Tuesday, 27 November 2012


Christmas time has officially started. I was trying to restrain myself from being festive until the first day of December, but this afternoon Kayt invited me round for gingerbread cupcakes and it felt so festive that we decided to watch 'Elf' while we ate them.

Now I'm in the Christmas mood and there's no getting out of it- from now until Boxing Day I'll be watching Christmas films, listening to Christmas songs and I'll be trying to stick to the Mince Pies and Mulled Wine Diet. Not only does this simple-to-follow diet fill you with festive cheer, but it promises to fatten you up for winter and it's very flexible- you can swap the pies for any Christmas-themed sweet treat (gingerbread, chocolate, candy canes etc) and you can substitute the wine for any kind of alcohol, as long as you heat it up with a few cloves and a stick of cinnamon.

A lot of people (Christians) complain that we've lost the true meaning of Christmas, that all we care about these days is stuffing our faces and hanging up pretty lights... But that is the true meaning of Christmas which as we all know, is just a rip-off of Yuletide. It's an excuse to light up dark days and nights, to cheer ourselves up in bleak mid-winter. I don't think we've lost sight of the festival, I think things have come full circle and the Western World is returning to its pagan roots.

But enough about pagans, why does everything always have to be about pagans? 

There's something I wanted to say, before I got dangerously carried away talking about mince pies and Yuletide...

Without wanting to sound like a dickhead, I would like to thank everyone who left lovely, supportive comments in response to my last post, which was the blogging equivalent of slamming my door, throwing myself on the bed and screaming 'IT'S NOT FAIR! NOBODY UNDERSTANDS ME! I HATE MY LIFE! NOBODY CARES ABOUT ME! I'M FAT AND UGLY AND I'M CRAP AT NETBALL!'

Instead of rolling your eyes and telling me to cheer the fuck up and to 'think yourself lucky young lady, there are people out there more bored than than you', you quietly knocked on my door with a cup of tea and told me everything would be all right. (I'm still talking analogically here, come on, stay with me...) How very indulgent of you but thanks, it really did cheer me up.

Now I'm going to do the blogging equivalent of skipping down the stairs ten minutes later as if nothing happened and saying brightly:  "Ooh, are we having spaghetti bolognaise for tea?"

Hands up if you enjoyed that analogy.

Hands up if you have no idea what is going on.

I'm seeing a fifty/fifty split...

Basically- last weekend I was a miserable bastard, some of you left very nice comments and then I ended up having a really good night out. Yey! Paris is back in my good books again, thanks to one commenter who invited me to a garage/bassline night in Menilmontant.

I woke up assuming that it would end up being another lonely, shit Saturday like the weekend before. I wrote my miserable blog post, then I went to my au pair job for a couple of hours. (I had two other toddlers sprung on me from nowhere, but the mum gave me a croissant and made me a cup of tea so it wasn't a bad afternoon, considering I had nothing better to do.)

On the metro home I was imagining that something amazing was about to happen and that the night would turn into a spontaneous adventure and Paris would be like it used to be- a place where I could jump on tour buses with dubstep DJs and would get invited to private members clubs by Parisian indie-pop bands. (Eeesh- I know that was a dickheady thing to say, but I can't help myself, I feel like I have to prove to everyone that I do more in Paris than sit in my Cinderella room watching 'Sex and the City' and drinking tea.)

A familiar feeling started fizzing away inside me... the feeling that something exciting was about to happen.

I kept looking at my phone, in the mad hope that someone would text me, even though I knew everybody hated me and I had no friends.

I just dragged myself down cold streets, resigned to my fate.

On my way home I bought some Lindt chocolate and a bottle of rosé wine. (I made sure I got one of those half-bottles this time, because I knew that I would end up drinking the entirety of whatever sized-bottle I bought.) I saw another evening of 'Sex and the City' stretching ahead of me, possibly followed by a dozen tear-streaked viewings of Lea Salonga singing 'On My Own'*:

And now I'm all alone again
Nowhere to turn, no one to go to
Without a home, without a friend
Without a face to say hello to...

And then BOOM. Before I'd even opened the wine, I saw a comment on my blog from a girl who said she had been reading my blog for ages but had never commented. She was inviting me to a night of bassline/garage/dubstep at Le Mizmiz, a venue I've never been to before. For two seconds I thought 'No. What's the point in trying to have fun? Life is boring and shit.'

Then I GOT A GRIP and I wrote back saying yes, I would go. Then I got myself ready to get back in the rave game.

I even considered getting the trusty old, trice gold-striped Raving Jacket out of the back of my wardrobe, but it just didn't feel right. I haven't worn it for over a year now, I fear the Rave Jacket is finished in this town. Sigh. There was a time when I would wear it every time I went raving, with my gold-studded Disco Tights and my long, gold chain. (Haaaaaa- I'm imagining what you're imagining and I hope it didn't look as horrendous as that.) Those days are gone. Or maybe Paris was never ready to see a girl bouncing out in a gold-striped Adidas jacket... who knows? Perhaps I'll pull it out of retirement one last time for Mr Scruff.

Anyway, once I'd said yes to the commenter and checked out her authenticity on Facebook, I started revving myself up for a night of UK music by piling on the make-up and dancing around my room to old garage tunes like this (it reminds me of my friend Anna who I used to go to bassline nights with and who once told me that one of her ex-boyfriends cheated on her, then played her this song in lieu of an apology):

As I had suddenly found myself in a cheerful, going out mood, so I decided that everyone else must be in a similar state of mind. Kayt was babysitting, but I rang her and told her to come down after work. Then I texted Ruth and Julia and asked them if they wanted to come out. Ruth was already in bed watching DVDs and Julia had promised herself she would stay in and catch up on uni work...

But then she decided to come out anyway, yey! My evening had gone from Les Mis to Le Mizmiz and yes I did just make a word pun. You love it.

We got to Le Mizmiz quite early. It was a lot smaller than I expected and it started to fill up quickly with an interesting array of people. I felt like a spy, sat in the corner sipping my pint, looking out for anyone who could be the mysterious Garage Girl. Ok, that was a code name I was trying out and I don't like it. I think I'll call her B, because I like Bees and because she's British and because her second name begins with a B.

There were LOADS of English people there, I guess because it was the only UK Garage night this city has ever seen. Although as it turns out, it wasn't really a garage night at all: the music was really, really good and they did play a few garage tracks at the beginning; but after that it was mostly reggae, dancehall and dub.

When B got to the club she sent me a text to say she was on the dance floor, wearing gold earrings. I felt like I was on a secret drug-buying mission as I wove through the crowd, until I spotted someone wearing gold earrings, with their hair in a high bun, dancing like they were in a club in Bristol. It had to be her.

I'm really tired and I've waffled on for far too long already, I'll finish this little story tomorrow.

*Unfortunately, living in a chambre de bonne with paper-thin walls means that I can't get drunk and sing along to sad songs on Youtube- I have to settle for just watching them with the volume turned down. But if I could get away with singing along horrendously loudly, I think I would relish spending Saturday nights at home on my own...

No comments:

Post a Comment