. The only thing that makes me believe it wasn't a dream is the block of Cheddar cheese in my fridge.

I felt like a shadow on Sunday night, the tiredness crept up on me but I only managed to get three hours sleep and I woke up cryng about something in my dream. But it was only the tiredness, I wasn't crying because I was back in France. Nowadays it's not sad coming back to Paris because I have a life here, but I don't know which life to keep hold of. In July should I stay or go? Is my life here in Paris good because I always have a trip home in the pipeline?

I don't know what to do, I don't know what decision is the best one. Paris, London, Liverpool, or Manchester? Hmm. I need to mull it over.

Monday, 4 April 2011

Bring Back the Night Please

"...every time I think 'Oh this really good thing will be over soon' I'm proved right when it ends."

I posted that a couple of weeks ago about all my March Visitors and I've been proved right again...

In January I booked my Mulletover ticket and it was a lifetime away, then suddenly the lights came up at 6am on Sunday 3rd April and I was shocked- 'It can't be morning,' I thought, 'bring me back the night please!' But nothing can bring it back. When the sun rises it means the start of a new day and sadly, the end of your night. Just as the weekend that Kat and Mikee came to stay was marked by international sunrises; so my weekend was separated by cross-Channel sunsets, the first over West Paris on Friday evening:

I took that photo as I waited for the bus to Lauren's house; I went out with her and Drew on Friday because, even though I should be saving money and am very skint, I needed to go out with them before they finish for good next Friday. Yep, Lauren- my chum and pal who I organised coming to Paris with- is leaving Paris forever in one week. So not a very good time for me to be dwelling on how fast time flies and how nothing stays the same and all that depressing shit. I won't go on and on about it.


When I went back to England a few weeks ago and cleared out my room, I found a letter I had written to Lauren when she was first living in Paris as an au pair three years ago and I never got round to sending it. I brought it back with me to Paris so she could finally read it. It was so strange- here was a letter that I wrote when I first started uni. Now uni is over and so is Lauren's stint as an au pair. Not only that, but when I wrote the letter I had no idea I would be moving to Paris in three years time with Lauren. AND now that time, a time that three years ago didn't even exist in my imagination, is almost over. One week away in Lauren's case.

Do you see why I am obsessed with time passing???? It'd WEIRD.

Anyway, we had a really nice time on Friday night. We went for a meal at Montparnasse and then I stayed at Lauren and Drew's for perhaps the last time. They live ten minutes away on the RER from Gare du Nord so I didn't have to leave their's until noon. When I got to Gare du Nord I had enough time to casually print my tickets off and check in, but then once I'd checked in I didn't have to wait too long. I don't want to jinx myself but I am pretty good at getting the Eurostar now. It's so easy and quick. I got on the train at 1pm and by half two I was meeting Hannah at St Pancras International.

We picked up Hollie from Euston (who had spent almost as much time on a train as me on her journey from Manchester) and we all went back to Ricky's house where Kat (and Ricky, obviously, we didn't just steal his house for the night) were waiting for us for the preparations to begin...

After a week of raiding everyone's wadrobes, I ended up wearing my leotard, an old pair of shorts, an old pair of shoes and an old pair of tights. But I did finally cut my fringe, albeit with a pair of huge kitchen scissors but at least I didn't try and hack it off with a sharp knife, like some other hair I could mention. (Kayt convinced me that I should start putting more of my personal hygeine tragedies into the blog but I'm not sure how I feel so I'm going to start slowly; slipping in ambigious references to questionable solutions I may or may not have come up with to solve my beauty dilemmas.)

In the end I stopped worrying about my clothes and my hair and my eyebrows, because I was drunk. But also because I realised it's the Good Times that matter, not what you wear. Admittedly, I did have a bit of a paddy about my nail varnish, but eventually you just have to breeeeathe and let go and think of dance moves that involve a lot of hand movement- that way nobody can focus on your messy nails for too long.

Do you know what? I know you must be absolutely gripped by my nail varnish trauma but I am going to have to go to bed. Tomorrow I am going JOGGING. For Real. But first let me round up with the second sunset of the weekend. It was weird to think of me stood at the bus stop in Paris, whereas now, twenty four hours later, I was watching the day fade away in London...

...and I could feel the night coming.

Friday, 1 April 2011


This time tomorrow I will be in London!!!


It's coming.


Still don't have anything to wear though. But I have plucked my eyebrows.