Left Bank Manc- an au pair in Paris

Strange Friday

2012-02-16T17:47:00.000+01:00

O.k. Let's see how long I can suffer the Onscreen Keyboard for.

Right. I WILL DO THIS! I need determination. I need patience. I also need a plan to stick to so I don't go off on crazy tangents. I need some sort of structure...

So. First I want to tell you about last Friday, then I'll quickly fill you in on everything I've been wanting to blog about this week: house parties, late night car journeys, tarot card readings, my war with a Mystery Neighbour, my upcoming trip to England... Hopefully then I will finally be able to relax and stop feeling as though there's some mammoth task that lies unfinished, the incompletion of which makes me uneasy and causes me to compose imaginary blog posts in my mind constantly, whether I'm riding the metro to work, or lying in bed and drifting into dreams.

Wow that was a long sentence. Hey big boy, got any more clauses you want to show me?

O.k. I'm going to focus now...

Friday was a strange day and night.

After school I normally take the eight year old to the park and she plays with her friend Caroline, while I sit on a stone bench in the cold, texting and Twitter-ing and Facebook-ing and Whats App-ing to my heart's content. However for some reason, probably because of the snow, the park was closed this Friday. I was secretly really pleased because it was bitterly cold and I just wanted to get back to the family's big, warm house. But the eight year old and her mate Caroline had other ideas.

Caroline said we could go back to her place to play, because she only lives two seconds away from the park. Caroline's nounou seemed hesitant and asked Caroline to run upstairs and ask her dad if it was all right. She came back down a few minutes later, out of breath and excited. She jabbered on to her nounou in French and I managed to decipher that the dad had said the eight year old could come in and play, as long as her nounou stayed outside.

"I'm not waiting outside!" I almost yelled, furious that yet another parent of one of the eight year old's friends* didn't want me in their home.

The eight year old looked crushed and the stupid thing is I almost agreed to wait outside in the snow, just so she could play with her friend for half an hour. But then Caroline's nounou spoke up, in English which surprised me:

"She can't wait outside Caroline, it's too cold."

And also fucking weird and rude, I wanted to add.

Caroline then said that her dad hadn't said I had to wait inside; he'd said I that I could come in, as long as I was happy to speak to Caroline's nounou. Did he think I was forcing my eight year old into his apartment just so I would have the priceless opportunity of striking up a conversation with him? Presumably we'd mostly be discussing ways of alienating and offending people.

My eight year old and Caroline then bounded up the stairs before we could stop them, but me and Caroline's nounou exchanged uneasy looks.

"It is complicated with her father." she said, unnecessarily.

By the time we'd reached their floor, the girls were already in the apartment. The door was wide open and I could see the girls hovering in the doorway and hear a man shouting angrily. He was basically telling Caroline that he was trying to work and that she couldn't invite people back to the apartment when he'd specifically told her no. So Caroline had clearly been bullshitting us all then.

Finally the eight year old and Caroline disappeared into the apartment and the nounou followed them with Caroline's little sister. But I hadn't understand everything that had been said, was I allowed in the apartment or not? I dithered about in the hallway with the door wide open, until the dad suddenly started yelling about the door being open. Caroline came to shut the door and beckoned me in. I had half-decided to stay in the hallway on my own for half an hour just to avoid feeling like an imposition, but then I heard an angry-sounding dog barking and snarling on the stairs, so I dashed inside quickly and Caroline shut the door.

Before I even had a chance to look around, Caroline's nounou hushered me into a small room and shut the door behind us. Inside the room were Caroline's sister and her little brother, who looked about three years old. He had the cutest little face I have ever, ever seen. The nounou told me that she is trying to teach them English, so I asked them a few questions like 'What's your name?' 'How old are you?' etc etc. They had no idea what I was talking about but they did sing me a song that went 'Blaerghblaufleaur. Clean white seets! Clean white seets!'

The little boy was so smiley and curious, he kept pointing at things in the room and asking me to say what colour it was in English. I could not believe how beautiful and lovely and CUTE this child was. I seriously considered sneaking back in the middle of the night and stealing him. It's not fair, his parents obviously don't need him, they've got two kids already and they're so busy all the time, I'd probably be doing them a favour...

The little sister however, was a Tantrum Kid, she was screaming and crying the whole time. But it wasn't really her fault. The bedroom was completely bare, all the toys were tidied away into a cupboard and when she tried to open it, the nounou told her off.

"The parents say it must be tidy at all times." she told me.

In the absence of toys, the kids were allowed to sit on little chairs. The nounou sat on the bed and she gave me a little chair to sit on as well. Obviously the kids were bored and they kept trying to wriggle around and lie across their chairs upside down, but the nounou kept making them 'sit up properly' and that's when the tantrum started.

I couldn't fucking wait to get out of there, but I did wish I could take the little boy with me. You don't understand how cute he was and this is coming from a girl who, since working as an au pair for a year and half, has decided that she doesn't want to have any children.

On my way out of the apartment, I saw the dad for the first time, even though I'd heard him a lot. He was sitting at his desk surrounded by paperwork, listening to someone on the phone and looking all stressed. He looked up as I walked past and said 'Au revoir'. I didn't say it back, bastard. How has he managed to make three cute, one good-natured and adorable, children?

Anyway, that was my weird afternoon. I don't have time now to tell you about the strange night that followed, but all you need to know is I went to Showcase to see Brodinksi and Fake Blood, it was so rammed that we almost got crushed to death in a brick tunnel and then, right at the end of the night I got my Blackberry stolen.

I miss it A LOT.

Tonight I'm meeting up with my aunty and uncle for a drink as they're in Paris for a few days, then I'm going round to Kayt's because she's going to New York on Saturday for two weeks, I'm so jealous. But not too jealous, because on Saturday I'm going to England for a weeek!! My French is so bad that I'd completely got mixed up, my au pair family don't want me to go on holiday with at all, the mum was telling me to put the dates in mu diary so that while they're skiing, I can go back to England. Ooops.

But also yey for me!! It wasn't even that expensive considering how last minute I booked everything, but the I'm getting slightly panicky now because when I worked out my finances at the beginning of this month, I did reckon on buying a new Blackberry (I've got to, didn't hqve insurance and can't live without it), getting my laptop fixed and sorting crumbly tooth out.

Still. England here I come!

(Sorry these posts are so rushed and shit by the way, when I get my laptop sorted I'll get the blog back on track.)

*If you don't remember last time one of the eight year old's friend's parents didn't want me in their house, which resulted in me being assaulted by a mute Labrodor, then read The Dog Incident.

Blue Note

2012-02-14T17:38:00.000+01:00

Whoever found my blog by Googling 'Daisy Lowe thinspo'- get a grip. Scientists have proved that looking at 'thinspo' pictures over long periods of time actually changes our perception of 'normal', conditioning us to recognise anyone fleshier than an anorexic pencil as overweight.

(Now that I've started talking about Thinspo, I bet some curious readers will look for it on the internet... Don't. Look at Fatspo instead.)

Anyway, sorry it's been a while since my last post, I have soooooooo much to tell you, but every time I settle down to write, I manage to type about three setences with the on-screen keyboard before I either have to go somewhere or I get so frustrated that I close the laptop in a huff. But the longer I leave it, the more things happen that I want to blog about and if I leave it any longer I'll have a backlog of about three weeks and it makes my mind feel messy.

So. The first thing I want to say is: I am NEVER going to Le Blue Note EVER again. For those of you who don't know, Le Blue Note is a tiny 'club' in the 18th where they have live Brazilian jazz and samba music. We went a few times last year because the music was fun to dance to and it's free to get in, but the last two times we went it was full of horrid, pushy men so we sacked it off. Then last Saturday, the weekend Kayt's friends were here, we decided to give it one last chance...

Half an hour after arriving, we were forced to make ourselves a men-free paddock in the corner by making a barricade out of chairs. This meant we could dance about happily without being groped or grabbed by the arm and spun around. I know it sounds like we were being bitches, but we know from experience that if you try being polite and give any of the men at Le Blue Note a little dance Just For Jokes, they will not leave you alone for the rest of the night.

So that's why we penned ourselves into the corner. The Horrid Men gathered around the perimeter of our Safety Zone like hyenas, pacing up and down and staring at us. One of them eventually started to pull apart our barricade of chairs, saying we were creating a 'health and safety' risk.

I don't know why the men, who all seemed to have come to the club on their own (weird), were so angry and astonished that a group of young girls wasn't up for being groped by them. It's RIDICULOUS. At one point some of our group ventured out of the Safety Zone to go for a fag and I saluted them as they stepped across the threshold, into the sweaty jungle of Horrid Men.

Our Safety Zone didn't last long. After a couple of songs, one of the Weird Men who was stalking around the chairs in a scarf and coat, clapping us like we were dancers in his private harem, decided that blocking him out of the group with chairs was our way of saying 'We like you a lot, please come and give us attention.' He strode through a weak spot in the defense line and lunged at Kayt's friend Lynn, trying to kiss her on the mouth. Obviously we swarmed around him, swearing and being Aggy, but it was too late. The attack had started. A bouncer came along and moved all the chairs as they were taking up too much room and once again, we had to suffer strange men yanking our arms out of their sockets as they tried to spin us around the dance floor.

So. I'm never going to the Blue Note again. And that is all I've got time for today. Tonight some of us girls are having a nice, romantic meal together to celebrate the fact that none of us has a horrible, arsehole boyfriend.

I Dreamed A Dream

2012-02-09T23:06:00.000+01:00

Just listening to 'Memories' and grieving for the fabulous theatre career I never had.

Last night I went to the theatre for the first time since I've arrived in Paris. I really enjoyed it but sitting there in the dark, in a theatre space that was remarkably like the one we had at uni... the whole thing made me feel a bit sad. I felt sad, nostalgic and confused, as it was all in French, obviousment. Added to the language barrier wad the fact it was a Brechtian (not Brecht) play, so just as I thought understood the language, a woman dressed as a baby would roll in on a trolley, or the glass bottle that The Drunkard was carrying would suddenly have a little hat and a cloak on it, and a fake nose for a face. It was mad, but I thought the actors were brilliant. They used Commedia dell'arte-style masks to distinguish between characters and the acting was very physical, almost like clowning sometimes... (And that is the extent of my theatre knowledge folks- three years of studying drama and the spectacular end product is that one sentence above.)

We went to the play because one of the actors I teach the drama classes with is in it. She's really lovely, every time we teach the class together we go for a coffee afterwards and she chats to me in French, telling me to do language exchanges and take lessons and stay in Paris forever. She's given me the number of her friend actually, I need to text him. Probably won't though. This French thing is really PISSING me of now. My time in France has been a big fat fail, basically. Everyone keeps telling me I've got loads of time left to learn, but the whole thing has left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Kind of like the 'drama thing'. I don't know. I don't really like talking about it.

Pfft.

Is my whole life going to be a series of whims and fancies I have a half-arsed attempt at chasing and then get so disheartened that I have to give up before I've even started? I'm not feeling very optimistic at the moment. When I think about next year I feel a bit sick.

Oh I'm fucking full of la joie de vivre tonight aren't I?

Wow. It's taken me an hour to write this crap. On-screen keyboards are not the way to go.

I have news to tell you as well, I'm not going away with the family anymore for February half term, I'm going to England instead!! So exciting!!!

But for now, I've had enough, I'm off kids.

Before I go, if you would you happen to be in Pazzington at the mo and would like to go to the theatre, the play is called 'Zakouski ou la vie joyeuse' and it's on at Théâtre de l'Opprimé (78 rue du Charolais in the 12e arrondissement, metro: Gare du Lyon) until Sunday 4th March. Tickets are 16 euros or 12 euros if you're a student, unempoyed, or a resident of the 12th arrondissement. I recommend it, especially if you can actually speak French.

So. YOU should go to the theatre. I'm going to get 'I Dreamed A Dream' up on YouTube and sing along whilst thinking Sad Thoughts and watching myself in the mirror.

The Man in the White Furry Hat

2012-02-09T17:04:00.001+01:00

Guess what?? Julia has very kindly lent me her old MacBook to use until I get my laptop fixed!! She doesn't use it anymore because some of the keys don't work, but with the on-screen keyboard, and a bit of patience, it works perfectly. Yey! I can write blog posts and watch animal porn again! : )

But before I dash off to watch 'Two Slags and an Armadillo', I need to run you up to speed- we've got so much to catch up on darlings! Shall we start with last Friday night?

So. Julia invited me to a 'secret party' somewhere near Bastille... someone had told her flat-mate Eduardo that we had to wait on a certain street corner and look out for a man in a furry white hat who would lead us to the party, which was five euros entry but then an open

bar, apparently... A Foolproof Plan if ever there was one.

I agreed to meet Julia, and Eduardo on the RER, a plan that could have so easily gone to shit if I didn't time it right. I was planning on setting off early just to be on the safe side, but as I was getting ready to leave something Rather Alarming happened...

I was sat on my bed eating chocolate and thinking about how many pairs of tights I could get away with wearing without looking like that woman who has One Giant Leg, (in the end I went for one pair of tights, with leggings over the top), when I felt something sharp and bitty in the milk chocolate I was munching. I didn't think much of it until I'd finished my chocolate and I started choking on something. I reached into my mouth and pulled out the

offending 'bit of Mystery' and held it up to the light. It was a shard of tooth.

Then I realised that I could feel more of these little shards nestled like knives between my gums and the soft fleshy thing that your tongue is attached to... you know, the bit that looks like an oyster. I noticed that one of my teeth felt really sharp and weird. I was pretty sure it was the same tooth that has recently developed a massive cavity (I've just been politely ignoring it, because I haven't got a dentist in either France or England). I looked in the mirror to discover that the hole had gone... because the half of the tooth that the hole was in had crumbled away.

So that was slightly worrying, but I'll allow myself to panic when the other half falls out...

I didn't want to mess up the RER plan, so I put the shards of tooth under my pillow for the Tooth Fairy and hurried to the metro station.
I got to Charles de Gaulle just before Julia and Eduardo's RER passed through, so it was all good, apart from the fact that half my tooth had crumbled away for No Reason.

Eduardo didn't tell us the somewhat suspicious plan until we got to Bastille. At first I thought the whole thing was terribly exciting and very 'Alice and Wonderland', but after standing around in the freezing cold for what felt like an Age, it seemed less like an adventure and more like a Cruel Joke.

"There is no man in a white furry hat, is there?" I concluded, after we'd been waiting for over an hour.

But then a couple of other people showed up and started hanging around near us, so we got chatting and it transpired that they were also going to the 'secret party'.  Then, just as the blood started freezing in my veins, a scrawny man with two black eyes showed up, wearing a white furry hat.

