Thursday, 30 August 2012

Loose Ends 2012

My mum and stepdad have gone on a jolly bike ride in the rain, leaving the house nice and quiet. I've just realised I never did a 'Loose Ends' post to round up the school year, so for my own sense of closure, here is a quick summary of all the things I never finished blogging about:

Jen's Visit

Remember when my friend Jen came to visit and I never really told you what happened other than we drank a lot and I ended up being so hungover that I spent all of Sunday crying hysterically before going to a children's birthday party? (Read Hummingbird to jog your memory.)

Well on the Thursday she arrived, we went for drinks with Georgie, Laura and Kayt around Tuileries where there is, rather surprisingly, a couple of cheap bars to be found. Jen wanted to get a kebab and I kept telling there that there is never anywhere to get fast food, late at night, in Paris... But lo and behold, I turned my back on her for one minute and the next time I looked, she was eating a carton of hot chips.  Apparently you can get fast food on a night out, in one of the poshest parts of Paris. Who knew?

As everyone had work early the next day, we found ourselves alone by about midnight, much to Jen's annoyance. By this point we'd had a lot to drink and should have gone home, but for Some Reason we refused to stop drinking, so as everyone ran to get the last metro, Laura suggested we go to Café Marly- the bar in the Louvre right next to the pyramid.

Here is a photo of some civilised people enjoying the nice view:

Luckily I don't have any photos of me and Jen because, although we did enjoy the nice view ('Look at that eh? Just look at that! Wow. Eh? Eh? Are you looking?' 'Jen I've gone blind.') we weren't very civilised. No, actually that's not fair- we behaved ourselves quite well I thought, we just didn't need to buy a whole bottle of wine. 

We got chatting to a very posh, arrogant English guy who was really cocky until his 'client' came over- a massively-built man from the East End (of London, to any non-English readers) who kept slapping the posh guy on the shoulder and cackling "He's got to impress me because he works for me!'

The posh guy was grimacing and trying to repress shudders of repellence. I'm not sure what it is exactly he did, but it was something to do with small businesses, and they'd brought some of their clients out to the Roland Garros tournament to try and woo them- and the posh guy clearly hated smarming up to 'common folk'. Ha ha.

For Some Reason, Jen told them I was a naked waitress in a 'private club' on the Champs Elysees. As ex-drama students, I guess we miss improv classes, so we tend to lie to strangers... Naturally I had to go along with the whole thing, doing (I thought) a very convincing impression of someone who is mildly annoyed that their friend has revealed to everyone their shady profession, when I would have liked 'just one night off as myself and not a naked waitress'.

The English guys said they were going to Showcase (we all know how I feel about Showcase and their over-crowded tunnels of techno-soundtracked death) and as we were still 'in role' we said we'd love to go, as soon as we'd finished our wine.... Then, just because we're Drama Queens, I explained to the waiter how we wanted to get away without the huge table of English guys noticing us (they were the only other customers) so he let us escape through the back door. 

On the walk home (it took us nearly an hour) Jen asked a policeman for a cigarette and he said something to her in French.

"What did he say?" Jen demanded.

"He... he said you're ridiculous."

The next night we went to Pause Cafe with Olivia for a 'quiet tea' (dinner, for any Southern Belles reading and supper for Posh Clare) that turned into a couple of bottles of champagne (now I understand why I had no money for Ibiza) and a few bottles of wine. On the way back to Olivia's we stopped at two bars, where we told everyone we were Swedish for Some Reason and they believed us. Two old Moroccan men bought us roses and guessed that we were speaking English to each other, so we told them Jen was visiting from Manchester. One of the men got really excited, telling us his son had just moved to Manchester for university, so me and Olivia insisted that he get Jen's contact details so his son would have a friend in England.

Jen was really mad at us, but me and Olivia found the whole thing hilarious. On the way home we put the roses in our mouths and dropped to our knees in the middle of the busy street in an attempt to woo her back, but that only made her more mad. In the end, she said she'd forgive us if we stopped walking along the streets on our knees. I don't know what she was so mad about, she gave the Moroccan man my telephone number anyway...

Back at Olivia's we raided her mini bar and Jen fell asleep with a shot in her hand. Me and Olivia had a whispered conversation across her two balconies for Some Reason and then when we took the conversation inside, I passed out on the bed in the middle of Olivia's story. The next morning Olivia had to leave at 7am to catch a flight, which was why she'd wanted a 'quiet tea'... oops... and she got to the check-in desk with two minutes to spare. Phew.

Me and Jen woke up at a more reasonable time and told Kayt to come round with food 'and beer!' shouted Jen.

