Wednesday, 27 February 2013

Three Weekends Ago

This might have been the longest I have ever gone without posting (not including every summer when I go to ground for the month of August, to sit on my mum's couch bingeing on biscuits and watching reruns of Come Dine With Me).

I have been busy I suppose, but normally I make the time to blog at least twice a week no matter how busy I am, otherwise I start mentally blogging all the time and it feels as though my head is itchy with words scrawled and crawling across my brain...

I've just been in one of those moods where everything seems shit and annoying for no real reason and so to justify myself I lie in bed doing nothing, letting the problems pile up until everything really is shit and annoying. My room's in chaos, I haven't been planning my lessons properly and I need to catch up on my blogging but I don't know where to start.

Olivia, Amy and Amy's boyfriend Chris were here this weekend, but I also want to tell you about the weekend before the one just gone, because something quite exciting happened, but in order to do that I need to finish telling you about the weekend before that one, because it is kind of related to the Exciting Thing that happened the weekend before last... (Are you with me?) Also, if I don't finish writing about that other weekend, I'll be tortured by a niggling, nagging sense of incompletion, so...

In my last post I got up to the point where I was alone and drunk, stuck at Père Lachaise with no way of getting to Social Club...

Three other people came down the metro stairs behind me and instantly arrived at the same conclusion as me- that we had missed the last metro. I shrugged my shoulders at them in commiseration and one of them, a girl carrying a weird bag that looked like a tent, asked me where I was going, saying that maybe we could get a taxi together. I told her I was going to Grands Boulevards and she said she lived round there and was going home, so we agreed to share a cab.

She seemed all right, but a little bit... I dunno...

She was bolshy I suppose, but that's all right, some of my best friends are bolshy... There was also the weird tent bag thing she was carrying, but that's not what struck me as odd... It was more like- and I don't know how to describe it without sounding like a long-haired druid called Ken- but it was more like she had Bad Karma. For those of you who don't know about my obsession with Money Karma, here's a quick recap of my theory:

Money Karma Theory- the idea that our bodies are covered in 'money pores' which we have to keep open in order for 'money karma' to seep into our 'money aura'. So yes- a lot of money will flow away from us and into the pockets of bartenders and Sephora assistants, but this will result in us gaining more money in the long run...

Anyway, I reckoned as she was French and sober, she'd have more chance of getting a taxi for us. I told B and Holly I'd be getting in a taxi soon.

But the French girl wasn't having much luck on the telephone. While she rang round all the taxi companies she could think of, I ran round the streets, chasing taxis who had their lights on and were driving on the other side of the road, but who either couldn't see us or didn't want to stop for us. The French girl said nobody had any taxis free, so we'd be better off flagging one down... Easier said than done.

There was actually a taxi rank where we were standing, but obviously this meant nothing- the longer I live in Paris, the more I think that the real function of Parisian taxi ranks is to inform the public that they are now walking in an area completely void of taxis. For your information, this is a Non-Taxi Zone. Please feel free to walk home, or stay here sobbing until the metros start running.

A car full of scallies offered us a lift and we refused it, obviously, but then a man came over and said he had a minicab parked across the road. He looked like an elf- tall and skinny, with long hair and a girly face. I'd actually seen him pull over, but I hadn't thought his car was a taxi. He said he could take us to Grands Boulevards for fifteen euros. We were dubious as to whether he was a real taxi driver or not, but it was about 2am at this point and B and Holly were waiting outside Social Club for me with my ticket...

We said ok, as long as it was a real taxi. The French girl looked at the guy's license before we got in and I had a quick scan of the backseats to make sure there were no baddies crouching there, crowbars and pickaxes at the ready. I wasn't really worried though, because he really did look like an elf, plus he spoke in a soft, effeminate voice. Effeminate elves don't make a habit of picking up girls off the street and murdering them... do they?

As the French Girl and the Elven Taxi Driver chatted away in French, I stared out of the window and let their words wash over me, wishing that I was sober. Suddenly I realised that they were both talking to me, asking me where I wanted to be dropped off. Elven Taxi Driver seemed intent on dropping me off in the middle of a big boulevard and French Girl said she could get out at Grands Boulevards metro station. 