After some hesitation, we followed him round the corner to a quiet street and the Man in the White Furry Hat led us to a boarded up building. He swiped a key against something hidden in the shadows and one of the graffitied boards swung open, revealing a dark staircase...

The Man in the White Furry Hat lit his lighter to guide us up the stairs, but apart from his little flame the building was so dark that I couldn't even see the person in front of me.

I heard Julia whisper somewhere just behind me:

"I hope someone is not going to take our kidneys."

When we reached the top of the stairs, I expected to find a heavy door, leading into a sound-proofed room or something, but instead there was just more darkness and nervous, hushed silence. Beneath my feet I could feel broken beams and chunks of cement and I had to get my phone out to cast a little light over the hazardous terrain we were navigating blindly.

As I moved my phone about in the damp gloom, the light showed enough to tell us that we were in a building that looked as though it was one collapsed ceiling away from being demolished.



The Man in the Furry Hat led us up some stairs, then down some stairs and eventually we arrived in a corridor that was filled with people. It was still pitch black, but by the light of my phone I could make out a bouncer-type man. We gave him our five euros and he stepped aside... 



 


At the bottom of yet another dark staircase made out of crumbling cement, there were three large basement rooms, filled with people sitting on chairs or stood around chatting in groups. It was very tame. The 'sound system' was a pair of iPod speakers resting on a pile of books. Oh yeah, let me tell you about the books. 

 

Against one wall were stacked hundreds of books, all brand new and wrapped in cellophane. It was so weird. I picked one of the books up to have a look but the title was in Hebrew... I wonder why someone was keeping hundreds of new books in a derelict basement? I wonder if it was the same person who had the bright idea of charging people five euros to stand shivering in an abandonded building, drinking cheap beer and listening to someobody's shit speakers? 

 Anyway, we drank as much as we could before the free wine and beer ran out and we ended up having a Good Time. Towards the end we got chatting to a group of fairly normal French men and they invited me, Julia and Eduardo back to theirs. As the 'party' finished at 4am and we'd only arrived at 2, we thought 'Why not?' 

 However, when we got to the 'studio' (it was kind of like my Cinderella Room, but three times the size and with a balcony) we realised that although it was definitely 'after', it wasn't a party. We called a taxi home and as we left one of the French guys, who Julia had said was being a dickhead all night but I hadn't really noticed because he was speaking in French, called me a 'stupid cow' or a 'fat cow', I can't remember which.

Julia said they were a bit mad at me because I'd been chatting to them all night and then hadn't kissed them goodbye. I was really mad and wanted to say something cutting to him, but unfortunately 
I'm not a very sharp girl, so instead I yelled at him bluntly:

"Watch your fucking mouth!"


I was triumphant. He looked at me in shocked silence. Then everyone asked me what I meant, so I spent five minutes trying to mime watching one's own mouth and then gave up, my empty threat hanging in the air like silly string behind me.

I got in about half five and stayed awake for about an hour, bawling my eyes out for No Reason Whatsoever. I watching myself in the mirror the whole time, the ex-drama student in me observing how my mascara really did stream down the contours of my face, just like in a film. Oh I'm very vain, aren't I? And dramatic. There was nothing at all the matter with me, but I indulged in such a hysterical crying fit that you'd think I'd just been dumped at the alter by my childhood sweetheart, Edgar, because he's galloped off on a horse with my lady in waiting, Ethal. Beautiful Ethal. Such sparkling wit and rumoured sexual prowess she possesses... It was inevitable really. I hope that horse throws Ethal and Edgar to the hard ground. No, I take that back! I wish them love and happiness! (Even imaginary ill will can harm your karma.)

Anyway, it's taken me about three years to write this post, the on-screen keyboard isn't as quick as I'd first thought...

Quick quick

2012-02-03T09:49:00.000+01:00

I stayed at Kayt's last night, so I'm using the opportunity to write a blog post. Well, I'll have to leave for work in a minute, don't know if I'll actually have time. Eeeee it's so annoying not having my laptop! I don't really have anything say, just missed having my blog there, in case I do think of anything interesting to say...

This week the eight year old has been ill and she wanted me to stick a thermometer up her bum. She chased me round with it for about half an hour, but there are some things I am not comfortable with and one of them is inserting something cold and pointy into a child. In the end she did it herself, using the mirror as a guide, but I did tell her she can put it under her armpit and add two degrees to the temperature. She gave the armpit a go, but wasn't convinced. Apparently Bum is Best when it comes to France and matters of medicine. Remember last year when the mum of my last au pair family also wanted me to stick a thermometer up her children's rear end? They did it themselves by lying on the couch, on their backs.

It's WEIRD.

Anyway, my au pair job has been going ok. On Tuesday night I chased the eight year old round the house for obver an hour, trying to get her in the bath before her mum came home. I finally managed to get her in the bathroom, but she made a big fuss of bringing the iPad in and 'checking her emails'. She had one email, from me, that I'd sent her earlier on in the day. She opened it and it said in big letters:

GET IN THE BATH.

Ha! She looked at me in amazement. I knew she wouldn't get in the fucking bath, so I'd sent it her at lunchtime, knowing she would check it around bathtime. It really freaked her out.

I'm not sure what I'm doing this weekend, I've agreed to go to about four different things with various groups of people, Facebook doesn't work properly on my phone so I keep saying 'yes' to things. Inevitably I'll end up so hassled and indecisive that I'll spend the entire weekend on my own, drinking tea and brooding over my lack of laptop.

Options are:

Miss Kittin at Rex Club

Julio Basmore at Social Club

There's also a night at Nouveau Casino that Georgie wants to go to.

Plus Kayt has her best mates from Newcastle over, who I've met before and they are really lovely, bu they don't really like 'DJ music', so they'll be going out for general Drinks and Merriment.

Then on Saturday Julia says there is a 'free party' in a disused train stations somewhere on the outskirts of Paris, plus Angélique is hosting an after-party on Sunday morning called Concrete, but I guess as I'm working at 11am, probably can't go to an after-party that starts at 7am. As for the actual party, Angélique says either Rex Club or (the anti-) Social Club.

Pffft. I'm no good at organising my own social timetable. Why can't ONE person invite me to ONE good thing, ONCE a week? I've not really been going out lately, can't be bothered somehow, it's so fucking cold and however much make-up I put on, lately I just look Shit, all the time. However, there's a couple things on this month that I wouldn't mind venturing out for:

10 Fevrier
Fake Blood at Showcase

I've been to Showcase once, when Anna's boss got us a table in the VIP section and someone stole my jacket. They're really arsey on the door and have a strict dress code.

17 Fevrier
Joy Orbison at Social Club

I am definitely going to this, even though I hate Social Club- the tiny 'big' club where bouncers treat you like a criminal and you often find yourself surrounded by Massive Nobheads, posing on the dancefloor without actuallly moving to the music.

18th Fevrier
Kode 9, King Midas Sound and Ikonika at La Machine

I can't go to this, as I'm going away with the family on the 18th. No dubstep for me... I'll be stuck up a French mountain somewhere, looking after the baby while the family jets past me in their designer ski wear...This is the last time I saw Ikonika in Paris:

Shit, going to be extremely late. Bye for now!

Dreams

2012-01-31T21:58:00.001+01:00

Georgie has let me use her computer so I can do a blog post.

I've calmed down about my laptop, it was faintly ridiculous to get so worked up about a piece of shitty technology. As I was walking back from the internet cafe on saturday, I saw a beggar at Chatelet who was sitting with his right leg stretched out, with his ragged trouser leg pulled back to reveal an uneven stump where his foot should be. He truly belonged in the Land of the Lost and Broken and I felt like a bit of a Dickhead for getting so stressed out about nothing.

Saturday turned out to be quite a good day in the end, I'd accidentally left my freezer open so I had loads of meat to cook before it went off: I had two Marks and Spencer sausages, then I made spaghetti bolognaise (with celery and carrot because nobody else around to say 'euw don't put celery and carrot in it!') and then I made a dish that I can only ever cook for myself because everybody else either doesn't like the idea of it or they think it will make them fat- chicken fried in butter and cream.

I didn't eat all this on the same day by the way, I've only just finished the chicken now. That's another thing I like about cooking for myself- I don't have to worry about food poisoning, because it's only me eating it and I would never hold it against myself. 

So without my laptop, I mostly cooked and read my book. (Shantaram, if you must know, by Gregory David Roberts, it's not overrated at all and I think everyone should read it, but beware it will make you simultaneously love India and make you terrified of it.)

Then I went to my friend's house in the evening and we watched the musical Hair. I can't believe I've never seen it before, I love it and when I'm wearing my Afghan coat I feel like I could be in Central Park, leaping around singing about LSD. 

The only snag in the poncho is that now I have the rather tongue-in-cheek number 'Black Boys Are Delicious' stuck in my head, and I'm terrified I'll start singing it on the metro absent-mindedly and everyone will think I'm a pervert and a racist.

Ah I love the seventies. Did I tell you that some kids started singing 'staying alive' as I walked past in my afghan coat?

Speaking of unusual/hideous outer wear, I still haven't told you about The Cloak!!!

When Amy was here a couple of weeks ago, her, me and Julia went for drinks on Rue d'Argout, a tiny, cobbled street near Sentier metro station, kind of hidden from the main road and dotted with cute little bars. We went in one bar that was as big as someone's living room, and it was decorated with pink and gold facade...

Anyway, on this night out Amy suddenly remembered that she'd seen a full-length, black hooded cloak in Naf Naf. Now, I have always, always, since forever and ever, dreamt about possessing such an item of clothing.

Imagine, swishing through the misty, night time streets of Paris in a full-length cloak, on your way to the opera, or on a mission to Fight Crime.

Think how many different fantasies and personas I could live out in my head whilst wearing such a cloak! Everyday would be a magical adventure!

But I'd sort of given up hope of ever finding such a cloak... Until now!

The next day I rushed to Naf Naf to see the cloak in person. It was everything I'd ever dreamed of more... I reverently took it down from the hangar and swung it over my shoulders, tying the ribbon at the nape of my neck.

(There's a picture of said cloak on my Twitter.)

Other shoppers stopped and stared. Literally, they did a double-take, stopped dead still in their tracks and gave me a good once over, taking in every majestic detail of me and my cloak.

It was perfect- I finally had everything I'd ever wanted in life... A cloak and a tan.

Well, my tan has faded a bit now but I know I'll get it back in the summer. and then my life will be complete. Ah. What do you do when all your dreams have come true? Oh I know they don't sound very grand, but they say the secret to happiness is setting yourself ACHIEVABLE goals. If I set myself impossible tasks- getting a good job, paying my overdraft of, tidying my room etc- then I'll just end up feeling miserable and inadequate.

To be honest, I was beginning to think that even owning a cloak was an Unacheivable Goal, but then Naf Naf came to my rescue. It's like I had an image of what I wanted in my mind and the universe made it happen for me.

But before you get too excited, I must tell you, with a heavy heart, that I am not actually the owner of such a beautiful cloak. It was 160 euros reduced to 80, which is a small price to pay for a lifelong dream in my opinion, but I still owe people money. I've got the fucking euros sitting in my french bank account but at the moment I have no way of moving them across the Channel and into the banks of the people that need them; and I really can't justify spending eighty euros on a floor length, hooded black cloak before paying my debts off.

Also, Kayt and Amy were with me at the time and they BEGGED me not to buy it. They said everyone in the shop was laughing at me and that I couldn't possibly wear it around Paris. Amy even said that she'll whip one up for me on the sewing machine for half the price, if I want one that bad.

But I'm not worried, friends: even if Naf Naf sell out before I've paid my debts off; I know Amy will make me one, maybe an even more magical one, lined with gold silk or something. And if she doesn't, then another cloak will turn up somewhere, someday.

The universe wants me to have a cloak. It will happen.

If you believe in your dreams, they will come true.

The Land of the Lost and Broken

2012-01-28T15:03:00.001+01:00

This blog post comes to you from a computer shop that I had to trek halfway across Paris to get to. I'm sure there's internet cafés close to where I live but Google continues to give me nothing, so whenever I need to print something out, Eurostar tickets for example, back I go to the little computer shop opposite where Lauren lived last year. It's sad in a way, looking across the road and knowing Lauren and Drew aren't curled up on the couch, eating chocolate and watching Eastenders on the internet...

The reason I have had to make this miserable journey, which includes a stop off at Châtelet- aka the shittest metro station in the world- and a quick ride of the grimey RER, is because today is the day my laptop finally said 'enough is enough' and resigned itself to a still and silent end.

In a cruel twist of Fate, this morning my laptop was working unusually well, just like the good old days when the sound still worked properly and it load a Youtube vidoe in less than forty five minutes. As soon as I booted up, the internet connected and I received a Skype call from Claire, although after five minutes of me writing signs on a piece of paper and trying to communicate the sentence 'My microphone mysteriously stopped working a couple of months ago so you won't be able to hear me!' through the art of mime, we gave up and had a quick chat on Facebook instead.

After our chat, I started writing a new blog post and even opened my French online banking, with the intention of finally transferring some money back to England. It was going to be a productive day.

And then.

My online banking disappeared, to be replaced by dozens of evil little boxes that littered my desktop with sinister messages about my hard drive, warning me to do 'system checks'. Before I could act, new boxes appeared telling me that the RAM and the hard drive were damaged. The word 'critical' was flashing at the bottom of each grey box in red letters.

In between furiously clicking 'close' on each ominous grey box that kept reappearing no matter how many times I tried to get rid of them, I managed to open 'My Computer' to discover that every. single. file had disappeared.

Some of those Word documents are stories I've been working on since I was eighteen. Most of them were uncompleted and now I'll never finish them. There was also the full-length play I wrote in my last year of uni, the fairytales I wrote when I did Storytelling at the Secret Garden Party... Gone. Gone like the wind.

There is no Reason for my laptop breaking and there is nothing that can be done.

Oh I know friends will advise me to go to a computer fixing shop or whatever you call them, but I don't have the energy. I fail at every single thing I try and do, no matter how small or simple, I just can't do... stuff.

My laptop started behaving like a loon when my internet protection software ran out in September and at the time I had no money to renew it. But then I started getting paid from the restaurant, so I tried to renew it with my French bank card only, what's this, my French bank card doesn't always work online, for no apparent reason other than it mostly chooses not to work when I'm really desperate to use it.

This whole 'money thing' is starting to keep me awake at night, constricting my chest and making me feel dizzy with the worry of it. I HAVE euros in my French bank account. I TRIED to put the into my English bank account and it DIDN'T work.

