Last night we drank by the river for the first time this year- the sun has finally come to Paris.
On Sunday it was so hot that I got a pink nose and a red chest- the worst place to get sunburnt. (I'll turn into one of those women you see in Ibiza/Marbella/Alderley Edge*, the ones that look fifteen years older than they actually are, with a thin, leathery chest hanging above their cleavage like an orange lizard-skin wall hanging.)
Clare was here last weekend and it felt like we were on holiday.
On Thursday night Kayt and I went to meet her at Gare du Nord, then whisked her straight to 'our apartment'- G.Shore was away again for a long weekend. Last time he didn't have any bedding so we couldn't stay over, but now he has bedding, so we moved in completely. Ah I love our new apartment. I'm so glad we clubbed together and bought it...
That picture on top of the drawers is a photo of me, Clare and Kayt. We
got took it by the river and got it printed out on Sunday, to make sure
there is always a little piece of us in G.Shore's apartment, in a non-sinister way...
On Friday night we went for dinner round the corner, choosing to eat in one of those 'ten euros for three courses' restaurants that we'd normally avoid for fear of feeling like a Silly Tourist. Clare technically was a tourist though and she wanted onion soup and steak-frites, so there was nothing else for it. We found a nice one teetering on the edge of 'the strip', on the last pleasant street before everything descends into Greek kebabs and souvenir shops. It was twelve euros for three courses and we were early enough for Happy Hour. Sometimes it's nice to feel like a tourist.
We were sat outside and there was a busker, serenading everyone with a guitar. There was a sad-looking blonde lurking behind him, dressed in the uniform of a Parisian prostitute- puffa jacket, short skirt and knee-high boots with bare legs- following him from table to table. I was sat with my back to him but Clare and Kayt suddenly gasped- apparently the busker was putting two fingers under the woman's skirt and then, when he thought nobody was looking, he put his hands around her neck and strangled her a little bit.
Why is nothing nice in Paris? You're drinking by the river- someone tries to sexually assault you. You're walking through the Bois de Boulogne- you see a couple having sex on a plastic bag. You're enjoying a steak outside a restaurant- you see a busker fingering a prostitute.
Needless to say, we didn't give him any change when he came to our table- here you go pal, a euro for the sexual violence, top notch strangulation and hey, nice touch with the fingers- but Kayt did re-enact the strangling scene for him by putting her hands round Clare's neck (much to Clare's chagrin) just to show him that we knew what he'd done... To be honest, I think he took it as sign of excitement and delight at his music, because he started singing louder.
After dinner we all felt knackered, so we went back to our apartment and watched a documentary called 'Unsafe Sex and the City'. It's set in a GUM clinic in Manchester and it's brilliant. I couldn't believe how so many people don't use condoms. Clare was amazed at all the Northern people.
I'd forgotten that Clare is insane. She brought 'Fluffy' with her to Paris- Fluffy is a piece of real fur that she likes to carry around like a comfort blanket. Once upon a time it was bright turquoise but after so much stroking and snuggling, Fluffy has faded to an uneven, powdery blue. At Christmas she cut a piece off, framed it and gave it to her boyfriend. So thoughtful... (Actually, she is. She gave me and Kayt a gift bag filled with English chocolate, sweets, tea bags, toiletries and magazines.)
On Saturday we went to the mosque for mint tea and I got a message from my mum:
Got a letter from RADA do you want me to open it?
I told her to open it and second later she said:
It's a thank you, but no. Sorry! Hope you're ok. xxx
I didn't even get a second audition. I didn't tell Clare and Kayt for ages, I just sat looking at the little birds washing themselves in the fountain, singing as they shook the water from their puffed-out feathers, like something out of a Disney film. The mosque makes me feel like I could be in the palace from Aladdin, with birds singing in the trees as I sip my sweet tea. I love how they come so close, eating crumbs off the gold tables.
After a while I told Kayt and Clare. I started crying a bit but Clare was having none of it. She said I had to get over it and think about my next audition. She's right, of course, but in that moment I realised that the drama school 'plan' has just been a dream. Suddenly I'd been pulled out of the dream and I was sitting up in bed, dreading the day to come.
The chances were always slim. I knew it would come down to luck and I told myself that I would be fine if I didn't get in... but I felt as though luck was on my side.
I guess what is meant to be is meant to be. Not getting a second audition for RADA means that perhaps drama school isn't meant to be for me.
I was just sad, kind of mourning the idea of drama school. For the first time in months I had to seriously think about what I'm going to do when I leave Paris if I don't get into drama school. I've been living in a bubble. I really don't think I am going to get in anywhere and now I don't know what to do. People keep suggesting shit jobs to me that I don't want to do. I feel like everyone is just waiting for me to get a grip on reality and get a boring job that I hate.
Thanks for all the nice comments about my audition though, I didn't reply because by the time I'd read them, I knew I hadn't got a second audition and didn't know what to say.
I've really depressed myself now, I started off in a really sunny mood because of the weather! I need to get out of this room, I'll finish writing about Clare's weekend later.
I want to cry and jump about in excitement at the same time, which is EXACTLY how the Cyril Hahn remix of Say My Name makes me feel:
*An upmarket village in Cheshire. It used to be the home of sleeping warriors and wizards, now it's just an area where lizard-chested ladies go for lunch and- according to my mum- 'do coke'.