"I need to go to Social Club." I kept saying.

We got to some lights and French Girl said she could get out there. She opened the door and jumped out... without paying. As she shut the door she said bye to the taxi driver, then she looked at me with this weird smirk on her face, smug and unsure at the same time. We said bye to each other and she slammed the door shut. What else could I do? Launch across the front seat and get a hold of her tent bag, demanding seven euros fifty from her? 

I rolled my eyes but I wasn't really bothered and not because I was drunk, but because as she walked away from the car, I could almost see the Bad Money Karma swirling around her heels like a cloud of ink. 

Bad luck followed her wherever she went.

The taxi driver pulled over and told me I could walk to Social Club.

"It's not far." he said.

"I can't walk," I told him in robotic French, "We go to Social Club, I am late."

He agreed to drive me the ten yards to Social Club. He was actually really nice, chatting to me in English once I told him where I was from. He said he needed to practice for an English exam he had coming up at uni. 

(He reminded me of this boy called Richard from my first year of uni. He was in my English class and had really long hair and he would sometimes wear a glittery scarf or a headband. Me and my friend Claire couldn't decide if he was  a Transgendered Person or not, because he called himself Richard and dressed mostly like a boy, but then he was softly spoken and wore subtlety feminine accessories... Then one night Claire saw him out in town wearing a mini skirt and loads of make-up. She told him he looked lovely and we never wondered again.)

So I made it to Social Club alive and met up with Holly and B in the queue. Once we got inside, my worst fears were confirmed: the club was far too crowded and the dance floor was a nightmare. There was no room to dance and people were pushing and elbowing us constantly. One guy stuck his fingers into B's mouth (of course he did), so we decided it was time to leave the dance floor.

Luckily, 2ManyDJs were really good. It started off a little bit cheesy, but fun to dance to and as the night wore on it got deeper and darker. We stayed near the bar or in the smoking room (well Holly and B did, I waited outside as I'm sick of my room stinking of smoke after spending the night in enclosed fumoirs) until things quietened down. At about 4am, a lot of people left and we were able to dance properly.

So in the end it was a really good night! I'm worried now that I've just gone and on about that stupid taxi ride but I needed to tell you about the French Girl and her Bad Money Karma for a specific reason. Before I blog about that though, I've just remembered that I wanted to tell you about the night after 2ManyDJs... I even did some drawings on Paint to illustrate my demise into Gin Misery.

Basically, Kayt's boyfriend Adam was here for the weekend and I ended up being a third wheel on their night out. Adam said if it made me feel any better, me and Kayt could pretend that he was our gay best friend, Justin... Me, Kayt and Justin had a really fun night. We went to International for cheap and strong mojitos, then we went to Alimentation Generale for a soul and funk night which was SO GOOD. It was only a tenner to get in and that included a free drink, which would have cost about a tenner anyway.

We got in a taxi and suddenly I decided I was going to text Mizmiz Man. He's texted me TWICE since our Date Disaster and quite rightly, I've ignored him, but I'd had a lot of gin and there was no reasoning with me. Me and Kayt had a little scrabble over my phone, then I put my face against the window and started crying a little bit. I'd completely forgotten that gin makes me sad, for no reason.

When I got home, I burst into proper, hysterical crying and I couldn't stop myself. I cried in the lift, I cried as I walked down the corridor, then I cried when I got into my little Cinderella Room. I cried while I made myself some pasta, then I watched Sex and the City as I ate it, bawling my eyes out. Then I lay in bed, crying for ages and ages. If you're wondering how gin can make someone cry so much for no reason, here is a series of scientific diagrams I have drawn, demonstrating the effects of gin:

The next day I awoke feeling happy as a clam, wondering why my pillow was covered with mascara. I was supposed to go and see the Chinese New Year Parade with B and Holly but it was pissing it down, so we went to the Chinese traiteur on my street instead. Then we watched Enchanted and I got a bit teary again, thinking about when I was a little girl and I used to genuinely believe in romance and love and stuff... LOLZ.