Well, I tried to put them in Ricky's bank account a couple of months ago, when we all had to give him our deposit money for Ibiza. It took me a couple of weeks to get hold of my internet banking password, which I thought was hassle enough, and then I had to ask Ricky to ask his bank for his international RIB number, or something like that. I managed to navigate my way through the French website, with some difficulty. Eventually I worked out how to add Ricky as an 'international payee'. I put in his details. I selectd how much money I wanted to put into his account...

And then.

My bank told me I needed an activation code to put money into his account. Did I want the code sent to me in a letter? Or did I want it sent to me in a text message?

Text message, I clicked, obviously.

But then the website told me that, as it was first time transferring money online, I had to receive the code in a letter, which would arrive in twelve days.

I can't remember exactly what I did at that point, but I imagine I probably smashing things up and screaming.

So my point is, don't try and do things. Because it will never work.

Ever.

So. I'm in a slightly bad mood today. Now I have to write a script for my 'théâtre in anglais' class, with the characters Batman, Harry Potter and Luke Skywalker, for ten years olds who can't speak English and no interest in doing anything I tell them. Talking of those classes, the woman who rund the business left me a message, saying she wants to call a meeting in a couple of weeks and she wants to give me some money for all the 'hard work' I've been doing, so she told me to bring 'all the receipts' I've been keeping. I haven't kept one single receipt so...

So that's fab.

You know when I was younger my mum used to say 'You don't deserve to have things, because you don't look after them' and she was right.

Rather Unpleasant Things

2012-01-26T17:39:00.001+01:00

First of all, let me say Thank You Very Much to everyone who has left me lovely comments recently, I have replied to all of them (I think).

Second of all, I have a message for the person who keeps finding my blog by Googling 'magic strippers':

I'm sorry to inform you that you're looking in the wrong place and actually, I'm not sure there are any magic strippers, anywhere in the (this) world. Why do you need 'magic' strippers anyway? Isn't it enough for you that a woman is willing to remove all of her underwear in front of you and dance around a pole for your entertainment? Now she has to possess some sort of magical power as well? What did you have in mind, exactly? Dark hair, double Ds and the ability to levitate? You make me SICK.

Incidentally, how much were you looking to pay? As regular readers will know, I have, at one time or another, thought very seriously about entering the Stripper Profession, and for... let's say... oh, I don't know, about two grand, I could definitely learn some card tricks.

Anywaaaaaay...

I have two Rather Unpleasant Things to tell you about, and one Marvelous Thing. Let's get the Rather Unpleasant Things over and done with first, shall we?

Ok, so every Wednesday I have to hang around for an hour while the eight year has her ballet class. Her ballet school is, for some reason, on the périphérique which as anyone who has ever lived in Paris will know, usually means the area is a Shit Hole to be avoided at all costs. Normally I buy myself a packet of Haribo gummy bears, find a bench on a quiet street and read my book for an hour. But last week it was too cold to sit outside and I didn't have enough money to order a coffee in any of the decent-looking brasseries, so I went into the nearest McDonald's.

I got a tea and sat down at a quiet table. It was the week when Amy was staying at mine and I'd been too busy to do my blog, so I decided I'd try and write a post on my Blackberry. I'd been typing for about five minutes when I noticed a scruffy-looking boy staring at my phone. I wasn't being paranoid, he was defintely staring at my phone and he looking all fidgety and suspicious. The boy looked about fourteen and seemed to be sat with his mum, a tiny lady with an unfortunate hunchback. When they'd come in they'd been arguing with an old man about something and I assumed it was someone they knew, but now I was beginning to think they'd just randomly picked an argument with him.

I put my phone in my pocket quickly, but I wasn't too bothered because I knew I'd be sat there for a whole hour and I doubted the boy would want to wait that long just to steal a scratched Blackberry Curve.

I read my book and forgot all about the boy and his mum, if she was his mum. But then I heard them arguing heatedly with someone else...

First rule of living in a big city- Don't Stare, even if the person next to you has two heads and glittery pink fire curling out of their noses. Weirdly, Parisiens don't heed this rule. It can be the most infuriating thing in the world when you're at the receiving end of it (everyone on the metro STARING at you for example, because it's only April and you thought it would be ok to go out without tights on); but on the flip side, it means you can sometimes get away with staring unashamedly at people who are wearing/doing something unusual, because chances are everyone around you will be having a good gander as well.

Still, I tried to keep my eyes on my book for as long as possible, because growing up in a big British city teaches you to MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS. As the arguement got more and more heated, curiosity got the better of me and I glanced up quickly, to see that the boy and his tiny mother were arguing with a man on crutches. I couldn't understand most of what they were saying, but the general gist seemed to be that the man on crutches had caught the boy stealing his phone and the boy was saying it was his phone that his dad had got him for his brithday, and his scratty mum was backing him up. The woman and the boy were screaming into the man's face and a McDonald's staff member was stood in the middle of them, asking them to leave.

All of a sudden, the boy and the mum jumped on the man. I couldn't tell what was going on because there were arms and legs flying everywhere, but suddenly I noticed that the man on crutches had shockingly bright red blood all over his face. The McDonald's worker was trying to intervene but the mum and the boy were landing punches over his head.

Everyone was just staring, horrified, but nobody intervened. I put my book away and stayed in my seat, not really knowing what to do, unable to look away. The fight was taking place in front of the door, so there was no way anyone could leave. We were trapped in there, forced to watch the fight unfold, forced to make the decision whether to help or not.

The boy grabbed one of the man's crutches and tried to hit him across the face with it. I knew then that I should get up and help... Let's be honest here, I'm rubbish in fights- I doubt I could overpower a gerbil, but an injured man, being battered with his own crutch? By two people? Plus, the boy was little older than a child and his mum was a tiny, ill-looking thing...

But the damage they were doing to this poor guy! They were fucking vicious. I hovered nervously in my seat, not knowing if it was sensible not getting involved, or if I was being a cold, passive observer.

Somehow, the man on crutches suddenly had the mum by the ankles. He was dangling her upside down and she was thrashing around like a fish, trying to twist out of his grip and screaming Blue Murder. Another McDonald's co-worker jumped in at this point and grabbed the boy, who by now also had a face full of blood.

Oh God, would you have jumped in? Is Karma coming to get me? (The answer I'm looking for is 'NO! You did the right thing, just like you always do, you very ethical girl of sound morals and reason.')

The boy and his mum were dragged off into the office to wait for the police and the man on crutches was escorted into the toilets to clean up. As soon as they'd moved away from the door, I darted outside. I spent the rest of the hour sat outside the ballet classroom door.

So. That was kind of unpleasant, but two days later something happened that was a thousand times worse...(Although I guess the man on crutches wouldn't agree.)

Let me set the scene: I'm at my au pair job. I'm running between the bedroom, where the eight year old wants me to watch her practicing her piano and the kitchen, where I'm trying to keep an eye on the dinner. The baby is in his high chair near the kitchen door and the dad is bending down to feed him. He's blocking the doorway, so I say 'excuse me', three times, but he doesn't seem to hear me even though I'm stood an inch away from him.

I need to get to the pasta. Also, I remember that when the dad gave me a 'talking to' a few weeks ago, he said that I 'move around the house like a shadow'. So instead of skulking off and returning when he's finished feeding the baby, I decide to assert myself. I need to get past him, so I'll just squeeze past, like a Normal Person would.

But I have misjudged the space between Wall and Au Pair Dad's Bum. I don't realise until it is too late. I am struck with horror as I find myself scraping my lower body against the back of his lower body. I can't stop midway and I can't go back... there is nothing for it but to see the thing through and so I close my eyes in painful embarrassment as I slide, no grind, past him, in a Silent and Sinister manner.

Oh Fucking HELL.

Why did I squeeze past? WHY? Why didn't I just wait? Why didn't I say 'excuse me' one more time?

I faffed about with the pasta as if nothing remotely strange or inappropriate had happened. The dad didn't say anything and half an hour later I had almost forgotten about it. I tried to convince myself that I had blown the whole thing out of proportion, that maybe the dad hadn't even noticed me squeezing past him...

Later on, I saw the mum and dad huddled together in the dining room, when they thought I was in the eight year old's bedroom. I'd nipped into the living room to get her pencil case and I heard the parents whispering. The living room is separated from the dining room by a staircase, and through the banisters I could see the dad bending over, miming turning around and being surprised. He was clearly renacting the whole thing to the mum, who was pissing herself.

Oh, the shame, the shame.

I wanted to die.

It is one of those things that cannot be undone and it cannot be rectified. If I try and say something to the dad about it, no doubt it will look even weirder. Julia suggested I do the same thing to the mum just so they think I do it to everyone and was not trying to come on to the dad in a sinister The Hand That Rocks The Cradle kind of way, but I think my hips have been rubbed against enough employers for the moment. There is nothing to be done except close my eyes and sing very loudly whenever the incident pops into my head, as if my tuneless voice alone will scare away the memory forever.

So there you have it, two Rather Unpleasant Things that have happened to me lately. Now I don't have time to tell you about the Marvellous Thing, as I have to go to my au pair job. I've felt really awkward ever since. The eight year old is obssessed with 'Someone Like You' by Adele and for some reason she has the instrumental recorded on her keyboard, so I basically have to sing it with her constantly, whenever I am in the house. No doubt the mum and dad will think I am a Mental who is trying to seduce them with my singing voice and by rubbing against them in the kitchen.

Oh God.

What is wrong with me??

Paris Reunion

2012-01-24T21:57:00.000+01:00

Put your hand up if you've been a bit of a Slack Alice recently.

I know you can't see, but believe me when I say that my hand is stretched high into the air*, because I know I haven't been blogging enough of late. I used to think I was a Massive Gimp for writing a new blog post almost every day, but in the past few weeks I've learnt that if I don't write about things as soon as they happen, then I completely forget what happened. I have the memory of a very senile goldfish who, as a young and happening goldfish, was hit on the head with a stool in a bar fight and his brain was never the same after that.

So, I'm struggling to remember what it is I wanted to tell you about. I guess I never told you how the 'Paris Reunion' went, so I'll start with that.

(I should mention, for people who have just started my blog, that the 'reunion' consisted of girls I was friends with last year, when I rolled ten au pairs deep and there was always someone to go and eat cake with... Most of us met in the local park where we took 'our' kids after school and for at least an hour every day, we got to shoo the kids away, sit on a bench eating their after-school snacks whilst discussing someone's latest sexual encounter in salicious detail. Ah, the glory days of yore! But being an expat means you often make friends with gypsy-hearted, flighty types and after one year, our little gang dispersed to Madrid, Germany, North France, Liverpool and London. Still, we'll always have Paris...)

It was brilliant, of course, but for me the entire weekend was slightly overshadowed by the dark presence of Work- I had to work Saturday night and Sunday night. On Saturday night I finished at 1am, so I thought the girls could come and meet me and then we could all go to Favela Chic. The girls came about eleven and then left because it was so busy and because they wanted to get to Favela Chic early. It was a horrible night at work and I was really pissed off when I found out everyone had left. By the time I finished, I was ready to storm home, but Julia, who showed up on her own just after everyone had left, had been waiting for me at the bar for an hour.

I frantically slapped some my make-up on and tried to sort my hair out in the Staff Toilets and then me and Julia went to meet everyone else. They had arrived at Favela Chic to discover it was closed. (Apparently a few Parisien clubs close in January, because they stay open in August... What's so difficult about staying open all year-round?)

"HA!" I said, when I found out.

I was really sulky, for no real reason other than a customer at work had suddenly switched to English- after I'd been struggling to speak to him and his party of THIRTY FIVE rowdy people in French all night- and said:

"Ok, I have no idea what you're saying. In English please?"

Everytime someone fails to understand my French, it feels like they've kicked me in the face with a steel-capped boot on. I feel really, really terrible about the whole 'language thing' at the moment. Like really terrible. It's like a weight pulling at my stomach, dragging me down constantly.

Anyway, by the time me and Julia got to Le Truskel and met up with everyone else, I'd cheered up a bit. We drank a lot of alcohol and shouted quite a lot. I think we may have even sung a rendition of 'Someone Like You' but I can't remember. Clare spent all night chatting to a very attractive Frenchman, only for him to tell her as they were about to leave together: "I have a girlfriend, but it's ok, I have cheated on her five times in the past three years." Needless to say, they didn't end up leaving together after that.

When Le Truskel closed at 4am, me and Amy concocted a Cunning Plan- we weren't ready to go home yet, so we got a taxi back to mine and tried to get into one of those suspicious, exclusive-looking clubs on my street.

We gave ourselves a pep talk as we walked up to the club next door to my building. 'We look GREAT, we've got our I.D, we're managing to walk SOBER... Why wouldn't they let us in!?"

Soon we were stood in front of the grim-faced bouncer, looking up at his huge, suited chest. He looked straight ahead as if we weren't even there. A woman stumbled out of the club and started saying something to him in French, scowling and grimacing the whole time. I'm not being bitter, but I thought she was a man in a dress, because her face was so broad and square, and her make-up was so badly applied, but Amy swears it was a woman. As the woman/man in a dress swayed around the doorway, I heard music from inside the club for the first time ever- they have got the most effectively soundproofed doors in existence. The music was shit, like someone had pressed the 'House Music Demo' button on a child's keyboard.

When the horrid woman/man in a dress finally tottered back inside, I cleared my throat and said 'Bonsoir' to the bouncer. He looked down, as if noticing us for the first time. He was silent, so I asked him if we could go inside.

"Who invited you?" he asked.

(The conversation was in French, but like always, once I'm sober I can only remember the English meaning of what was said.)

"Oh... we have to be invited?" I said, "I didn't know... I live next door, can't we just come in?"

"Non." he said.

Oh, it was awful! There's nothing like the hot shame of being refused entry into a club. I don't know why we bothered, I knew it would be a private members club, and now I'll have to stumble past that bastard every time I come home from a night out.

Luckily, Amy spotted that the kebab shop at the end of my street was open. It's never open when I walk past- it was an Early Morning Miracle!

But then the man in the kebab shop was a nobhead as well! He kept saying that he'd run out of everything, I reckon because he didn't want to serve us for Some Reason. When we made it clear that we weren't leaving without something hot and meaty wrapped in pitta bread, he made us a really weird lamb kofta thing with potatoes and spinach. I would like to say that I will never patron his shitty kebab shop ever again, but if I'm drunk and it's open, I know I'll be back in there, pleading with him for the privilege of giving him my money in exchange for something loosely translated as 'Mystery Meat'...

Why are people such Massive Dickheads?

Anyway, in hindsight it was a good job the night didn't end with an over-priced champagne binge, in a Private-Members club frequented by masculine women who like Shit Music. It's funny because unbeknownst to us, Laura and Olivia had exactly the same idea- after Le Truskel, they stayed out until 9am, drinking in 'wee little bars' around where Olivia lives. If only we had known!