"And beer?" I asked, putting my hand over the phone for a second.

"Trust me." Jen said.

The beer is the only thing that got me through the weekend. I knew if I let the alcohol levels in my blood diminish the hangover would kick in and I'd want to die...

That night we went to Nouveau Casino with Ricky (who was working at Roland Garros) and Mark and Caitlin, who are Ricky's friends that went to Ibiza (and last year Caitlin was in Paris on her year abroad and Mark was visiting her for the weekend) and another friend who does not wish to be named because of the terrible things she did that night. Let's just call her C.B which stands for Cock-Blinded...

I knew Ricky, Mark and Caitlin really wanted to go and rave somewhere, but there wasn't really anyone good playing that weekend. In the end we went to Nouveau Casino because it's a really nice club and there's never any nobheads there. We went to see DJ Funk who, a swift bit of Google research revealed, is Chicago House Ghetto-Tech... Yeah I didn't understand either.

I don't think anyone really liked the music (Ricky politely said 'It's really fast, isn't it?') but they got completely fucked, which is all you can ask for, sometimes.

That night me and Jen had about half an hour's sleep before we got the bus to Gare du Nord. After I'd dropped her off, I went home and tried to nap before the little girl's birthday party- the mum had booked a really expensive entertainer but wanted me there to distract the really little kids- but I just couldn't doze off. That's when things got Dark.

After crying for about an hour in front of my laptop, I went to the party feeling as if I was heading for my execution. In the end, it wasn't even bad. I sat in a room filled with toys and throughout the afternoon random toddlers waddled in and out. There was one little boy who wanted me to play the guitar while he drummed. The fact that I can't play the guitar didn't stop me and we spent a good half an hour banging out a horrid, tuneless din. 

Me and my toddler (you know what I mean) started this weird game where he pulled his t-shirt up and I stroked his back with a feather that had fallen out of someone's fancy-dress feather boa.  Every time I stopped he backed into me again. I guess it was a little weird, but my frazzled brain was enjoying the repetitive, silent activity. (The mum filmed us doing it because she thought it was funny and now I have to live with the fact that the au pair family have a video of me looking as awful as I did that day, and that the video might be the only thing they have to remind themselves of what I look like when I leave.)

Towards the end of the afternoon I started coming down again, so I just sat in the corner and ate cake until the mum told me I should probably just go home. It was a shitty end to a really amazing weekend.

My Brother Lost in Paris

So, remember when my brother came to see me in Paris and he missed the last Roissy bus and his phone wasn't working? Click here if you don't remember, or for lazy people, here's an extract from my panic:

I told him to say Roissy Bus Roissy and start crying. Then I realised he had already missed the last one, so I told him to get the RER to Charles de Gaulle Etoile. Then I realised the RER doesn't go to Charles de Gaulle Etoile, I was thinking of Chatelet. Then he said the internet was running out, he was in an internet cafe. So I said CHATELET CHATELET. Then I realised he might not have missed the last Air France bus, so I told him to get that instead. Then he went off line.

His he going to get the RER or the Air France bus? What do I do? Should I wait at Chatelet, or should I wait at Charles de Gaulle Etoile in case he got the bus? Should I just wait at home? He has my address. How can he get in contact in with me?

Well, after coming home to write a quick blog post (I have no idea why I did that) I decided that the last thing we agreed upon on Facebook Chat was for him to get the RER, so I headed to Chatelet, having roughly worked out what time he should be arriving. 

I've always hated Chatelet- the walls smell of bones and its grimy tunnels go on and on and on. Now I  hate it even more, because it will alway remind of that horrible night when I waited on the platform for my brother, who never showed up there.

I couldn't shake the feeling that I was doing the wrong thing. What if he did get the Air France bus? I should have gone to check the Air France bus first, because if he had made it, he would have made the last one, and so I would have known straight away if he'd made it or not and then I should have come to Chatelet. 

Trains came and there was no sign of my brother. My mum Whats Apped me and said she was sure he told her he was getting some sort of bus.

An hour went by. I'd been pacing up and down like a wild thing, shaking and muttering to myself, running my fingers through my hair like a Very Stressed Person, stopping even the mad-eyed tramps from sitting next to me.

What if this went on all night? He could be anywhere in Paris and there was no way of finding him.

After an hour and a half, I decided to go and check at the place where the Air France bus stops. But as soon as I got on the metro I felt as if I was doing the wrong thing. What if he was getting off the RER that very second, as I headed in the opposite direction?

My phone rang, it was a number I didn't recognise. It was my brother, calling from a French number.

"I'm at Chatelet, outside." he said, "I'm near a big fountain."

