Thursday, 12 April 2012

Your Head Is Not On Your Shoulders!

My Mac bronzer has just died a very messy death on my bedroom floor. I've used it about three times- I got it for Christmas and have been saving it until my face is sun kissed enough to carry it off... nothing worse than a muddy orange face sat on a ghostly white neck.

Sigh.

I should have taken it out of my make-up bag, but instead I've been unnecessarily transporting it between Kayt, Olivia and Georgie's. (I probably sleep in my own bed about twice a week- they have such nicer chambre de bonnes than me- mezzanines and mini bars and balconies galore- and they're so much better at cooking. And cleaning.)

And now it's broken.

I opened it upside down about five minutes ago and all the broken pieces jumped to their untimely deaths, scattering across the floor like ashes. I tried to pick up some of the bigger pieces but they crumbled to silky dust between my fingertips. So smooth and such good quality, makes me think I should buy another Mac bronzer straight away. I think that's the best thing to do with lost things- replace them as soon as possible and then it doesn't feel like such a blow to your finances.

I'm sick of losing and breaking everything. Laptop, scarf, shoes, handbag, Pandora bracelet, Blackberry, hair straighteners, digital camera, teeth...

By the way, I never told you what happened when I lost my key. I was locked out for three days because the gardienne was never around. What a shit gardienne. What is she gard-ing exactly, her precious free time? Anyway, when I eventually caught up with her, she told me she does have a spare key, so it was fine. Since I moved in I've been panicking every time I leave my room, because I thought I had the only key and that if I lost it the world would end and Doom would come and claim me like a demon. At least I know now that if I do happen to lock my keys inside my room, I can just go downstairs and ask the gardienne for the spare, unless it's after 8pm. Or before 10am. Or during the weekend.

Anyway. Talking about losing things, that reminds me- I never told you about what happened the last time I went back to England!! (Sorry, two exclamation marks might suggest a more exciting tale than the one you've got coming to you. I suggest you calm down a bit in order to avoid disappointment.)

I was at Euston Station, waiting on the concourse for the Liverpool train. The evening before me, Kat, Hannah and Hollie had gone to Fuse but had been refused entry because they said we hadn't put our names on the guest list early enough (personally I think we were just too high-spirited for them, the bastards) so we'd sulkily gone elsewhere to get drunk, then gone for a curry on Brick Lane, then been asked to leave, then we were chased around an empty Spitafields Market by a very fat security guard who couldn't catch us, because we were posing for photographs on the stall tables for Some Reason...

Hungover as hell, I could have so easily overslept or gotten lost coming out of Kat and Ricky's flat (last time I walked for thirty minutes in the opposite direction until an old lady had to put me on a bus to the tube station and I nearly missed my coach back to Paris) but for once, I gathered my wits about me and got to Euston in plenty of time- I even had time to go to Marks and Spencer's for a sandwich. I should have known it was too good to be true.

For about twenty minutes I waited in front of the big information boards, constantly looking up to see if they'd put my platform number up. All the other trains had platform numbers. Even some of the later trains had platform numbers and mine didn't...

It got to about five minutes before my train was due to leave and they still hadn't said what platform I needed to go to... I started to panic a little bit. Had I made a horrible mistake and gone to the wrong train station? Had they cancelled my train and not told anyone yet? Had I booked my train for a different day?

I checked my tickets and all my travel details were correct. The train couldn't be cancelled, because up there on the board it said it was leaving on time, which was by now in about two minutes.They just hadn't put the platform number up yet.

Just as I was starting to really worry that I was going to miss my train, they made an announcement:

"We believe Left Bank Manc is somewhere in this train station. Please can Left Bank Manc make herself known to the Information Desk in the middle of the concourse."

***OBVIOUSLY THEY DIDN'T SAY 'LEFT BANK MANC', THEY SAID MY REAL FIRST NAME, MIDDLE NAME AND SURNAME. BUT THAT'S A SECRET, SO LET'S PRETEND MY REAL NAME IS LEFT BANK MANC, OK? OK.***

They repeated it twice. I wasn't going mad. They DEFINITELY said my name. My full name.

What the fuck?

They 'believed' I was in the station? That made me sound like some dangerous criminal, believed to be in the vicinity and not to be approached under any circumstances. My first thought was that they'd got me on CCTV the night before, taunting the fat security guard at Spitafields, running a little bit ahead, jumping in the novelty sports car for silly photos and then jumping out again just as he got near to us, panting and red in the face, yelling at us to leave and stop touching things.

Then I thought, 'Perhaps they are going to tell me what platform my train is leaving from? Perhaps they know me as a Special Customer and so are telling me personally?'

I know- the Second Thought is a lot more idiotic than the First, but I had no better ideas. I had no clue why they would be calling for me, by my full name as well.

I wandered over to the Information Desk, curiosity overcoming my urge to run out of the station in case the police were waiting for me. preparing to arrest me for 'criminal damage' charges. Also... I may have made a tiny bit of a Public Nuisance of myself... It's not my fault, I forgot how cheap alcohol is in England and I just o excited to be back in England. Full of beans, I was. And wine.

"Hi." I said to the man in the Information Desk (no police in sight, I noted), "I'm Left Bank Manc."

He looked at me strangely.

"Is this yours?"

And then he held up a very battered, very familiar looking...

...passport.

He handed it to me as my mouth fell open. Of course it was mine. But I hadn't even noticed it was missing.

"Somebody found it in Marks and Spencer's." he said.

"Oh my God! Oh my- I didn't even know I'd lost it! I don't even... I don't live in England! I need it! I really need it!"

I was a blabbering idiot. I was so shocked. Imagine if I'd gotten all the way to Liverpool and realised I didn't have it! Imagine if I hadn't realised until I was getting ready to leave for the airport back to Paris!

I walked away from the Information Desk in a daze, only half-noticing that they'd finally put up the platform number for my train.

The day I left Paris for London, the dad of the au pair family was pissed off with me because I almost left my coach tickets in his office (he'd  printed them out for me), but the point is, I didn't forget them, so I don't know why he was mad.

"Your head is not on your shoulder!" he said crossly.

I'd just raised my eyebrows and said, to wind him up a bit more:

 "Ok, see you when I get back then. If I make my way back, ho ho."

But I came so very close to actually not making it back to Paris... Fucking hell. I don't think my head is on my shoulders.

Anyway, random blog post over. Good night.

Oh one more thing, I definitely did lose my bank card last week. At first I didn't want to admit it but I've looked everywhere and I think I left it in the ticket machine at the metro station. It took me eight days but I finally cancelled it, so maybe my head is attached to my shoulders by a wispy thread of glittery dream silk.

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