The next day we went for brunch at the Open Cafe, which is a famous gay bar in the Marais. The food was really nice, but Kayt found a long, dark hair in hers, so it's up to you if you want to take my recommendation or not.

After brunch we went for cake and tea at 'The Doormouse In The Teapot', or:

The cake looked delicious, but I didn't actually have any myself- by the time we'd queued up to get a table, I had to go to work. I had a little sob before I left, because I knew it would be the last time I saw Mairi and Clare for a long time. Mairi flew back to Madrid that night and Clare went home the next day.I can't imagine Mairi in Madrid, skipping around eating tapas and teaching tiny Spanish children how to paint... I'm hoping our next reunion will be in Madrid.

As for Clare, she really didn't want to leave Paris. Her and Amy make me wonder if I'm doing the right thing leaving Paris, because they miss it so much... Clare skyped me and Amy as soon as she got back to England. She was hammered and she was crying her eyes out. She had just got out of the bath and she kept flashing her boobs at us, on purpose. As my laptop microphone is broken for Some Reason, Clare couldn't hear us, but we could hear her. We could hear a simultaneous Skype conversation she was having and she was wailing:

"I'm up-upset... because... all my fr-fr-friends... live in Paaaaariiiis!!"

Oh Clare! I miss you and your Special Ways.

Clare is rather difficult to explain to people, but I'll try... You know that Posh Person Confidence some people have? Well Clare has it in ridiculous abundance: she came to Paris in a Real Fur Coat she's recently acquired and wherever we went people would stare and gasp. Clare was oblivious, refusing to believe that anyone would look twice at her Real Fur Coat. It got to the point where a man at Place de Clichy starting pointing and running after us, hollering like Tarzan as he mimed swinging from branch to branch. I'm not quite sure what Tarzan has to do with fur coats, but at first I thought he was taking the mick out of my Horrible Coat because it makes me look slightly like a gorilla. Kayt and Amy assured me that he was chasing after Clare, because she had a Real Fur Coat on, but Clare shook her head.

"Don't be silly, darlings." she said, striding on oblivious as a grown man danced about like a gorilla behind her.

That is what I mean by her Special Ways.

Ooh, talking of my Horrible Coat, now that all the girls have seen it, I can finally post a picture for you (Crystal)!

Ok, here it is....

Drum roll please...

Ta-dah!

Feel free to leave nasty comments. I don't care a jot, darling- I'm above all insults and jokes. I've been swanning around in it for almost an entire month now and I LOVE it. It's so warm and in my head I can tell myself I'm Kate Hudson in 'Almost Famous'. I don't care if from afar it gives me the silhouette of a shaggy bear. Amy says I look like a Seventies Superstar in it, so take THAT all you Afghan-haters.

Oh my god. If you think my Horrible Coat is bad, wait until you see what I have lined up for my purchase... Do you remember when I wrote a post about how I wanted a full-length, hooded, cloak?

Well.

Stay tuned is all I'm saying.

*Don't believe a word I say, I'm actually using both hands to type. I suppose I could take a break from typing and stretch my hand into the air, just for the sake of Legitimacy, but frankly I can't be arsed. If my hands leave the keyboard at all during the writing of this post, it will be to reach out for my cup of tea or another coconut macaroon. But you know the sentiments are there.

The Universe

2012-01-19T17:27:00.000+01:00

It's been a long time since my last post. I told you I was going to be busy this week and I have been, not only with the Paris Reunion but also dealing with every fucking little fuckery that keeps occurring in my Cinderella Room- things exploding/breaking/emmitting blue sparks. The Universe is trying to tell me that I'm not meant to live in a Parisian apartment building, with water and electricity and gas- The Universe seems to be telling me that I belong under a bush, on the edge of a muddy field, in Wales.

I suppose it all started five weeks ago when my lightbulb went. As I had already broken my beside table lamp, I thought I was doomed to live in darkness forever, but then I was struck by a bolt of Genius and invented the Collander Light. My space age kitchen appliance-come-lighting apparatus served me well for a couple of weeks, until that bulb blew as well... I don't know why I have such an aversion to buying lightbulbs, but I'd rather live my life in the flickering shadow of two tealights than spend an hour in a hardware shop, agonizing over which is the right bulb to buy. Luckily, I found a spare bulb for my Collander Light in the Magic Cupboard next to my wardbrobe. I only discovered the Magic Cupboard about a month ago, before that I thought it was just a fusebox, but it's so much more- it sometimes provides me with Useful Items, such as matches, Fabreeze and pens, at the exact moment I need them, conjuring them out of thin air when I'm not looking!

Anyway, I had my Collander Light and All Was Well. Until one day I looked up from my book to see grey smoke curling slowly towards the ceiling... the collander had slipped off the special Collander Supporter I had fashioned from a metal tealight holder and it was touching the hot light bulb. There was an ugly, oozing hole in my collander and there were lumps of burning plastic glued to the lightbulb. I manged to salvage the collander and luckily the lightbulb still worked, but now it meant that whenever I fancied a bit of light, I had to suffer the smell of burning plastic in my nostrils and also, without the plastic collander acting as lampshade, the Collander Light was literally just a very bright, bare lightbulb positioned at eye level... There were times when I couldn't read my book because of all the white spots dancing about in front of my eyes.

Then I had a Horrible Nightmare with my shower. It's been draining really slowly recently, but I just kind of ignored it... Until last Friday, when I was running late to meet the girls, I got out of the shower and saw that the soapy water sloshing around my feet had finally gone and done what it has been threatening to do for weeks- it had overspilled into my bedroom. I had to rush around picking up shoes and books and extension plugs whilst struggling to hold my towel in place.* My shower drain had decided that it wasn't going to Swallow anymore, so I spent the evening scooping big panfuls of water out of my shallow showerbase.

But although I had no shower, everything else in my room was ok. Although... there was a Horrible Moment when I stood on my phone charger one night, which was plugged into an extension, and all the electricity went off in my room. Thankfully the fuse had just blown, and when I pressed the big green button in my fusebox, everything came back on again, apart from one plug socket which is now fucked forever, it would seem.

So, shower fucked, electricity fucked (whenever I plug something in, white or blue sparks spit at me) and then...

...drum roll please...

...my Collander(less) Light decided to stage-dive to it's untimely death. The lightbulb and it's weird, red plastic holder (don't ask me how it works or what it was originally for, I just found it in the Magic Cupboard one day) literally leapt off the shelf and into the air for No Reason. It landed a few metres away, in the annoying gap between my bed and the wall, and everything went dark. That bulb was dead before it hit the ground.

I decided to stay at Kayt's for a while...

Last weekend I was really busy working at the restaurant and trying to fit in seeing the Paris Reunion Girls, so there was no time for me to sort out my shower or light problem. I took to putting my make-up on by candlelight and not washing very often, two things that actually complement each other rather well. But on Sunday night I knew I couldn't face another week living like a squatter, plus Amy would be staying at mine every night this week, as she is filling in for Emma's nanny job while she's on holiday.

It was time to be a Grown Up and sort out my Household Issues.

I went to the supermarket. I bought two bulbs. I bought a bottle of drain cleaner. I took them home. Miraculously, the bulbs fitted in my light (the Big Light- no more melting, blinding Collander Lamps for me), then I poured the drain cleaner down my drain, opened the window and left my Cinderella Room for the night.

The next day I went home to discover that the drain cleaner hadn't worked. Everyone told me to put more down there and leave it for a bit longer, so I did as they advised and finally, on Tuesday morning, I tested the shower to see if the water went down the plug properly and it did! It had worked!! Yey! I had light and a shower!

On Tuesday night, me and Amy had our tea at Kayt's and then came back to mine, because it's closer to where we both work. I turned on the shower to show Amy how well the drain cleaner had worked. She agreed it was a Miraculous Thing. Then I tried to turn the shower off, but no, no- not so fast, bitch.

The hot tap has always been stiff and there's been many a Horrible Moment where I think I can't do it, but then I always manage it in the end. Well not this time. Me and Amy both had a go and it was definitely stuck. We put the shower head in my sink and I climbed in to the shower, putting my full weight behind a massive, tightly-gripped twist. It turned. And then... It just kept on turning.

'Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee' it went, wizzing round and round, with no friction to slow it down, loving it's newly-found freedom as me and Amy stood with our mouths hanging open, not quite ready to believe that it was almost midnight and my shower was broken and we had no idea what to do about it.

"Ring Kayt." Amy said.

Kayt told me to ring the mum of my au pair family.

"Can you explain in French?" she said sleepily, after I had gabbled on at her for about five minutes.

I tried to explain as best I could in French and her response was "Ask your neighbours."

Thanks, goodnight. Cheers.

It was too late to knock on for the gardienne and all my neighbours are old ladies who leave me nasty notes about banging the doors after 8pm...

Me and Amy stood in my room, watching the boiling hot water raining down the sink, a feeling of horror creeping over us like a shadow...

I heard movement in the corridor, so I threw the door open and saw the Barvarian lady from next door carrying a bundle of washing. I explained to her what had happened and asked her if she knew how to turn the water supply off. She came into my room and looked around, but said it was different to her room. Then I spotted a small metal tap next to the boiler and pointed it out to her. She tried to turn it but said it was too stiff. I had a go as well and it was impossible to turn- I was starting to wonder if it was a tap for the gas or something. I tried one last time with a tea towel for extra friction and THANKFULLY it worked. The water stopped coming. Phew.

The next day the au pair mum sent someone round to fix it and he replaced both the taps. I've not actually seen the mum yet, I'm going to work soon so we'll see if she's horrible to me about it or not.

For fuck's sake. I've spent nearly two hours writing this blog post, because my laptop is being sooooo slow. It's on it's last legs. Everything I own is broken or breaking.

Sorry to have ranted on about absolutely nothing, I know I don't have any real problems and I'm not complaining, honestly. I've got lots more to say but must be getting off now, so will write another blog post tomorrow.

Oh, before I go, I have a little story to share...

Kayt went to the swimming pool this week with the kids she works with and she got chatting to a Scottish au pair. Kayt said "Have you seen that blog-" meaning What Parisiens Like, which has now been turned into a book that someone bought for Kayt, so she's raving about it to everyone, but before she could finish her sentence the Scottish au pair said:

"Left Bank Manc?"

Ha! That has really cheered me up. Recently I've been feeling as if my blog is really shit and nobody reads it, but Scottish Au Pair said her and all her friends read it. She even said to Kayt "Are you kayt with a 'y'?"

So thank you Scottish Au Pair, keep reading please.

I promise I won't leave it eight days without a new blog post again!

*There was nobody else in the room, but I couldn't let the towel go, because in a small room full of so many mirrors, I couldn't risk accidentally catching a glimpse of myself as I darted around, panicking and dripping water everywhere... I was so panicked already that the added distress of seeing a naked, fretting wet person, even if that person was myself, would have tipped me over the edge.

Joris and the Gypsies

2012-01-11T19:58:00.000+01:00

Fucking hell. Since I got back from London my room has been an explosion of optional outfits and mini Smarties and I've been promising myself I'll tidy it up for 'when the girls come'... Clare arrived last night and Amy is coming in about three hours and it's still a horrendous mess. Luckily, they can both stay at Kayt's for the mean time, but it's so depressing having a messy bedroom. I wish someone would tidy it. But who though?

On the bright side, I have just got back from having my eyebrows threaded. I know I said I was going on Saturday, but I got really hungry and went for lunch instead, it was actually quite eventful- someone Kayt used to have sexual acitivities with was in the same restaurant, so Kayt ran out into the street and left me on my own, looking like a greedy, friendless freak with unkempt eyebrows.... But tonight I've gone from having hairy little caterpillars nestling above my eyes to, erm... well, I can't really think of an appropriate insect to compare them to. What are those very, very thin, black worms called? They are too thin, is the long and short of it. But I still love them. I can't stop stroking them in a Sinister Way. They are so smooth and perfect... shame they are as thin as a spider's thigh.

Anyway, on my way to La Chapelle (note to self: next time take a Male Escort, or at least wear a fake beard to avoid feeling like an alien on a planet full of men), I went into Naf Naf and bought some black ankle boots in the sale. I've only had them for one hour and I don't like them anymore. My idiotic spending habits are RUINING MY LIFE.

In other news, I have tried to finish telling you about New Year's Eve so many times, but every time I try to write a blog post about it I either run out of time before I have to leave for work, or I read back what I've written and it's a load of shit. I feel like I can't write anymore. Asides from my blog, I have quite a few Secret Writing Projects that I've been working on and at the moment I can't do anything with any of them. My inspiration has evaporated. But as any good doctor will tell you, waitressing really is the most common cause of Writer's Block. The only problem is, I have a Funny Feeling that I'll be waitressing for a good few years yet...

Still. It's always satisfying to finish what you started, so I'll give New Year's Eve another bash just for continuity's sake:I think I got up to the part where the Eastender's couple went home? After that we all went back to Sophie's flat and carried on the party. From Eastender's we briefly tuned into Coronation Street... Erm, someone may have ever so slightly Kicked Off with my cousin's boyfriend... but after I eventually calmed down (oh come on, obviously the someone was me) and it was all ok in the end. Apart from there was a huge, hairy man called Jamie at the party who nobody would admit to bringing. He had a bandage on his finger and kept telling everyone it had been bleeding for three weeks.

"Do you think I should go the hospital?" he was asking everyone.
"YES, you freak." was the resounding answer.

Jamie also claimed he was born in 1974, even though he looked about twenty five, and he kept trying to take over the music and put Bucks Fizz on. I asked him how he had gotten into the party and he said "Oh I was at another party a few doors down, but it got a bit weird, everyone kept taking their clothes off."

It eventually transpired that my cousin's boyfriend Dan had brought him along, after seeing him dancing in someone's window dressed only in a pair of Speedos. Everybody else at the party had been fully-clothed. Dan invited Speedos Man, or Jamie, to our party but soon regretted it when Jamie pushed Dan into an empty bedroom and demanded a blow job.

You live and learn!

The next day I felt terrrible and couldn't face another night out. Rather unwillingly, I left Sophie and her flatmates watching films and ordering Thai take-away and got the tube to Clapham. And GUESS WHO I SAW ON THE TUBE?!

Actual real people from 'My Big Fat Gypsy Weddings'!

There were four young girls, all wearing teeny tiny dresses and holding their stripper-esque high heels in their hands. They all had very long hair and ballroom dancer-style make-up on. At first I thought they were tiny ladies but a closer inspection revealed that they were about thirteen years old. They were discussing loudly the events of the night before.

"I'm going to tell Mammy what he wa' doing to her."- There was no mistaking their Irish Traveller accents.

There was one lad with them who looked about sixteen and it was him that I recognised from the programme. When he got on the tube, I kid you not, he said:

"No, no, listen, he wasn't trynna grab her, he just wanted to talk wi' her!"