Thank FUCK for that. I told him I'd be ten minutes, I messaged my mum and told her I'd heard from him at last. I got off the metro and jumped back on in the opposite direction. Chatelet has about twenty exits, but I saw Place de Chatelet and guessed there would probably be a fountain there. I was right- there was a fountain there, but my brother wasn't there. The fountain was all in shadows, I felt like I'd arrived at a party after everyone has gone home and the lights have been switched off.

Where the fuck was my brother?

I walked round and round the fountain, even though it was so small you could see all the way around it from any angle. I rang the number that my brother had rung me from, but there was no answer. I texted it three times, telling the person that they must have just spoken with my brother and lent him their phone, where did they speak to him? What street?

What I didn't know then was that my brother had rung me from a telephone box...

I got another call from a different French number. 

"Where are you?" he asked me.

I ried to ask for more specific details on his whereabouts. He told me he was in a police station and that he would go and wait for me at the entrance to the RER. 

I went back down into Shitalet but the RER had stopped, so there was no access to the RER exits. There were crowds of people, as confused as I was, but luckily there were lots of staff too. I grabbed the first one who made eye contact.

Where's a fountain? 

My brother is English. 
He got the RER. 
It's a big fountain with lots of people. 
He can't speak French. 
He's near the RER exit. 
I need to get there. 
He's lost. 
He's English!

The woman I spoke to was really nice. She said she wasn't sure, but that if he'd taken the RER, she could guess what fountain he was at. She told me what exit I should take and gave me directions. We all know I don't understand directions, so when I exited the metro I asked two different people how to get to the fountain and then at the fountain I asked a policeman where the RER was. 

I almost ran to the RER station. Yes, I am a Drama Queen, but I was so anxious and I'd been running round Paris for about three hours. 

He was there. 

We were really lucky actually, because if it hadn't have been Fete de la Musique, the streets would have been empty and all the public transport would have stopped. We had to walk for about an  hour before we found a metro station that was running (they only keep certain ones open on Fete de la Musique) but I didn't care by this point, I was just glad I'd found my brother.

He insisted that I'd never mentioned the fact that his phone wouldn't work in France. He even showed me a history of our conversations on his phone, where you could clearly see I'd said it TWICE. 

When we got home I showed him the blog I'd written. 

"You came home and wrote a blog, when I was lost?"


Can't remember any other lose ends I need to tie up, but let me tell you what everyone's doing, just because sometimes I abruptly stop talking about people and you probably think I've killed them.


She finished her teaching job in the North of France that allowed her to come to Paris nearly every other weekend and went to work as a kid's rep in the South of France. I really wanted to go and visit her but funds didn't commit.When the season ends in October she's moving to Edinburgh for Fun and Frolics.


After her dramatic 'I'm not getting on the train' moment she went back to London a few weeks later. The reason she wanted to stay in Paris is because she got a job interview at the Louvre. She didn't get it, but she got a job in South London organising events at a philosophy and arts cafe/music studio.


Staying in Paris, with me! It's so shit though, because she had a bit of an arguement with her au pair family and as a result she now has to move out of her lovely studio into a much smaller place in the same building as her family.


Apart from making me beautiful cloaks, Amy is keeping busy doing freelance pattern-cutting and teaching 'Ethical Fashion' classes in Liverpool. She's coming to stay in Paris for two weeks at the end of September as is...


You know, frightfully posh Clare who went to boarding school. Since leaving Paris she's been trying really hard to get a job 'in fashion' but at the moment she is signing on. Now, it's not funny at all that Clare is on the dole, I really hope she gets the job of her dreams any day now, I know she will eventually... But... you've got to admit... It is slightly funny to imagine her queuing up for her weekly benefits, wearing her fur coat and calling everyone Silly Billies. 


Staying in Paris for one month to complete her internship, then moving back to London to finish her degree. One month! It feels like she's staying for another year because she's still going to be there when I get back, so I don't feel like she's really leaving!

Champagne Charlie-

Filming finishes in November, although I don't know if we'll still be friends when Olivia leaves... For God's Sak!


She leaves Paris three days after I get back to Paris. I hope we have time to film our rap that we're doing for the resto. The manager said we can film it in work and then she'll put it on the Facebook page. Then I predict it will be about two weeks before we become Hip Hop Superstars.


Do you remember Mairi from my first year in Paris? She came to Paris on the day I left this summer, and we met up for a coffee. Since she left Paz she's living in Madrid and she loves it. 


Abby, my first ever real French friend, has finished her Masters and needs to do an internship with a Development Agency/Company. (I don't really know what they're called but you know what I mean, those organisations that help developing countries.) She's hoping to go back to Senegal and do it because she's worked there before... so if anybody in Senegal is reading...