After the film we decided to become a burlesque act with a Northern twist, called The Deep Fried Divas. We worked out a routine where one of us would sit in a giant, polystyrene chip container- like the Dita Von Teese act where she sits in a giant martini glass- pouring curry sauce over ourselves, while the other two come on with huge, battered sausages made out of foam. The music we'll probably use is 'When I'm Cleaning Windows' and we'll all wear pinnies and have our hair in rollers, Hilda Ogden style.

By the way, I've got my audition dates for two of the drama schools I've applied to. Gaaaaaah.

Sorry if this blog post has loads of mistakes in and doesn't make any sense, I'm tired and I need to go to bed now.

Thanks for everyone who tweeted me or left me a comment, asking when I was going to blog again...

Thursday, 14 February 2013

V Day

Happy V Day. I've just bought myself a chocolate heart from Marks and Spencer's to celebrate. I felt ridiculous picking it up off the shelf. I caught the security guard watching me... He knew I was buying it for myself. I ran round the rest of the food department, trying to find something else to buy and cover up for the fact that I was buying myself a chocolate heart, but I really didn't need anything. By the time I took my heart to the till, I was convinced everyone was smirking at me. I contemplated taking out my phone and having an imaginary conversation with a friend:

"Hi! How are you? Are you still up for that incredibly cool and exclusive party later? Guess what? I've got you a little surprise for Valentine's Day! Yeah... yeah...ha ha. It's just something small. Yeah... Ok, see you later!"

But then I thought, if you can't buy yourself a chocolate heart on Valentine's Day...

You may as well be dead.

It has a question mark on so maybe it's not actually from me, maybe it's from a secret admirer who is so shy that he can't even bring himself to give me a chocolate heart; he had to leave it on the shelf in Marks and Spencer so I could pick it up and pay for it myself...

(Me and B were telling Holly the other day how we actually have a whole gang of Secret Admirers- they were originally two gangs, one dedicated to each of us, then they met whilst stalking me and B at the same club- but they are very shy and don't feel worthy of our love yet, so they live underground and train to be the best possible boyfriends they can be, much like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. At the end of a hard day's training with their rodent martial arts master, they all get pizza and talk about what they like best about us.)

I don't normally buy myself things for Valentine's Day by the way ('I saw this and thought of myself, love from me')- it was an impulse purchase. I had originally gone out to buy a new blusher brush, but as I approached Sephora I saw there was a huge crowd outside- the staff were doing that thing where they line up at the front of the shop, applauding and cheering anyone who walks in or out. Needless to say, I kept on walking.

Thanks to Sephora I ended up impulse buying a chocolate heart and a t-shirt from H&M.


I didn't mean to bang on and on about Valentine's Day. I wanted to tell you about last weekend because this weekend is fast-approaching. (I know I say it all the time but how do the weeks fly by so quickly??)

The lesson I learnt last weekend is: I need to stop buying gin and leaving it at other people's houses.

The woman in my local Franprix has taken to asking me if I want a bottle of gin before I've even put my crisps and salsa/chocolate fingers/gummy bears down on the counter, because she knows she will have to get up and fetch it for me. A part of me wants to explain to her that I get my food shopping free with my job- I don't just live off gin and snacks.

But more importantly, I need to stop buying gin because I need to stop drinking it. It turns me into a hysterical housewife, without the house or the husband, just the manic emotions and mascara smeared all over my face.

On Friday night I had to buy gin because I was going to somebody's flat for drinks and I couldn't go round empy-handed...

It was a flat belonging to three Italian Girls who I've met a couple of times through Ruth. They're really lovely and they told Ruth to invite me along to a Drinks Thing they were having on Friday evening.  I decided I would go there for pre-drinks before meeting B and Holly at Social Club for 2ManyDJs. I felt really independent and mature, flitting about Paris for various social engagements, until I got to Gambetta and ended up wandering around in the freezing cold for forty minutes and the Italian Girls had to leave their flat to come and get me. Turns out there are two post offices on the same road...

Anyway, I got lucky because I told Ruth I'd already eaten and instantly regretted it once I found out they were making food but when I got there, Elena- one of the Italian girls- insisted on making me up a plate. Oh alright then, I'll have two teas, if you insist...