Everyone on the tube was listening intently, looking incredulously at these Real Life Specimens from 'My Big Fat Gypsy Weddings'. I genuinely love that programme, I don't watch it because I want to laugh at Irish Travellers and I was really surpised to see loads of people openly laughing at them. I looked at the people laughing on the tube and I thought 'Why do you think it's ok to laugh? Don't you respect other people's cultures? Don't you know what Bare Knuckle Fighting is? If he sees you laughing you might find out.'

That Gypsy Weddings encounter MADE MY YEAR.

By the time I got to Ricky's (where all the girls were getting ready, maybe we should start calling it Ricky's Pop Up Make-Over Shop) I'd almost forgotten that the last time I saw Kat was in the foyer of our hotel in Ibiza, FOUR MONTHS ago! Ah. I feel like my fleeting visits to London are never long enough.

I can't describe how good the night was. No, I'm really not going to, I'm too tired to write and I need to tidy my room and get ready to go out. But you don't need me to sum it up for you with words, click here and you can listen to Simian Mobile Disco's live set from the night...

I had such a good night. My hangover miraculously disappeared as the music got better and better. I felt all Confident and Happy- I don't know what came over me. In fact, I'm afraid that I might have acted a lot like a Dickhead all night. Although I remember saying to someone that I felt 'like a Disney princess' so perhaps my paranoia isn't completely unfounded...

But if I was being a Proper Nobhead all night- wrapped up in my own little fantasy world, where everyone liked me and my eyeliner hadn't smudged halfway down my face- then one can only hope that everyone else was in pretty much the same way and they didn't notice.

I have made up my mind to definitely move to London. But the main reason I want to move there is so I can go out every weekend and listen to good music. Is that a bad reason? Will it all end in disaster? I know so many people who have tried to 'do London' but they've lost themselves in the fabled smog and sprawl of the city...

Right, I have to go out drinking now, hold that thought.

The Staircase Mystery

2012-01-09T11:46:00.004+01:00

Hello? Is anybody reading this? Is anybody out there? I'm not being needy- I am just panicking because there is a very strong possibility that I am a ghost...

I've just got back from my 'théâtre en Anglais' lesson (it was fucking terrible, the kids were even more Mental than usual and I found out that next week I have to teach them all on my own). On the way home I bought a baguette and a croissant. I was feeling very French and productive: I decided I would eat the croissant; do some blogging; tidy my room for when the girls come this week; and even go to H&M and return those Clown Pants that are still hanging in my wardrobe, taunting me with their seductively silky, ill-fitting waistband...

Oh! But what fresh hell is this? I got back to my building and the lift was broken. I've never taken the stairs, not just because I live on the sixth floor and I am quite lazy, but for another reason- a reason so strange and disturbing that I don't like to talk about it because it freaks me the fuck out. But I'm going to tell you because you're a good listener and I don't think you'll judge me...

(When I say 'you' I mean 'me' as I'm the only person reading this as I type. That's kind of weird when you- I- think about it. Have I gone mad? Have I finally snapped? Have I?)

(I'm pretty sure I have.)

The staircase in my building is one of those sweeping, typically Parisien affairs, with banisters of dark, polished wood and a strip of royal blue carpet running down the middle.

But the staircase that leads from my floor looks like this:

They are clearly not the same stairs!

And I'm not just being an idiot; they didn't run out of carpet or anything. One day, when I was feeling energetic, I tried to walk down the stairs and they stop after two flights... I live on the sixth floor! I crept back up the stairs and vowed NEVER to think about it again but then when Amy came to stay, she tried to go down the stairs as well and she had to come back up again, confused and freaked out. When she told me, in a horrified whisper, that my stairs didn't lead anywhere, I told her that she wasn't going mad, but that perhaps we shouldn't mention the 'stair thing' to anyone else. And up until today that can of rotting worms has stayed firmly shut and hidden in the back of my cupboard...

But when I saw today that the lift was broken, I knew I would finally discover the Terrible Truth that lay at the heart of the Staircase Mystery...

I decided to walk up the nice, carpeted stairs Just To See. There are definitely no Nice Stairs anywhere on my floor, but I still couldn't quite believe that my floor could only be reached by lift... After all, it is a very old building, what did all the servants used to do who lived in the little chambres de bonnes? Scale the outside walls? Climb down the chimneys? No, they took the stairs, obviously. Just I like I would do, once I had located them...

I walked up the Nice Stairs to the fifth floor and could get no further. I was now 100% certain that the Nice Staircase stopped one floor below mine. I thought that maybe there would a secret door Or Something, but all the doors had labels and doorbells. I didn't want to try rattling any of the doors in case they thought I was a burgular.

Suddenly, all the blood drained from my face. I knew what was happening! It was that moment in a scary film where the protagonist discovers he is a ghost. He tries to get into his apartment and it's locked, so the breaks down the door to find a dusty ruin that has clearly not been lived in for years. He looks around, confused and then he hears two people in the corridor behind him:

"Has that place sold yet?" a sporty, tanned girl asks her boyfriend, wrinkling her nose.
"No, it's been empty for years. Ever since that guy went mad and killed himself by accident."
"What did he do?" the girl asks, a macarbe glint in her eye.
"He was fixing Christmas lights to the roof."

And the main character widens his eyes in comprehension and shock, because at the beginning of the film he fell off the roof whilst fannying about with Chrismas lights and he was amazed he survived and that's when weird things started happening and now it all makes sense!

Yes, it was exactly like that, except without the Christmas lights or the falling off the roof thing or the couple. (I'm glad because they sound like Smug Dickheads, don't they?)

I went back down the stairs. There was an old lady in the entrance. She walked straight past me without seeing me. Honestly, she did. And I was carrying a bottle of milk and a large baguette- Parisien people normally stare at things like that.

"Madame!" I yelled, hoping that if I was a ghost I was at least a poltergeist.

She turned round and looked confused. She couldn't see me.

"Madame!" I yelled again, running towards her.

She put her glasses on and frowned at me.

"Oui?"

Ah. I wasn't a ghost, I was just a Randomer holding a bottle of milk and shouting.

I asked her if she knew how to get to the sixth floor, because the lift was broken. She told me to walk up the Nice Stairs. I explained that they only went up to the fifth floor. She smirked.

"Donc, vous avez besoin d'escalier du service."

For those of you who don't speak French (and for the people who do speak French, because what I wrote above probably doesn't make any sense at all), she told me I needed the 'Servants' Stairs' and that she didn't know where they were. She didn't seem to realise we no longer live in the 18th century. 'Just you wait for the revolution,' I thought.

So she was as helpful as a spherical pebble. I knocked on for the gardienne but she wasn't there. I went and looked in the Bin Room in the courtyard, in case there was a secret door hidden in there, but there was nothing in there. (Except for bins, obviously.) I found a door behind the lift, but when I managed to pull it open, all I saw was a staircase leading down- turns out there must be more than one Staircase Mystery in my building.

I was getting worked up now. Why is everything so... difficult? Why can't I have a staircase that leads to my room? Why do I have to live on a floating floor, that can only be reached by Father Christmas or fairies? (Actually, that sounds like my Dream Home!!)

I marched up the Nice Stairs again. I saw I had left a trail of croissant crumbs all the way down. Good. Let the Posh Bastards have messy stairs. At least their stairs don't lead to the Twilight Zone.

No, there was definitely no secret door.

On my way down I met two gentlemen, so I asked them for help. They suggested everywhere I'd already looked and then shrugged their shoulders. They gave me a look that said 'You are a silly idiot' and then they left me dithering about in the courtyard. I wanted to eat my croissant. I wanted a cup of tea. I wanted the world to make sense and I wanted to live in a building where all the stairs led from the ground floor to the top floor.

I knocked on the gardienne's door again, just because I couldn't think of what else to do. The door opened. She had clearly been in there the whole time, watching the television whilst giving herself a pedicure, or whatever it is that caretakers do when they are not taking care of me!

"Oui?" she asked.

I explained my problem for the third time. In fairytales, everything comes in threes. The third brother fights three dragons to get to three eggs, the third of which has a magical golden ring inside, that kind of thing... I really hoped that something out of the ordinary would happen, that it would be Third Time Lucky, that the gardienne would produce a tiny emerald key that opened up a hole in the wall, revealing a sparkling, glass staircase that led directly into my fireplace... or something.

She told me to take the Nice Stairs up the fifth floor. She said there was a door there that led to the escalier du service. Oh fuck. I'd already looked up there! I asked her is she was sure it was open, she said yes, it's the only open door. Right, so all I had to do was rattle everyone's doors shall until one of them opened.

I trekked all the way to the fifth floor. By this time I'd eaten most of my croissant and had started to nibble away at my baguette, adding more crumbs to my Hansel and Gretel trail along the royal blue stair runner.

I reached the fifth floor just in time to see the Bolivian Lady who lives next door to me closing a door behind her. It was quite a big door, with a doorbell and a label next to it that made it look as though it was somebody's apartment. What a fucking stupid idea.

ANYWAY. The door leads to my horrible, skanky stairs. The servants' stairs. Mystery solved. I'm back in my Cinderella room. Phew, I'm going to have a nap now.

New Year's Eve: Part 2

2012-01-08T02:33:00.001+01:00

I need to blog and clear my head a bit. I've started confusing my blog with my mind. I keep thinking 'Oh, I need to write that on my blog' about every thought that wanders into my head... but I don't need to do anything- thoughts are fleeting, I wish I didn't feel like I have to pin them down all the time, type them up, share with them everyone. Who cares? Why can't I just think things once and then forget them, rather than re-think and re-think, and edit them in my mind. By the time I get round to writing my blog I don't even write anything I've been thinking about because I feel as though I've already written it once.

Anyway. I had a weird night at work. I found out two of the staff are 'sex friends' which is quite funny. I've come home all jacked up on coca cola and shit chart music, and I fancied doing a bit of blogging...

I never finished telling you about New Year's Eve. I can't believe it was a whole week ago. I'll tell you what, thoughts are fleeting and so is fucking time. It's always running away from me, skipping about like a smug idiot because it knows I can't keep up.

So.

This time last week, I was sat outside a pub in Soho, dressed as Pohcahontas and watching an Eastenders-style couple's fight unfolding before my eyes...

My cousin was having a fancy dress party. I wasn't bothered about having a Big Night because I knew I was going to Ministry of Sound the next day, I just wanted to dress up and spend some time with my cuz. (Not that I ever say 'cuz' in real life, but there's only so many times you can say the word 'cousin' in one paragraph.) There wouldn't be too many people- just me, my cousin Sophie, her friends Emily and Becky and her flatmate Roz to begin with. Then some of her friends were coming and we were all going to Sophie's boyfriend's pub so she could be there when the clocks chimed midnight.

Only things never work out like you plan, do they? Her friends were coming from Peckham, which I only knew from driving through it earlier on in the day, was a very long way away from where we were at Turnpike Lane.

We got more and more drunk, waiting for them, and then Becky pointed out that if we didn't leave soon we would end up seeing in the New Year on the tube. Our plan was to go to Sophie's boyfriend's pub for just before midnight, then go to a drag queen pub called Mollie Mag's or something. Sophie and Becky love drag queens. But. We all had quite a lot of make-up on. Becky was dressed as Boy George. We started to worry that we could mistaken for drag queens ourselves and no girl wants to see in the New Year feeling like a big ugly man.

So the new plan was: go to Sophie's boyfriend's pub for about half eleven, wait for him to finish work at midnight, then go back to the party and get disgustingly drunk. Only these pesky Peckham kids were taking their loooong ass time to get to Turnpike Lane. They also rang up Sophie and said they didn't want to go to the pub because they couldn't afford it, so by the time they actually turned up, Sophie just threw them her keys and said we'd be back in an hour.

The tube journey was quite fun. Everyone was very merry and yelling Happy New Year to each other. When I say 'everyone' I mean Sophie was yelling it at everyone else on the tube, around the tube stations and in the street- policemen, bouncers, other drunk people...

We got to her boyfriend's pub just before midnight. We burst in through the doors to a completely empty pub. There was one man at the bar, desperately waving his tenner about and asking for a Guinness as if he was stood at the most crowded bar in London, and then two tables of quiet people at the back and that was it.

We got some champagne and toasted to the New Year. Then Emily, who is Scottish, whipped out a page of handwritten lyrics to Auld Lang Syne and made us sing it with her. We all joined in for one verse, but then we were distracted by the fireworks on the television and gave up. Emily, however, was not best pleased with this.

"THIS IS MA TRADITION!" she yelled, "YE'VE GOT TE SING EVERY VERRRSE!"

She was Angry. She went to the toilets in a huff and came back with a very dodgy, one-eyed man who looked about sixty five.

"THIS IS MA MAN FRUM FIFE!" she told us.

Emily went over and sat with her new Scottish buddy in the corner. I'm not one to judge on appearances (all right maybe I do sometimes...) but this guy looked like he'd carved out a few Glasgow Grins in his time.

Sophie and her boyfriend were chatting outside which left me, Becky and Roz stood at the empty bar, watching the London fireworks on T.V.

"It would be amazing to be there." I said.

There was a pause while we all sipped our champagne and looked around the half-empty pub.

"Next year, I'm going to see the fireworks." Becky said.

Just for a change of scenery we went to sit outside the pub and have a fag. Sophie and Emily (without the One-Eyed Wonder from Fife, thankfully) joined us and started bellowing HAPPY NEW YEAR at everyone. By this point I was feeling quite merry myself, so I joined in the general Cheering and Merry-Making. A couple walked past us and we bombarded them with New Year's greetings. The man was happy to walk by but the woman, who was so drunk she could barely walk in a straight line, took an instant liking to us.

"You're all Northerners!" she shrieked, "'Appy New year darlings!"

We were so thrilled to find someone as drunk as us that we begged her to stay and have a drink. Her boyfriend was trying to drag her away but she was quite forceful. She sat on Becky's lap and we all cheered, so her boyfriend rolled his eyes and went in to get them both a drink.

Me and Sophie went in to buy everyone drinks as well, but when we got to the bar The Boyfriend told us he had bought ten sambuca shots.

"Aww you're sooo nice!" Sophie cooed, "You're such a niiiice couple, how long have you been going out for?"
"Too facking long." he muttered.

We should have know then, that something was awry...

I left Sophie to help him with the shots and bounced back outside.

"I dunno where my boyfriend's gone." Our New Mate slurred.
"He's at the bar! He's buying us all shots!" I said.
"WHAT? He better not be facking buying... are you joking? Are you telling me my boyfriend's in there now, buying you all shots?"
"Erm..."

I could sense that Something Bad was about to happen. Luckily, Our New Mate was distracted by Becky's face. She peered into it.