My second French friend! She finished her job, which she hated, and won a place at art school, yey! And, the art school is in Paris, so she isn't going anywhere! Yey!


My friend Anna has been travelling round Australia since last autumn. She said she's in no rush to get back! 


I first met Angelique because she was Anna's flatmate, and after Anna left me and Kayt started out with Angelique. We always said we'd have to see more of each other but then the last time we met up, Angelique told us she was moving to New York. She didn't have a job or anywhere to live, she just fancied living there... the last time I heard from her she had an internship and was living with friends. Amazing.

Coincidentally, Anna's flatmate before Angelique was a girl called Sasha who was full of mad stories about how she used to live in New Orleans and Israel and New York, and I always wondered how she could have possibly done so much and still be so young.  She left Paris about this time last year and a few moths ago I heard from Anna that she had died from a heroin overdose. I guess she lived the life she wanted to. I'm not going to pretend that we were friends, but she was very talented and I wanted to share that.

So. There you go. No more loose ends, at least for a while. 

Coming soon... Ibiza.

Wednesday, 29 August 2012


The Paralympics Opening Ceremony is on in a minute. I feel really shallow and ungrateful, because some people are born with one arm or lose both their legs in car accidents; and all I've been doing for the past few days is looking at photos from Ibiza and sulking because I look sweaty-haired and chubby in every photo.

I know it's pathetic...

... but I can't help myself.

My mum was looking at the photos over my shoulder and I got really nervous... I couldn't remember anyone taking any photos all holiday and I had no idea what was going to pop up next. Eventually I told my mum to go away, because I couldn't be 100% sure that the next photo wouldn't be of me smoking a crack pipe, crouched over a naked Spaniard.

I can't believe Ibiza has been and gone already. I've been meaning to post about Ibiza every day since I got back, but my mum and stepdad are so fucking noisy, I can't concentrate on anything. As I type my stepdad is practicing his guitar whilst watching the TV and my mum is listening to the radio while she makes mackerel pâté in the kitchen, commentating as she goes along. Actual transcript:

"Now is this too cheesy? It'll be nice on crackers. It's got to beee-eee perfect. Have I made a dressing?"

I've been ill as well, with a wheezy chest and dizzy spells, the coughing keeping me awake.

I've been tossing and turning in the night, worrying about next week when I go back to Paris. I haven't even booked my train back to London yet. As soon as I get back to Paris I have an interview for this teaching job at a private school- just a couple of hours a week- and I have no idea how to get to the school or even what the teacher is called. All I've written in my diary is:

13h  right    5     7

I feel really panicky and disorganised. I don't want to go back to Paris. I feel like this every summer and yet every spring I decide to stay. Why? Sometimes I feel like coming back to England is like waking  up from a coma and I can't understand the person I used to be before.

She planned to stay in Paris for another year? Why? What could she possibly have been thinking?

My mum just came and gave me a hug and said "I feel like I'm missing you already."

Oh dear. Welling up a little bit.

It's only because I live in another country, though. If I lived in England I bet she'd get fed up with me.

When I got back from Ibiza my mum picked me up from the airport and on the way home we got a bottle of wine and Something Nice for tea. My stepdad was at a gig with his covers band (don't ask) so we had an evening to ourselves. My mum hugged me and said:

"You know if you wanted to come home, I could put a bed in my office and you're welcome to stay here."

I'm sleeping in my brother's room because he lives in his uni house now. He's been sick all week and I kept badgering him to come home, but he said he'd rather stay at his uni house, even though nobody else is moving in until September.

Now I know why he didn't want to come home- all the fucking noise. I can't BELIEVE how noisy my stepdad and my mum are. I'm used to living on my own, with no television and no radio. Silence is golden.

My bedroom, by the way, is now my mum's office and 'dressing room'. Last summer it was still technically my bedroom because it had a bed in it, but every morning I'd have to put up with my mum bursting in to try jeans on. 'Do these jeans make me look fat?' is not a pleasant sound to wake up to every morning.

Sorry this whole post has just been one massive whinge about nothing.

Ibiza was really, really special as always and I promise I'll blog about it before I go back to Paris.


I don't wanna go back, I just don't wanna!!!!!!!!!!!

Thursday, 16 August 2012

Calm Down, Hilda.

I need to pack for Ibiza- I'm going to Liverpool this afternoon and flying from John Lennon Airport on Saturday. Tonight I'm staying with Amy, then tomorrow I'm seeing my friend Anna who had a baby a few months ago (she got a bit annoyed on Facebook because I referred to the baby as 'it', I do love babies but I see them more as little animals than little people) and on Friday night I'm seeing my dad and my nana.