It got later and later. We drank and talked, then we walked to a bar in Menilmontant and I realised it was about half one- I had to get to Social Club. I felt really drunk all of a sudden and didn't think I could cope with the metro, so I tried to get a taxi.

There were no taxis, obviously. I wandered about getting more and more panicky, until I saw that I'd wandered to the next metro stop along- Père Lachaise. B and Holly texted me to say they'd just got off the metro near Social Club, I didn't have time to look for a taxi- there was no choice but the metro. As I walked down the steps, I noticed that people were legging it to the platform, so I followed suite, thinking that the last metro must be coming...

I reached the platform just as they announced that the metro had finished.

Gaaaah I have to go to work now I'll finish this later, unless the underground gang of LBM and B Admirers have planned a romantic surprise for us, maybe a gondolier ride down the sewers...

Thursday, 7 February 2013

Trials of the Future

Shitting hell. How is it the 7th February already? Time is going fast, too fast.

I know I say this all the time, but this week has gone so ridiculously fast; I feel sick from the motion of the days spinning away from me. The last thing I remember is waking up on Monday morning and now it's Thursday afternoon, apparently.

February? It's February already? Spring is definitely in the air. This week I've been hankering after flowering trees and warm winds, late sunsets and that early evening excitement, when finishing work feels like the start of something lovely, rather than the end of a cold, dark day.

But stop, wait a minute. March is the month when I have to start thinking about Future Plans, the month when I always panic and decide to stay in Paris for another year, just because I don't know what else to do. With Spring comes decision making.

Oh my God, my hands are actually shaking (because I'm terrified of the future, not because I haven't had  a drink for twelve hours).

Sometimes, when I'm sat on the metro or walking down a quiet street, I'll suddenly feel really excited and my stomach will flip like I'm going up in a lift and I feel so giddy about what could happen in the future that I want to be sick. Other times, it feels as if my mood is collapsing in on itself. I have this sobering realisation that everything is going to be shit and all of a sudden I can see my future clearly, like condensation disappearing on a shard of mirror.

People keep asking me what I want to do next and the truth is, I don't want to do anything.

Oh I know I'm being so disgustingly selfish and ungrateful, I could be living in a slum somewhere and then I'd really have no hope for the future. Don't worry, I know, I KNOW.



This is a bit dark, isn't it? Maybe it's the alcohol. Me, B and Kayt went to the 'free cocktail bar' last night near Opera, only they've now stopped doing the free cocktails! Now it's two euros, which is still good I suppose. We didn't have to pay in the end, I don't really know why. Maybe it was because the guy remembered that last time we only had two cocktails and didn't fall off our bar stools like some of the girls in there... Maybe it was because they forgot to charge us. I guess we'll never know. We were celebrating the fact that Kayt got a First in her first essay for her masters. Good for you, Glen Coco!

Oh yes... there was something I wanted to tell you: the grandma of the au pair family is an absolute pyscopath, I can't believe I didn't notice last year...

Last week the nine year old had to draw a picture to go with a poem about a volcano that she had to learn off by heart. She was freaking out about it like always (I really think she has some sort of OCD when it comes to schoolwork and Kayt says her au pair kids do too) so I helped her draw a basic outline of a volcano with lava coming out it. When I say 'helped' I mean I drew it for her.

The grandma was watching the nine year old colour it in and she started scolding her, saying that lava wasn't just red, it had to have black bits in it... I went into the kitchen to get away from the situation because I didn't want the grandma to see on my face that I think she's a crazy bitch. Then I heard the nine year old screaming hysterically, crying and begging her grandma to help her. The grandma was shouting and she sounded really angry. I went to see what was going on and the grandma stormed out of the house. The nine year old was in a complete state. Her grandma had RIPPED OUT the drawing and the little girl was freaking out because now she had bits of paper sticking out of the staples in the middle of her book.

So that was last week.

Yesterday, the nine year old got her book out and the grandma saw the volcano that I'd redrawn for her. She went on and on and on about how volcanoes need to have a hollow basin at the top (we'd drawn it from a side angle so, no, you mad bitch) and how the lava didn't look like that. She rubbed out what we'd drawn and made the nine year old draw it again.