"YOU. Are so facking HOT."

Becky smiled. But then Our New Mate narrowed her eyes.

"You are so facking pretty..."

There was something in her tone of voice that implied she was about to do something to make Becky less pretty. Like shove a razor blade into her eye, for example.

At that moment The Boyfriend came back, with his ten sambucas. There was a chorus of 'Waheeys' and 'Thank yous' as we did the shots. Even Our New Mate said 'Thanks babe' as she did her shot. In all the commotion, I almost didn't hear what The Boyfriend said:

"Don't thank me, you facking paid for them."

But she definitely didn't miss what he said:

"Why you buying all these girls drinks with MY money?"

Ooh it was just like being in Eastenders! We sat there awkwardly while they argued and then, somehow, I have no idea how, their arguement dissolved into plans of getting home and all of a sudden they were leaving and we were calling goodbye:

"So nice to have met you babe! Happy New Year's!"

She called back "Facking love you girls!" as she left, dragging three chairs and a table along with her.

Right I'm tired, so I'll leave it there. I've not even told you about the fat man in Speedos yet!

Au Pair Life and Eyebrows

2012-01-07T13:45:00.001+01:00

Yesterday I had one of those moments where I have to seriously consider if I should be trusted to look after other people's children. If you've ever wondered what it's like to be an au pair, here's a little extract from my 'working life'...

We were walking to the bus stop from the park. It was dark. Suddenly the eleven year old disappeared down a corner with her friend Florence*.

"Where's she going?" I asked the eight year old.
"Shh... it doesn't matter." she replied, helpfully.

"WHERE ARE YOU GOING!" I yelled into the darkness.
"FLORENCE'S!" she yelled back.

Florence lives just around the corner and the eleven year old often stays at her house on a Friday night. The eight year old was acting as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, so I assumed the mum had forgotten to tell me. Still, the mum does normally tell me things like that...

"The bus! The bus!" the eight year old screamed.

The bus drove past us and the eight year old started running after it, so obviously I followed suite and we got to the bus stop just before he closed the doors. We sat down at the back of the bus, laughing and my thoughts turned to what I was going to cook for the dinner. About five minutes later, when we were about two stops away from home, I heard my phone bing. The eleven year old had BBM'd me (who gets a Blackberry at the age of eleven?):

Vous êtes ou?

My stomach lurched. Instantly I knew I'd Fucked Up.

We are on the bus!!
I thought you were staying with Florence tonight??!
Go back to Florence's house and I will come and get you.

No reply. Shit shit shit. I sent her the same messages in French, in case she didn't understand.

Still no reply. As we got off the bus my phone started to ring, it was the mum.

"What you do? She go to get her bags from Florence's house and you leave her all alone! What are you thinking? You not listen! You can't listen! Are you crazy? Now I must go and get her! I am far away!"

Etc. etc.

I tried to argue back with her:

"I thought she was staying at Florence's house! She didn't tell me she was just going to get her bags! I told her to go back to Florence's house and I'll go and get her."

But the mum wasn't listening to me, she just kept saying the same things over and over again until I stopped trying to argue with her. Eventually I sighed and said "O.k." and she put the phone down.

The eight year old was running around me, wanting to know what was happening, so I tried to explain to her without making it sound as if me and her mum had had an arguement.

"Your sister went to get her bags from Florence's house, but I thought she was staying there, so now your mum has to go and get her."

"But she not say this!" cried the eight year old, indignant, "She say she go to Florence house! It's not you who do this! I go call my mum and I say!"

As soon as we got into the house, the eight year grabbed the phone and rang her mum. I heard her yelling down the phone and she slammed it down.

"My mum say it not real what we say! She say my sister say is real and you not listen you! She say it's not real what you and me say!"

"Oh well..." I said, trying to pretend everything was normal.

The eight year old went off to play with her baby brother and I ran the bath, staring into the water, trying to get a little plan together. What if she fired me? I already know she thinks 'my head is not on my shoulders' because the dad told me... Should I apologise? Or is this my chance to get out? I could stay at Kayt's for a few days and work at the restaurant, or I could go straight to London and stay with my cousin for a few days, I know that her friend Becky would get a flat with me...

I really thought that this could be it. I could be leaving Paris forever.

The doorbell rang and I jumped up, ready to face My Destiny.

It was the dad, sat on his motorbike with the engine still running.

"Give me the other helmet please, I need to go and get her. What happened?"

"I don't know." I said.

I kept thinking about the eleven year old, wandering round in the dark on her own. I felt really bad. Whne I was eleven I used to go to school on my own, but I suppose it's different in Paris. It's not as safe as Manchester. Oh god, what if she wasn't safe? What if she was wandering around crying?

Ten minutes later the doorbell rang again and it was the eleven year old.

"Sorry!" I said when I opened the door. "I thought you said you were staying at Florence's."
"C'est pas grave!" she said cheerfully.

And that was that. She clearly wasn't arsed in the slightest. By the time the mum got home I'd calmed down and forgotten all about it. I couldn't believe I hadn't made absolutely clear where the eleven year old was going. I should have called the mum to double-check before we jumped on the bus. I heard the mum feeding the baby in the kitchen so I went in, wandering what sort of mood she'd be in. She had sounded furious on the phone.

"I'm sorry about what happened."
"It's ok, I just want to ask you both what happened, because I don't want it to happen again!"
"Yeah, of course." I said.

We all sat down in the living room.

"I was surprised because I ring her and she say 'I go to get my bags from Florence's house' and I say 'O.k, tell LBM** and she say 'I have, I have' and the next thing she say 'They are on the bus, they have left me.'"
"Well, she didn't tell me, but I suppose... I should have made absolutely sure."
"I tell my sister to tell her." the eleven year old said.

Then the mum started yelling at her in French and I just sat there, patiently, while the two of them argued it out. After a time the mum said "O.k, good then."

And that was that. I ate dinner with the girls (turns out the baby's nanny had made a potato gratin so I didn't have to cook) and then the mum said I could go a bit early.

I was planning on going out and getting very drunk as I'm working in the restaurant tonight and tomorrow night, but I had an unexpected visitor. Do you remember Ali, my 'jogging partner' (we went four times) last year who left Paris to go and live on a Spanish mountain? Well she was coming to Paris to meet up with an ex-boyfriend (wink wink) and she needed somewhere to stay for one night. As she had been up since 5am she didn't fancy going out, so she just sat on my bed and watched me tidy my room instead.

Now I'm off to get my eyebrows threaded because they look horrrrendous at the moment. If you took a picture of them and showed them to three hundred people and asked them 'Whose eyebrows are these?' I bet two hundred and eighty of them would say 'Madonna- circa 1989'. The rest would say 'This must be a trick question, because they are not eyebrows at all, they are clearly two moustaches that you have photoshopped onto someone's forehead.'

*Obviously I haven't used her real name for Paranoid Reasons...
*...just as nobody actually calls me LBM.

New Year's Eve

2012-01-05T17:57:00.000+01:00

So. New Year’s Eve.

I’ll try not to bore you too much withthe details of my eight hour coach journey, but it needs to be mentioned as itwas the longest bit of my whole fucking weekend.

It wasn’t actually that bad, getting the coach. I mostly snoozedand looked out of the window. (Luckily I managed to get a window seat and Imade sure that nobody sat in the empty seat next to me by putting my bag on itand looking stern.)

The coach stopped a couple of times at French motorwayservice stations, but I refused to get off, in case Something Happened and Iwas left stranded in the middle of the French countryside. As a result I had toration my little bottle water to one sip every thirty minutes and I was in thathorrible position of being desperately thirsty and desperate to have a wee at the same time, for the entire jounrey. But I held fast people- I think it is all good practice for when I inevitably get stranded inthe desert one day. I am sure it is just like being sat on an air-conditionedcoach for eight hours…

However I did have to get off a couple of times for Border Control,which was so relaxed I wish I’d brought three kilos of heroin with me, just forthe sake of it. I can’t remember if we had to go through the whole thing againonce we reached England, butat some point in the journey, whether it was Calais or Dover I can't remember, we had to go through British BorderControl and I felt so snide on everyone who wasn’t British, which was everyoneapart from me.

All the Chinese students got questioned about what they weredoing in France, what theywere studying, why they were coming to England, how long for etc. Then therewas a Mexican girl in front of me in the queue- I wanted to jump in and saveher when she was asked who she was staying with in London:

“Erm, a guy.”

“Is he a friend?” the woman behind the booth asked her.

“Erm… kinda… I met him on Facebook and he, erm, he asked meto stay for New Year’s…”

I wanted to shout atthe woman behind the booth:

“Can’t you see she has met a man on the internet and now sheis going to have sex with him?! Stop asking her about it!!”

Somehow I managed to hold my tongue and soon we were all back on thecoach, driving towards the next stage of our journey which was a completeMystery- I had no idea how we were going to get across the Channel.

‘Over, or under? Over, or under?’ I kept muttering to myself.

I couldn’t see the sea, but I assumed we must be near it aswe had gone through Border Control. At the very last second, I saw a big metaltube thing, just before the coach swung into it and everything went dark. Itwas like being inside a tin of sardines, except instead of sardines there werecoaches and cars, parked in single file, with no room to even open their doors.

It was a bit claustrophobic, but it only took forty minutesand then... we were in Enlgand!!

It was so exciting. My face was glued to thewindow, seeing Englandthrough fresh eyes. I tried to imagine how I’d feel about England if Iwas seeing it for the first time, arriving on a coach. There were a lot of old peoplestood on corners, looking at things. Looking at pub menus, looking at bus maps,looking at other old people also stood on corners, looking at them from across theroad. There were lots of stone walls and green fields and posh people gallivantingabout on horses.

After what seemed like an AGE (in actual fact I think it wasabout two hours) I saw a sign for Lewisham.

“Lewisham!” I thought, “That’s in London! I know it is!”

I gathered all my stuff up and prepared to jump out of myseat ahead of everyone else. We drove through Lewisham...

Then, we continued to drivethrough Lewisham....

We just kept driving and driving through fucking Lewisham.

Then I saw a sign for Peckham and I got all excited againbut it took us AN HOUR to get from Peckam to London Victoria. London is so bloody big!

It’s weird that Ihad to trek all the way to Gallieni to get the coach in Paris and I was grumbling because Gallieni it's the furthest east you can go and still technically be in Paris (I live in West Paris) and yet it only took thirty five minutes to getthere. Paris is so tiddy compared to London.

Shit, I’ve just realised I didn’t want to go on and onabout my coach journey and yet I have… oops.

Oh well, that part of the story is over now, on to theactual New Year’s antics! It gets a lot more exciting, honestly, there was afat man in Speedos and everything!

Anyway, I better leave it there, because I need to go to my au pair job soon. On Tuesday the eight year old was really pleased to see me. I don't know why, I was a bit suspicious actually. I think the girls were pleased with their Christmas presents, even though they thought the Lush bathbombs were sweets. Thank God they didn't try and eat them. I showed the eight year old how to use it on Tuesday night but it didn't fizz as much I remembered. It just kind of bobbed about in the bath and then it melted. Still, she liked it, I think.

I don't think they expected any presents from me. When I left for Christmas I said to the mum "Oh there's some presents under the tree for the girls" and as I said it she handed me two massive bin bags of rubbish. She had just asked me to take them to the bottom of the street for her and she looked a bit regretful that at the exact moment I told her that I'd given them Christmas presents; she'd given me their rubbish to take out.

Anyway, on Tuesday the eight year old kept asking me if I'd bought a new handbag yet and I told her I was still looking for one.

"Do you like pink and brown?"

When I didn't answer very enthusiastically, she looked so upset that I quickly changed my answer.

"Yes! I really want like pink and brown actually! Why, have you seen one in a shop or something?"

"Yes. I show you." she said.

Then when I was just about to leave, the mum appeared in front of me holding a paper bag.

"We got you something!" she said.

I opened it in front of them, because for some reason French people love watching you open presents. It was a little handbag. I was so surprised and pleased but I also feel a bit embarrassed because they had clearly only given it to me because I got the girls presents and that's not why I did it at all.

But still, I needed a new handbag and it's a really nice one! It's a really small clutch bag and it's not 'pink and brown', thank fuck, but it's made out of pinky brown leather, almost like a lilac colour.

When I got it home I had a proper look at it and it's from Zadig et Voltaire.

Pas mal. Pas mal du tout.

I took it out last night but the little girl is really disappointed that I'm not using it for work. I tried to explain that it's more of a 'going out bag' but I might have to give in and start taking it to their house. I don't know if the mum expected me to take it to work as well though, because she said something about me 'not having to take a big bag everywhere.' Normally I either take my massive black bag and fill it with stuff I don't need just so it doesn't look empty, or I don't take a bag at all- I wear my coat with the Massive Pockets. (Seriously, they are so big that I can fit the after-school snack in one and a bottle of wine in the other.)

Actually, now that I think about it, this is what I did last year as well and that au pair family bought me a handbag for Christmas and a handbag for my birthday. Maybe I look like a person in need of handbags.

Hmmm, what else can I say quickly before I have to go? I feel like I have a lot of things to say...

Oh. I know.

Let me have a quick moan...

I am working an unbelievable amount of hours at the restaurant. I don't know how long I can keep both jobs up for. Don't even mention the fucking teaching job as well. I might have to jack the teaching in because it's just too much. Even with just my restaurant job and my au pair job, I'm not going to have one day off for the next three weeks.

It's Extra Shit because Amy, Clare, Mairi and Laura are coming to Paris next week for our mini-Paris reunion and I don't know if I'll be able to spend any time with them!

Think of the money, think of the money.

The only problem is, I am thinking of the money and all I can think is, how can I get my money from France to England?? Every time I try and do it something goes wrong and as a result I am spending more and more money on cocktails and shoes in Paris while back in England my credit card and overdraft and holiday go unpaid and my debts are getting steadily and steadily more out of control...

Still. You can't let yourself worry about these things, can you? Best to just push them to the back of your mind and go out for cocktails, in your new shoes.

Best and Worst Moments of 2011

2012-01-04T20:06:00.006+01:00

I've got really bad writer's block. Normally I will just start writing any old shit and as I write, something half- readable will develop, but every time I try to write about my weekend, I read back what I have written and I realise I have spent about ten paragraphs describing my very long and tedious coach trip to London.

I think if I were to post the shit I have written so far, it would leave the reader feeling as if they themselves have just completed an eight hour coach journey- bored, drained and wondering why they fucking did it in the first place.

The worst thing is, on the coach journey back, I was snoozing but not really sleeping and in my head I was mentally blogging over and over again, so I feel as if I have already written about the weekend a thousand times already and I can't be arsed to do it again.