I feel really mean only going to my dad's house for one night, but I really didn't want to spend too much time away from my mum. Also my dad's house is a mad house. About a week ago, my oldest half-brother, who is nine,  was trying to hold his breath until he fainted and he succeeded, knocking his two front teeth out on the way down.

Last time I stayed over I was really shocked- all the kids stayed up until midnight, even though it was a school night, and my dad and his girlfriend got drunk off cheap cider. Jeremy Kyle, here we come.

Shitting hell. I need to pack. I haven't even started yet and I need to get the train about half two.

Mez hasn't payed my resto wages into my bank yet, she messaged me to say she'll pay them in today though, so fingers crossed. If the cheque doesn't clear by Friday night I'm not going to Ibiza. Also, I'm assuming my French bank card will work in Ibiza, but if it doesn't...

I feel a bit stressed out. I have also received some letters from a Debt Collector's company about some stupid internet thing from when I was in university. They want me to pay them £175 apparently. How did they get this address? I vaguely know what they are talking about, I think we left the flat before the 12 month contract was up and it was getting difficult to get the money off everyone I lived with over the summer, so I just stopped paying it.

Fuck. Fuck. Calm. Calm.

The good news is, Mez has my cheque. All she needs to do is put it in my bank and in France, cheques can take one day to clear.

The bad news is that in the meantime, I have eight pounds to get me to Liverpool and buy sun cream and velcro rollers for Ibiza. Yes, I can confirm that Hilda Ogden will be making an appearance in the White Isle this summer.

My mum is sitting in bed, reading.

Surely she can lend me twenty quid until I get paid? Or thirty? Let's say forty?

I'm going to make her a cup of tea and then as I put the cup down besides her I'll put on my sweetest smile and then I'll fall to my knees and beg her.

I don't think I'll get another chance to blog before I go to Ibiza so goodbye, have a lovely week and pray that my cheque clears in time!!

Wednesday, 8 August 2012

For God's Sak!

This is a post I wrote just before I left Paris and never got round to finishing... 

So for anyone who follows me on Twitter- I'd like to issue a formal apology for my recent Drunken Tweets. I don't know why I started tweeting every time I get ridiculously drunk, but I now I can't stop myself. I'll translate them for you later, but first let me tell you about the last two weekends which have featured Olivia and Tom heavily, as well as some heavy drinking. I feel actually like I might be in trouble, because I promised myself at the beginning of the month that I wouldn't drink until Ibiza, and since then I have pickling my insides with champagne, vodka and gin. Instead of abstaining until my holiday, I almost had to cancel my holiday because of how much money I've spent on alcohol. I know there's a lesson to be learnt there somewhere but I just can't be arsed trying to figure it out.


Last Friday Olivia's parents were here so me, Champagne Charlie (CC) and Olivia went out for a meal with them. We wanted to go to Chez Gladines because it is so delicious and cheap, but when we got there IT WAS CLOSED for the whole month of July! Sometimes Paris is ridiculous. Why does everywhere have to fucking closed in the summer???

We stood in the street in disbelief for about ten minutes. I wanted to throw myself on my knees and pound the cobbled pavement in frustration, but Olivia's mum and dad were really hungry by this point, so we quickly decided to jump back on the metro and go to Place Monge. I say 'we', really it was me, but I don't want to take responsibility for the decision because it was such a terrible idea.

There are sooo many restaurants at Place Monge, but the quality is inconsistent. We were unfortunate in that we chose to go to the Worst Restaurant in the World. First they brought Olivia's mum fish soup for her starter and onion soup for her main, and they couldn't understand why she didn't want a course of two soups. I had rabbit's leg (I know, weird choice) but it was so big that I'm certain it must have been a cat's leg or even a small dog.

The good thing is, we had a bon time despite the crap food. Sometimes when a place is so bad, you end up enjoying yourself more because you have something to laugh about. At the end of the meal, I asked for a café crème and the waitress brought me an espresso with a splash of cold milk in it. At first I ignored it and kept asking for my café crème, but when she informed me that the little cup of disgusting liquid was my coffee I was forced to admit that perhaps the restaurant was so shit that they didn't even know how to make coffee.

Normally I'm not an arsey customer- you can pour boiling soup in my eyes and I'll sit there politely pretending I've got a speck of dust in my eye to avoid making the waiter feel bad- but when I suggested that my cafe creme wasn't in fact, a cafe creme, she curtly said to me:

"That's how we make it France."

'In France? I live in France, you ignorant bitch,' I wanted to say. (Obviously I didn't say because I'm not psychotic.)