In case you're wondering, she's not very old and she doesn't have Alzheimer's. She's just a horrible, weird psychopath.

I know I'm ranting, but another thing that has been irritating me A LOT about the grandma, is that she thinks I'm stupid, but I know she's an absolute idiot. One day I was telling the nine year old how, if you grow your nails really, really long, they can curl under at the ends and even grow in spirals. The nine year old asked the grandma if this was true and the grandma just frowned and said "Non."

What do you mean, non? I hate it when people dismiss things because they have no imagination and no knowledge of the world.

Another time, she yelled at me to stop when I was just about to put a tray of cakes in the oven, because it was one of those rubber molds and she said it would melt.

At the time I turned the oven off and wondered if I'd fucked up, but that's what being an au pair does to you- it makes you question your own common sense and feel like an idiot when actually... it's the grandma who was being thick. OF COURSE it wouldn't have melted. IT'S SUPPOSED to go into a preheated oven.

Just for my own piece of mind, can I write what I would like to say to the grandma?

You don't know anything. You were born rich and you'll always be rich, therefore your opinion is invalid. You don't know anything about the world, you're an idiot.

Ah, that feels better.

This post has made me seem really bitter and mental. Kayt's friend from Newcastle has just moved to Paris, let's call him G.Shore because he's a Geordie and he likes to go to the gym and tan and 'stuff'. We told him about my blog and he has since told Kayt that I sound like a man hater.

I'm not a hater, am I?

I am a little bit. But I don't just hate men. I hate rich people (I mean people who have always been rich and who don't do anything fun with their money like build gold tree houses in their gardens or take baths in champagne), slow people on the metro and in the street, people who correct my French, people who don't correct my French... dogs...

Breathe, breath. I'm going to see 2ManyDJs tomorrow at Social Club. Then in ten days it's SBTRKT, at the same place. YEY. I hope it's not full of nobheads, I've not been to Social Club for agesssss.

I have to go and print off some pictures of ducks now for the nursery tomorrow.

Tuesday, 5 February 2013


I've killed Mizmiz Man off for good.

He texted me on Friday, asking me if I was out that night so that we could 'finally' see each other- as if it was random, extenuating circumstances that had prevented us from meeting up all those other times, rather than the fact that he Didn't Show Up. He even added a little smiley face. I texted him back a rather abrupt message in French saying:

Why? You won't come, like always.

Then, I added in English, just to unsettle him a little bit:

Why bother?

I vaguely wondered if I would see him at Le Mizmiz on Saturday night- it was the Street Bass night again- but he wasn't there. There were however, a couple of perverts sporting ponytails and camouflage pants. I don't know what happened, last time it such a fun night. The music was better last time as well, on Saturday it was more bass than 'future garage' and they didn't play any dancehall. The DJ was in a dark mood, playing bass and dubstep that made me feel like sitting in a shadowy corner with my hood up, when what I really wanted was to roll my hips around and bounce about.

We left before it finished- me, Kayt, B and her friend Holly- and I stayed at Kayt's. We stayed up for about an hour, mispronouncing medical terms and pissing ourselves. (We get our kicks where we can.)

The next day we couldn't stop mispronouncing things and laughing hysterically. I asked Kayt where we were getting off the metro and she said 'Bahrebez Rockakooah' instead of Barbes Rochechouart.

Then, a French man in disgusting trainers leant over and loudly told us the correct pronounciation.

Never mind that we were being silly, how fucking audacious!

Can you imagine doing that in England? A tourist gets on the tube. You overhear them mispronouncing the name of a tube stop, so you decide to laugh and whisper to your friend about it. Then you cough pompously, lean over with a smug smirk on your face and say, "OXFORD. CIRCUS."

The only people who do that in England are right wing racists. (I know what you're thinking- the man in hideous trainers could have been a racist right wing French person and but that sort of thing has happened to me a lot in Paris.)

The next time somebody rudely tells me that we should speak in English because they can't understand my French, I'm just going to give them a pitying look and calmly say:

"Frankly, that shows a real lack of initiative."

Anyway... not sure what the point of this post was.

This is good, isn't it?