But I promise I will write about it properly tomorrow.

Oh God. I have just had the longest nap ever but it was too long, and now I feel sick. I have woken up to absolute carnage. My room is so messy that I am going to have to stay at Kayt's for a few days. Hopefully when I come back it will have tidied itself up.

Oh shit. Just realised this is my first blog post of 2011. I'm not exactly starting as I mean to go on am I?

I feel like I should be writing some sort of intelligent, reflective piece about 2011.

As it happens I'm not particularly intelligent or reflective, so I won't.

But I do feel that looking back at 2011 might be quite fun. Maybe I should bash out a few of my Best Moments of 2011 or something? (I have linked some of the 'moments' back to the original blog post, so if you are really bored you can read some of my past posts. I feel my past posts were a lot better than the shit I have been feeding you with lately, sorry.)

Best Things About 2011

The new friends I made...

(I'm too paranoid to mention these people by name in case they say 'We're not your friends, you dickhead.')

The old friends that came to visit me in Paris...

(Kat and Mikee, Rachel, Jen and Rosie , Abi, Claire, Jess, Lauren and Beth.)

Finally finding my rave around Paris...

(Mr Scruff, Foreign Beggars, Magnetic Man, Deadmau5, Bambounou, Mikix the Cat, Loefah, Mala, Damien Lazarus, Jamie Jones, Seth Troxler... too many considering when I first arrived in Paris I thought I would never find a club that played anything other than the Black Eyed Peas.)

One nighters in London, Belgrade, Lyon and St Tropez...

Sunny holidays in Monaco, Ibiza and (not so sunny) Manchester.

Even though there were some Sad Times last year, I did have a lot of Good Times last year, didn't I?

Saying that, I know everyone prefers my blog when I'm having a Shit Time (I know from the amount of comments I get saying 'Hey, love your blog, you make me feel better about my shit life!') So, just to stop you worrying that I had too much of a good year, here are some of my:

Worst Moments of 2011

Throwing up on the dancefloor in Ibiza...

Throwing up on the streets of Paris after dancing to drum and bass with food poisoning...

A man saying to me half-way through sex "Is your daddy hariy like me?"

In fact last year was generally a Bad Year for Men. If you don't believe me, click here.

(I think every girl should read it, because you need to know the truth! Here is an excerpt if you don't believe it will be worth your while:

"Half through the hanky panky, the man started laughing. He said he was thinking of a funny song. He got up and went to put on said song. The lyrics of the song were this:

'Big, fat, wet fannies that smell like dead fish.' ")

Hmm, also in 2011 I was almost raped by a mute Labrador.

Biggest Acheivement of 2011?

Unfortunately it wasn't learning how to speak French, abstaining from being a whore* or paying off my credit card, because I did none of these things. I would have to say my biggest acheivment of 2011 was getting a tan. I worked really hard on it and it lasted for agessss, in fact I still have some very faint white bits. So there you go. Not a complete waste of a year.

*Sorry readers, the Vow of Celibacy didn't work out, but I had to keep it up because somebody warned me that my mum had started reading my blog. Oh the things I wanted to tell you! There was one man who actually got out his accordian and played me some French folk songs on it, honestly. It was awful.

Coach Trip

2011-12-30T22:06:00.003+01:00

I'm going to London tomorrow. Yey!!!!!!

On the coach. Not so yey.

I'm going to make myself a Super Packed Lunch and take lots of books. I have no idea what to wear so I'm taking everything in my wardrobe, literally. The only things I'm not taking are my leggings that have a hole in them and my bikini.

I don't know whether I should take my Horrible Coat or not.

I had my hair cut today! It was traumatic, as most things in life are. First of all I turned up on the wrong day and then today when I arrived for my actual appointment, my hairdresser introduced himself and said he didn't speak very good English. I was forseeing lots of tragic misunderstandings that would probably result in a mullet. He said 'One minute' and disappeared for THIRTY EIGHT minutes. I was left looking at myself in the mirror for almost forty minutes.

When he finally came back he said 'I am sorry for the late' then proceeded to cut me in a Betty Page fringe which anyone with one good eye will tell you, only looks good on Betty Page, or Katy Perry. Even on Katy Perry it looks a bit shit, but she knows how to cleverly divert attention away from it by sticking giant, fluoro ice-cream cones onto her bra.

It wasn't as much of a disaster as I'd feared. It was bloody awkward though. After forty minutes of staring at myself in the mirror, I couldn't take any more, so while he cut my hair I just stared at the floor. He kept stopping to ask me if I liked my hair and I had to keep fake-smiling him and saying 'Oui, j'adore!' when really I hadn't even looked at it because every time I tried to steal a glance in the mirror we made eye-contact and it was Awk. Ward.

Anyway. London tomorrow. YEY!!!
I'm going to go and make my Super Packed Lunch now. I've got a giant pack of gummi bears and six carrots.

SO EXCITED!!!!!!!!!!

My Horrible Coat (and why it isn't horrible at all)

2011-12-28T19:00:00.000+01:00

I thought I would be miserable this week- being forced to face the post-Christmas depression toute seule, without even the festive TV specials and leftover mince pies that help the rest of Britain through this difficult period... But I actually feel fine. I'm enjoying having a break from my au pair job and it helps that I brought lots of nice things with me from England. I've got new books to read, new perfume and bronzer to cheer me up and, most importantly, after much deliberating, I decided to bring my Horrible Coat back to Paris.

I call it my Horrible Coat not because I don't like it (I love it) but because everyone who sets eyes on it decrees it a hideous waste of wardrobe space. I have no idea why, but most of my friends beg me not to wear it out and one time I even had to collect it from my friend Chaz's house because her mum refused to have it in the house.

I'm sure you're wondering what this Horrible Coat looks like. Maybe if I explain what kind of coat it is, some of you will understand why it receives such a 'mixed reception'...

It's an Afghan Coat.

You know, one of those fabulous, shaggy monstrosities made by old men with weather-beaten faces in the Afghan mountains, made popular outside of the Middle East in 1966, when the Beatles bought one each from a hip boutique on King's Road, London.

My coat isn't the traditional camel-colour with white hair on the collar and cuffs (it's all the same chocolate brown colour), but I think it is a beautiful coat. Me and my mum found it when I was fifteen and decided to buy it between us and share it (at £89 it was the most expensive thing I'd ever worn). I wasn't allowed to wear it for school because it was 'too nice' (and also I don't think the largely Hooch-coat wearing student body at my school was quite ready for Afghan coats) but I would wear it at the weekend with my brown suede boots and a little woolen mini-dress I got from Topshop. I felt so 60s in it. I could waltz down Stockport Road wearing my Horrible Coat and in my head I would have transported myself to Carnaby Street, circa 1969.

This little fantasy came to an arrupt halt when Chaz's sister saw me at the bus stop one day and asked me: "What are you wearing?"

I put the coat away and it didn't come out again for almost six years. (Despite paying for half, my mum has never worn it, which makes me think she too secretly thinks it is a Horrible Coat.) There were a couple of times when I came home from uni for the Christmas holidays and I'd give it another chance: I would be off into Manchester for a night out and I would realise that none of my coats were warm enough to stop me from freezing to death in the snow whilst waiting for the 192 at three in the morning; I would notice my Horrible Coat hanging at the back of my wardrobe, looking all warm and wonderful, and my Horrible Coat would once again experience the warmth of a human body inside and the cold, snowy air of winter on the outside.

Ah, I better not start personifying my clothes or I'll get upset for all the items I've lost, or given away, or stained forever with anti-vandal grease.*

Anyway, on the rare occasions I would wear it, I'd get all excited and wonder why I ever stopped wearing it. It made me feel all at once like a 1970s rock groupie (think Kate Hudson in Almost Famous) and like one of those trustafarian types, swanning around smoking roll-ups, smelling slightly musky because I live in a huge, empty flat in West London that my rich parents bought for me but that I've never furnished, because my hand-knitted teacosy stall on Portabello Road barely makes enough money to fund my yearly yoga pilgrimage to Goa...

But one of my friends would always make a sarky comment and as much as I'd tell myself I didn't care what anyone thought, I'd get home and realise that actually, it doesn't go with anything else in my wardrobe and really, I'm not a 1970s groupie, nor am I a trustafarian who is so rich I can prance about looking like a dickhead all day. I'm just me. (Also I could never be bothered taking it to Liverpool- it's the same size and weight as a medium-sized bear.)

A few months ago I was telling my friend Claire about my Horrible Coat (about how I loved it despite all my friends being nay-saying, Afghan coat haters) and I described it to her as being like the coat Carrie wears in Sex and the City when she goes on a date with the new Yankee and sees Big in a bar. Here's a picture for any non-SATC enthusiasts:

"I think I'm gonna like it." Claire said.

I got the coat out from the back of the wardrobe and she did like it. Finally, someone who made me feel like I wasn't going mad- I didn't have obscenely bad taste in coats after all! I decided I would take my Horrible Coat to Paris.

But then of course, I didn't, because I had to take everything for Paris wih me on holiday to Ibiza and there just wasn't room in my suitcase for my Horrible Coat. Which is why I've had to wait until now to be re-united with my beloved coat. I wore it whilst travelling back to Paris. I'm wearing it right now.

It baffles me as to why my Horrible Coat causes such violent reactions in people, but all I can say is, the coat is back. And everyone better not stare at me on the fucking metro.

*I wasn't being a vandal, I was just trying to squeeze through some railings so I could get the bottles of alcohol me and my friends had stashed at the side of the railway. It never came off my clothes and I had it on my skin for weeks- very irresponsible of Manchester City Council if you ask me.

Crying At Airports

2011-12-27T20:15:00.001+01:00

Yes, sorry to be a misery guts but Christmas is officially over, so if you're doing anything festive you better stop it. Now. Put down the mincepie and take off your silly Christmas jumper, because Christmas ended last night at ten pm when my plane touched down in Paris.

This time yersterday I was sat in the car with my mum, my brother and my stepdad, on my way to the airport. I had a horrible feeling in my stomach and my mouth was all dry. My mum wanted to take me into the airport but my stepdad, who was driving, said he didn't want to park the car... ideally he would have liked me to jump out of the car while it was still moving and then he would have thrown my luggage out after me, but my mum made him stop at the Drop-Off point so she could get out and give me a hug. I was all glittery-eyed and brave (just like Princess Diana, I thought) as my mum squeezed me goodbye and cried into my hair. I wonder where I get my drama queen tendancies from?

When I arrived in Manchester Airport last Friday, I had a little Drama Queen moment of my own. When I located my mum's face in the crowd at Arrivals I ran towards her and burst into tears and she had to gently steer me towards the carpark because everyone was staring at me. It was brilliant. I was inspired after watching Love Actually last week- there's nothing like a Tearful Airport Reunion.

Oh it was so lovely to be home! Everything was Novel and Glorious- whether it was taking a bath (I only have a shower in my Cinderella Room, remember) or sitting on the couch with my mum, eating chocolates and watching the Ab Fab Christmas special. (It was disappointing, wasn't it?)

I'm so glad I managed to get home without any Fuck-Ups- I was terrified something was going to go wrong. Thankfully, everything went quite smoothly. I packed my bags and rang a taxi the night before, then on Friday morning I got up at 4am, threw my clothes on (which I had chosen and arranged on a chair the night before, how organised of me!) and even had time for a cup of tea before I had to go downstairs and wait for my taxi.

I had an irrational fear that I was going to get mugged whilst waiting for my taxi, but the streets were full of people. It was the first time I have ever seen people going in or out of the two 'members only' clubs opposite my building, I was beginning to think they were brothels. It's weird though, that I've never seen anyone going in before; only the stony-faced bouncers stood on their own looking bored. I've never heard any music coming from within either, but they are definitely real 'members only' clubs because on Friday morning there were quite a few nobheads gathered outside, all looking very drunk and very rich.

Anyway, I was glad of the nobheads because it made me feel better about being Out and About so horrendously early. You know when you come home at 7am and you think everyone else must be doing the same thing as you, even though they have clearly just woken up and are on their way to work? Well I had that feeling, but in reverse: I felt like everyone on the streets was just starting the day like me, when in fact I don't know anyone who would start the day in a cocktail dress and heels, after drinking eleven champagne cocktails for breakfast. I wish I did though- that person would be the funnest friend ever!

The taxi was a little bit extravagant, but I didn't really have a choice. If I took my chances on the Roissy Bus or the Air France bus, I might not have made it on time and I would've had to get to the bus stops in the first place, providing muggers with ample opportunity to come and steal away my passport and with it my Christmas Dreams. The taxi was fifty five euros, but you can't put a price on Christmas Dreams.

At the airport I didn't Fuck Up too badly, although I did do that thing again where I check my bag in and then forget to go through Security- I was sat on a bench eating clementines for about twenty minutes before I realised that the big gate called 'Boarding' is actually where you go to get through Security. Why is it called 'Boarding' then? It's very confusing.

But now I think I know why I made the same mistake in Ibiza and then again on Friday: because I'm used to getting the 'Eurostar' and when you get the 'Eurostar' you go through security and then you wait in the lounge and then you get on your train; but when you get on 'a plane' you have to check your bag in and then you have to go through security, and then you wait in a lounge and then you get on your plane. You can see how I got a bit mixed up.

The flight was fine- I love Air France. I got a cup of tea and a croissant. The flight is ridiculously quick, it was an hour and a half, I think. My mum picked me up at the airport and we went straight to my gran's house for tea and mince pies. After that we went to my mum's friend's house for tea and mince pies and then we went home, for tea and mince pies... I love tea and mince pies.

I was supposed to go my dad's house in Liverpool the day I got back, but I couldn't be arsed travelling to Liverpool after getting up so early and being on a plane.

What?

It's hard work getting on a plane! Before I went through Security I realised I had about a million clementines and little boxes of mini Smarties in my handbag and I couldn't remember if you were allowed to take food on a plane or not... I thought the Smarties might look like drugs and it sent me into a panic, then I thought 'What if they think I've wrapped clementine peel around bags of heroin?' so I threw all my food in a bin just before I went through. The weird thing is, when I got off the plane in England, I realised I still had two clementines and three little boxes of Smarties in my handbag... next time I fly, I think I will take on board loads of drugs disguised as Smarties and clementines.

I felt a bit snid on my dad for not showing up but I didn't think he'd be too bothered. Whenever I do get around to visiting him, I spend most of the time lying on the couch yelling 'Can I have another cup of tea, dad?' and 'Can I have a lamb chop?' To his credit, he does always at least two lambchops in the griddlepan, waiting for me (his oldest, fattest child).

But on Christmas Day he rang up to speak to me and my brother and he sounded a bit sad.

"When will we see you then?" he said.