Instead I said, "That's weird, because I work in a restaurant in Paris and our café crème is not like that."

In the end I drank the disgusting coffee, then we paid up and flounced off. I wish I could remember the name because I want to tell everyone NOT to go there. Le Petit Provencale or something.

After our horrible meal we went for drinks on Rue Mouffetard, where I let slip to Olivia's parents that she smokes.

Yeah... I definitely didn't know that was supposed to be a secret.

Olivia's mum and dad left and we got a taxi to Grands Boulevards (when we got out of the taxi we bowed to the driver because we'd performed for him throughout the whole journey), but not too late as the next night we wanted to have a Big Gay Night Out. We ended up walking back to CC's hotel on Rue de Rivoli. The studio or production company or whoever (I don't know do I?) were paying for it and it was Swish. On the way home CC showed us some things from his police training, so we walked home holding invisible guns as if we were in a siege, occasionally breaking into 'Cool' from West Side Story and leaping over bins.

The next day I went to work, blergh, and then in the evening we went out again with Olivia's parents and I invited Chloe (my friend who I met through this blog last year and who got me my current au pair job because she was their au pair at the time) who was here in Paris for the weekend.

It was so nice to see Chloe! We talked about the one subject nobody else gives a shit about- our au pair family. Chloe told me that the apartment below the au pair family's in Seafront House is owned by a family who have three really beautiful sons- aged between 21 and 24. I knew I'd seen someone fit sitting on the veranda outside when me and Olivia were there that weekend, but I didn't see him up close. Chloe said that one night they invited her to a family party in their apartment and she ended up getting really wasted with them. Then, the next day, the au pair dad asked her over breakfast:
"So did you cheat on your boyfriend last night?"

Chloe was really surprised at his question and then he said:
"It's ok, I know you didn't. I asked them about it."

How inappropriate is that??

Hey, did any of you shag my au pair girl? No? Great. I'm just gonna ask her anyway over breakfast...

Anyway, after the meal we said goodbye to Olivia's mum and dad and found a teeny tiny lesbian bar. I say lesbian bar- there was one very old lesbian behind the bar, so we're kind of assuming. It was completely empty, apart from five old people at the bar, so to liven things up a bit we ordered shots and performed our 'Gay Man in a Gay Man's Body' song for Chloe. I can't give too much away because we are probably going to make a music video for it and we will probably become internet sensations and then it will probably reach number one in the download chart, and if I publish it on here my anonymity will be blown.

All you need to know is that it is very excellent.

After the Tiny Lesbian Bar, we went to a random cafe that was completely empty and sat on the terrace. I was wearing my high-waisted, purple Aztec-print trousers that I always talk about and when I pull the waistline down to my hips, they just look like Cheryl Cole-style baggy dancer pants. Someone pointed this out and so obviously CC played a Cheryl Cole song on his phone and I got up and did a Cheryl Cole dance. Then the waiter started being an arsehole and we started being really rude and obnoxious (Chloe said 'Do you have a problem with your ears?') so we left, after paying obviously. We're not that rude and obnoxious.

By this point we were ready to go to the Gay Club we had researched, but Chloe had work the next day and also was pretty skint, so we bid farewell and got in a taxi. The taxi driver insisted on showing us a stupid video of a French singer singing 'Someone Like You' by Adele. He kept asking us to guess the nationality of the singer. Obviously, he wanted us to say 'English' so he could yell triumphantly, 'No! She's French!'

When we got to our chosen club- Club 18- guess what? They wouldn't let us in because it was men-only. How ridiculous. I've never been to a gay club in Paris before but from what I saw last weekend, the gay scene is nothing like London or Manchester, where anyone can go and enjoy themselves.

No girls allowed, bitches.

My guidebook says that 'most gay clubs (in Paris) are very hetero-friendly'... Lies.

Lies and fibs and nonsense.

From Club 18 we got a taxi to another place that CC had read about- Le Gibus- right next door to Favela Chic. We almost debated going into Favela Chic- I've not been for ages and the music is really good to dance to- but Favela closes at 5am and it was already pretty late by this point, so we stuck to the Big Gay Night Out plan.

In the queue, me and Olivia joked that we'd have to pretend to be lesbians to get in, but as we got nearer and nearer the front we started to think that we might have to actually, seriously pretend to be gay, so we held hands and tried to look loved up.

We got to the front and straight away the bouncer pointed at us and said "Are you gay?"

"Yes!" we said.
"You sure?"

We were in. They even gave CC three tickets for an after-party. Finally the night could begin. We got in there... and I have never seen so many men in my life. There were only two other women in there. We started drinking and that's when I'll have to stop blogging and just let my tweets do the talking. This was my first drunken tweet. (Twitter says it was posted at 11.30pm, which blows my mind. I thought we didn't get to the club until 3am. Either Twitter was wrong, my Blackberry was wrong, or I was more fucked than I realised...)

Tweet: So drinbk gonnav jusyt drink iy ok oiiiiiii riht not you who'd payong is it???????? 
Translation: So drunk, gonna just drink, it's ok. Oi right, not you who's paying is it?

(I think in the above tweet I was imagining people judging me for spending too much money on alcohol and was cleverly arguing back with them.)

A lot of drinks later:
Tweet: Throiwn ou opd anotner clubd???? Oh for gods sak!!!! I donn't fo do aytjjing!!! 
Translation: Thrown out of another club??? Oh for God's sake! I didn't do anything!

They tell a sad story- basically, we got in a argument with two guys who thought we were trying to steal their chairs, then as we walked away I said 'Vous etes mechant' (I know I've not spelt it right, I will NEVER care, I'm in England now, I don't have to be able to speak French.) The guy and his friend then leapt up out of their chairs and tried to punch CC. Me and Olivia chased them around and blocked their way, while CC swaggered about oblivious, ordering champagne and wondering where everybody had gone.

Eventually the guys left, but I'd like to point out that the fight was not my fault. Me saying 'Vous etes mechants' is exactly the same as saying 'You're mean!' in English. It hardly warrants leaping out of your chair and trying to punch people.

What did she call us? Mean? She called us mean? Right, that's it, I'm gonna kick off now!

Eventually the two guys got bored of me jumping out at them at every corner shouting: 'It wasn't him, it was me! It wasn't HIM, it was MEEEEEE!'

After they left, we still couldn't get a table and in my anger unwisely took to Twitter:

Tweet: Oh I started a fight with a guy and chased him around protecting their guys I vwas with so now I deaserve a fucking. Tavle ok???
Translation: Oh I started a fight with a guy and chased him around protecting the guy I was with so now I deserve a fucking table ok???

A little while later it appears we still had trouble finding a table:
Tweet: Spelling miskate. Ignore it. Let me just have a faaaaaaaacking table to mesaeylf I earnt it.
Translation: Spelling mistake. Ignore it. Let me just have a faaaacking table to myself I earnt it.

Somehow, we ended up leaving Hot Man Club with two Australian girls and a Dutch couple. We walked back to CC's apartment (he has now moved from the hotel to a gorgeous apartment in the Marais, the bathroom is actually bigger than my chambre de bonne). I think it was on this walk back that I tweeted:

I feel like I moghjt fallLl over but I won't!!!!!

I don't think that needs translating. Also I have no idea why I thought that was worth telling the world.

The party quickly descended into chaos. The man of the Dutch couple went to get more alcohol and while he was away his wife decided she fancied Olivia and got quite, erm, aggressive, so me and Olivia hid in the bedroom while she hammered on the door like the Terminator. The electricity went at one point and me and Olivia had an argument that started with me crouching down on the floor and going 'PAH' 'PAH' like Lord Voldemort. Me and Olivia made up and tried to go to sleep, then Dutch husband turned up with about eighty euros worth of alcohol.

"Has my wife behaved?" he asked.

When it was clear she'd gone a bit cray cray, he took them off home and everyone went to bed. I've no idea when the Australian girls left or, now that I think about it, when CC's make-up artist friend Chloe went home, but at the end there was only me, Olivia and Tom left.

The next day we ate junk food and watched Disney films and when I got home I swore to never, ever drink again. Ever. I promised myself.

Well, there you go, thought I may as well finish that post.

Oh and somehow between Dutch Wife turning into the Trunchbull and the electricity going, I discovered that I'd chipped my front tooth. So now I have a shitty liver and a small, black triangle nothingness in the middle of my two front teeth.

For God's Sak!


Don't cry for me Argentina, the truth is I never left you, I've just been busy drinking tea and looking at cows out of the window with narrowed eyes...

What are up to, cows? Why do you keep looking at me over the wall? What kind of sick game are you playing here?

I'll find out, if it kills me.

(Actually not if it kills me., I'm not that bothered. I'll find out if it causes me slight bodily harm, anything more than that and I'd rather not know.)

In the meantime, I've been watching a lot of the Olympics on TV. I really, truly do not give a shit about any kind of sports whatsoever, but my mum and stepdad have had it on the entire time I've been home and somehow I've been drawn in.

A lot of the female athletes seem to be really glam this year. (Apart from the shot putters, it must be said. While I respect them as athletes and think they are amazing role models, I do question the wisdom of having a haircut like a seventies footballer when you've got a figure that would be described as a fork lift truck in Cosmo's 'Which Body Shape Are You?' quiz.) I was surprised that some of the runners left their hair extensions flowing down their back, you'd think it would slow them down. I noticed that some of them had their countrys' flags painted on their acrylic nails and one of the American runners even had sparkly face paint on.

I know that's not the point of sports at all, but it's interesting. It's interesting that, not only do the female athletes have to concentrate on winning, but they have to think about the fact that they are being viewed by millions... This year, I think the female athletes jazzed themselves up simply because they wanted to, but perhaps in the near distance future, even the world of sports will be affected by our society's obsession with aesthetics.

'Shut the fuck up with this psuedo-serious shit.' I hear you say.

Well, all right then, but I just thought I'd write a little bit about the Olympics because, when I was in London, I think I caught Olympic Fever. One day, as I wandered over the Millenium Bridge on my way to the Tate Modern,  I looked across at Tower Bridge and smiled at the five rings suspended underneath, just like I saw on the TV back in Paris. When I walked back across however, the rings had disappeared and nobody believes me.

"Perhaps you were looking at the wrong bridge." my stepdad suggested.

I'm not that thick.

Am I?

Maybe they took them down for cleaning or something...

Anyway, the point is, the Olympics has been very exciting and, after all my anxious worrying, the buses and tubes were absolutely fine. London seems to be coping very well. I stayed in London for four days, mainly for Eastern Electrics with everybody going to Ibiza but also to see Claire and Lauren, who have just moved there.

Lauren took me on a mini tour of her office- it is absolutely amazing. She showed me her desk and took me to the News Room- everything in the building looks so expensive and important. There are huge tanks with fish that get fancier the closer you get to reception (where Lauren told me she thinks there is a baby shark swimming around, and I believe her) and everyone is super nice and welcoming. They gave me a pass with my name on and a hideous photo that they took when I wasn't looking, and then the smiley lady on front desk told me to go and wait upstairs and to help myself to the 'staff kitchen'.

The 'staff kitchen' is a floor where staff can help themselves to snacks and drinks. Lauren said when she first started and had no money, she lived off the food she took from work- crisps, fruit, cereal bars, biscuits and sweets. After some encouragement from Lauren, I also took the opportunity to stuff my bag with crisps and cereal bars.

As I'm sure you've guessed by now, I was VERY impressed with the free snacks and tea on offer. It made me really crave a proper office job like Lauren's, so I can dress up in pencil skirts everyday and swan around eating complimentary Mini Cheddars.

I said all this to Claire and she said, very wisely, "The fish tank novelty would soon wear off."

She knows me too well. I could never do a job like Lauren's, because for all the snacks and health care they give you, they expect quite a lot in return. Her job sounds really difficult. She basically has to talk to people on the phone all day, in French as well as English, and go in the 'system' to help them with problems that baffled me when she tried to explain them.

When we were in the lift, I made Lauren laugh and she spat Ribena everywhere. There were two serious-looking business men in the lift with us and, surprisingly, they didn't laugh along with us, even when Lauren said. "I'm so sorry guys, that was disgusting."

I was bent over in the corner, crying with laughter. I don't think I will ever be grown up enough to work in an office.

The office tour was on the Thursday, on Friday I went for tea with Lauren and her sister and then we went to see the Damien Hirst exhibition. I thought it was quite impressive until my mum told me that he doesn't actually assemble most of the pieces himself- he has a team of people and he tells them his ideas. Now I'm unsure what to make of pieces like the 'dot paintings' and the 'butterfly pictures'- part of what them made them impressive was the thought of one man taking hours to create them. Not so impressive if all he did was tell a group of interns what to do. Still, the exhibition is really good and I would recommend it. There is a room with live butterflies flitting about in it!

On Saturday it was Eastern Electrics. I'd forgotten to print my ticket off, so me and Claire wandered all over London looking for an internet cafe and I ended up arriving at the festival a couple of hours after everyone else. For the first hour I couldn't find anyone, so I hung around with two cockney builders for a bit who very kindly offered me some coke from a huuuge bag of it they were waving around. (I declined, don't worry mum, if you've sneakily found my blog again. I guess I shouldn't really be using your computer to write a blog post.)

Eventually I met up with everyone else and I had a good day but... I'm still not sure if I want to go to Ibiza or not. I've had no word from Mez about my cheque from the resto (she has to pick it up for me and pay it into my French bank account) and even when/if I do get paid, I need to sort out the hair on my head and the hair on my you know what.. Haircuts and waxes cost money. Money I have unfortunately already spent on fizzy wine and lip liner.