The answer was, I don't know and I feel a bit bad about this because I've seen my dad, his girlfriend and my three little half-brothers twice in the last twelve months... I also feel a bit scared because my nana will be furious at me. Once me and my brother didn't see her on Easter Sunday and she ate our Easter Eggs to teach us a lesson. I bet she would have given me some money for Christmas as well, but now she'll have spent it out of spite.

Oh well.

Three and a half days just wasn't enough time to see everyone. I didn't see any of my friends, I didn't even get to see all of my family... But I had a cracking Christmas dinner and I stocked up on false eyelashes, that's all you can ask for really.

My first day back at work was ok, I'm so glad I don't have to go to my au pair job this week. I'm going to use my free afternoons and evenings to be really productive- I'm going to get my eyebrows done, exfoliate and moisturise every night and I'm going to FINALLY get my hair cut. I look like I've been held captive in someone's cellar for sixteen years, someone who didn't own a pair of scissors.

There's also the teensy weensy problem of finding outfits for New Year's Eve (fancy dress party) and New Year's Day (raving). I don't know why I bother looking in the shops and trying things on, we all know I'll just put my feathery headband on for the fancy dress party and then my Disco Tights and denim shorts for New Year's Day.
Oh my God do you know what I've just thought? I always spell 'airplane' as 'airplane', yet I pronounce it as 'aeroplane'. Am I spelling it wrong? Are there two different words? Am I an idiot?

Don't answer that.

Cos I'm Leeeeaving On a Jetplane...

2011-12-22T22:53:00.000+01:00

... But I know when I'll be back again, Monday night. Pfftt. I keep forgetting I am only going back to England for a long weekend. There wasn't really any need to eat everything in my fridge.

Fucking hell. I have to be up at 4am. I'm so nervous!! It doesn't really feel like I'm going home, but I am! I AM!!!!

I haven't been back to England for four months. Four months! This time last year I'd already been back to the U.K twice.

Oh God. I'm terrified something is going to go wrong. I'm going to have a cup of tea and then pack, not that I've got a lot to pack... I'm basically checking in a bag full of 'Christmas presents' (sweets for my little brothers, soap for everyone else) and all I'll need in my hand-luggage is my passport and my tickets. Well, I haven't got my tickets, but I'm pretty sure I don't need them, I've printed off the email confirming my flight, this will be enough surely?

Fuck fuck fuck!! I'm so scared! What if I don't get home for Christmas???

O.k, calm... calm...

I can't think of anything sensible to say, sorry. I'm too wound up. But for a more entertaining read, why don't you re-read the travel 'adventures' I had last Christmas? Maybe then you'll understand why I'm so J-J-J-ITTTT-TTT-E-ER-ERRR-ERY!!!

Click here to read my posts from last December (I snuck off to England for the weekend without telling my boss, nearly got stranded in Calais because my Eurostar broke down and then nearly didn't make it out of London because of the snow... and that was the weekend before Christmas. Five days later I had to do it all again...)

Oh I hope this year isn't as dramatic! I've booked a taxi to the airport because the earliest bus might not get me to the airport in time and there's no way I'm risking spending Christmas alone in my Cinderella room. Although at least I would have a LOT of sweets to eat.

Right, I'm off now to pace around my room eating biscuits and panicking.
See you on the other side!

C'est Christmas Time!

2011-12-20T18:20:00.002+01:00

I've just been over my last blog post and edited it quite a lot, it was so badly written. The punctuation was terrible. I know my punctuation is always terrible but in Sunday's post it was particularly bad, so I do apologise. I was absolutely knackered on Sunday night after a lovely but quite busy weekend, which I need to finish telling you about...

Ok so I blew my fuse or my fuse blew up- whatever the 'technical term' is for using too much electricity and then loosing it all in one go. My phone was dying so I sent a text to Kayt asking her to come to my place in the morning and ring my buzzer until I answered, because we were supposed to be going to Julia's for a Transcontinental Christmas Lunch (the transcontinental part being the mince pies that me and Kayt promised to bring).

On Sunday morning I awoke in my cold, dark room to the ringing of my telephone- Kayt was ringing to see if it was working and luckily the battery had lasted the night. We arranged to meet in front of Marks and Spencers so we could get the mince pies for the Christmas Lunch. For the second time in a row I was lucky in that there was no queue outside, but once we got through the doors a very annoying man in a suit told us that the Food Hall would be closed for half an hour while they restocked the shelves. We decided to- oh my God, I'm so sorry! I've just realised I'm doing that thing again where I describe every, tiny, boring-arse thing that happened to me in the minutest detail imaginable.

Ok, let's jump forwards a few sentences:

...grabbed a basket and ran in, suddenly overcome by a passionate desire to grab everything and anything within eyesight. As we were the first ones in, I had about two minutes to get a proper look at everything and I realised that the Champs Elysees M&S Food Hall is even more magnificent than I first thought! They have cocktail sausages and sausage rolls and proper sausages that are only 2.59 a packet! They have naan bread and biryani, beef stir-fry and bottles of BBQ sauce! They have chilled salads and sushi and desserts and yoghurts!!

We were overcome by the sheer volume of Excellent English Produce that lay before us and I momentarily lost control of my Mind, Body and Soul- I've not been home for four months and the sight of Reversey Percies was too much for me... I went into a FRENZY. We bought three boxes of mince pies, a chicken and bacon sandwich, two packs of salt and vinegar crisps, two packets of crumpets, a Turkish Delight chocolate bar, a packet of bacon and a box of Bakewell Tarts. Phew. Looking back, we might have gone a little bit overboard...

Especially as, upon arriving at Julia's flat, we discovered that they had made enough food for fifteen people. Before we even started the meal, we had bacon and pesto pastry tarts that Julia's sister Laure had made, plus blinis with taramasalata and this tuna thing that Julia made with coriander and lemon juice. Also present was the internationally-recognised Party Snack Staple- breadsticks and carrot crudités with humous. They'd even made a huge bowl of punch with fizzy wine and fruit juice. Oh it was so lovely, I feel kind of bad that all we brought were mince pies. Abby doesn't even like mince pies- the first time she tried one, at a party in Liverpool, she thought it was a madeleine, which is a sweet little French sponge thing, and when she tasted the gritty, bitter surprise in the middle she spat it out in front of everyone. Ha ha.

As we snacked and drank, we played 'Time Out'- a boardgame version of that party game where you have to make your partner guess the names of as many famous people as you can before you run out of time. Me and Kayt went through all the cards first and weeded out most of the French people because we had no idea who they were, but as it turns out, we didn't even know who all the non-French people were...

I couldn't understand why Abby wasn't guessing 'Admiral Nelson'. I described him as 'short, French, leader, war, uniform, very short man, eye patch, French! Short! Leader! Eye patch!' I was thinking of Napoleon, who apparently didn't wear an eye patch. Oops.

For our main meal Abby made us chestnut and mushroom risotto with chicken coated in breadcrumbs, stuffed with bacon and foie gras. It was very, very delicious and not even spoiled by the graphic photographs I saw last week on the Champs Elysees, held up by angry protestors and showing geese being force-fed through funnels. Like most things in life, I just pretend it doesn't exist! : D

After all the lovely food I'd consumed, I was struggling to keep my eyes open after two very long days and late nights. Julia said I could have a nap on her bed, so I did. For two hours. When I woke up everyone had started on the pudding which upset me a little bit. Kayt said "Did you expect us to wait for you to wake up? Did you expect us not to eat while you slept?"

The answer to that question is always YES, BITCH!

For pudding Laure had made a pear and dark chocolate tart, me and Kayt had brought Bakewell Tarts and mince pies and for some reason there was also a huge box of chocolate snails, which are kind of like decadent chocolate seashells. (Not that chocolate seashells aren't decadent- as any English readers* will know, 'Guylian Chocolate Sea Shells' are the Poshest Chocolates you can buy. )

As we gorged ourselves on Christmassy treats (Julia and Laure loved the mince pies but Abby wouldn't go near them) we watched Love Actually and I must say I welled up at the end when everyone hugs each other at Heathrow Airport. It made me think about Friday. I can't believe I'm actually flying home, it's been so long. No, I really can't believe it. I feel like something is going to go drastically wrong.

Anyway, on Sunday night Kayt came back to my place with me so I could grab everything out of my fridge and take it to hers, because obiviously my fridge wasn't working. While I banged about in the dark, Kayt had opened this wooden box thing on my wall and pressed a green button and suddenly everything turned on again! It was a Christmas Miracle! Or, as Kayt called it, ' a fusebox'.

On Monday I worked my last shift at the restaurant until after Christmas and I actually meant it when I wished everyone a Happy Christmas. They are kind of growing on me. After that I went straight to my au pair job, which I was really worried about as I didn't know if I'd end up wandering around like a spare part.

But it was fine! The eight year old had a friend round and they wanted to play with me so we played 'theatre' which basically involved acting out really boring situations, like I'd be the mum and they'd be my daughters who had broken a toy and I had to shout at them, then we'd all swap roles. I kept trying to introduce magical elements to the game like 'Why don't I be the mum and you be my baby UNICORN?!' but they just looked at me like I'd suggested we all shave our heads and drink petrol.

From my au pair job I went straight to Georgie's for sausage casserole. We listened to Christmas songs and ate M&S Christmas cake and now I feel really Christmassy!!

Today my au pair job was ok, both the girls had about six million mates round (I'm exaggerating a little bit) and I had to make lunch for them all, which I don't mind but not one of them said thank you. I mostly chatted to the baby's nounou because the girls didn't want me cramping their style. The nounou told me that she gets paid 1,200 euros a month for 184 hours and that she can't afford to buy her three sons Christmas presents this year...

There was talk of me accompanying the dad and the five girls to Jardin d'Acclimation which is like a kid's 'amusement park' designed by a child-hating bastard. I took the five year old and his Mad Mate there last summer on a boiling hot day and it was crowded and stressful and I swore NEVER to go there ever again. I could tell the dad was a bit overwhelmed by how many kids he had to look after, so I hovered around anxiously, faffing about with my coat to make it clear I was ready to leave.

"You." he said, as he caught my eye, "What did my wife tell you to do today?"

"She told me to come for the lunch and then that's it." I half-lied.

(She told me to be there for lunch time, she didn't say what time I had to leave.)

The dad nodded and said I could go. Yey! I skipped down the road with one thing on my mind:

Chirstmas Shopping.

As always, I've left it to the Last Fucking Minute and I am getting a little bit stressed out. I did this last year and ended up buying everyone a jar of French honey and a bar of soap. I knew this afternoon might be my only chance to go shopping before I go back to England, so I went to the Christmas Market on the Champs Elysee, determined to find everyone a lovely, unique, appropriate gift. I started to feel really Christmassy, what with the pretty lights and the festive songs playing, so I decided to buy myself a cup of vin chaud.

I drank it too quickly, felt really light-headed and ended up buying everyone a box of French tea and a bar of soap.

Hmm. You know what has made me feel very un-fucking-festive? Thinking about the nanny. And how her boys aren't getting any presents this year. All the money I spend on going out and make-up, I could have bought her kids some little presents. Once you get into that frame of mind, it's hard to stop. How can we enjoy our Christmas dinner when there are people with nothing to eat? How can I sit in my room drinking tea and eating mince pies when there is a man sleeping on a doorstep two doors down? Etc. etc.

Oh wait, I've just remembered something- homeless people aren't real! They just pretend to be homeless in order to get money from hardworking people like you and me. At the end of the day they go back home to their huge, well-heated apartments and eat a hearty meal with their clean, well-cared for kids.

And you know all those people with poorly-paid jobs who can't afford to buy their kids Christmas presents? Well it's ok because they want to be poor. They could get a better job if they just pulled their finger out a bit and made an effort, but at the momeny they're more than happy to work fifty hours a week and struggle to buy shoes for their kids. And don't even get me started on unemployed people...

As for the Third World, have you actually been there? They only pretend to be poor when the cameras are on them- if you actually go inside one of those shantytown shacks, you'll see they've all got widescreen tellies and American-style fridges, with ice-cube makers.

And as for those photographs of the geese... they're all photoshopped! Everyone knows that foie gras is French for 'tofu paste'.

There. Now I can enjoy my Christmas.

*Unless you're a Posh English person- who knows what bloody chocolates they eat. Hotel Chocolat probably, the flashy dickheads.

Un Bon Weekend

2011-12-18T23:25:00.001+01:00

What have I done this weekend?

Is anyone really arsed?

I'm going to tell you anyway.

On Friday night me and Kayt went to another Parisian Party, only this time there was no cheese. It was a flat-warming party for Angélique, our French friend who we met through Anna when we went to Rebel Rave a few months ago (Anna is my chum who has since moved to Australia, in case you're struggling to keep up with all the girl's names I mention in this blog, for lack of any Gentleman Friends.)

In typical Bloody Rude British style we arrived four hours late, by which time most people had left, but the people who remained were really nice and we found out that everyone was going to Rex Club to see Paul Ritch, Daniel Stefanik and Okain. Erm... I won't lie I had never heard of any of these DJs, but I really like Rex Club A LOT- it's like Social Club without all the Pretentious Nobheads and there's always places to sit when you need a Disco Break (like a Disco Nap but instead of sleeping you sit on a sofa and tap your feet to the music.)

We were faced with two problems: one was that Kayt didn't have any I.D with her and the bouncers at Rex Club, like the bouncers at most Paris clubs, are really arsey about ID; the other problem was that I was wearing my One Drink Ankle Boots, the same boots that Amy called 'the most uncomfortable shoes in the world'. We came up with a cunning plan to get Kayt's ID- we would leave the party earlier than everyone else, get the metro as far as we could without changing lines and then get a taxi to Kayt's. We would get the taxi to wait outside Kayt's and then take us to Rex Club. As for the One Drink Ankle Boots, I was hoping that the nerve-numbingly large bottle of vodka we were drinking would soon get rid of that problem.

As soon as everyone started making moves to leave the party, me and Kayt dashed to the metro, but not before saying a Proper Goodbye to Angélique, just in case we couldn't get in to Rex Club: I've only ever been to Rex Club when I've either pre-bought tickets or when Georgie has got me on Guest List; and I've always been relieved not to be part of the huge, snaking queue of people hoping to pay on the door...

Me and Kayt ran (well, I hobbled) to the metro, armed with a huge bottle of Diet Coke that was half-filled with vodka. We hoped it would keep us warm and also top up our alcohol levels so that we didn't have to enter Rex Club sober. As soon as sat down on the metro, we were heckled by a group of French girls who seemed to have terrorised the whole carriage into submission.- everybody wasbeing very quiet, trying to avoid eye contact with them. I was a bit on guard when they started yelling at us, until I realised they were just asking us what was in our bottle.

"Why are you drinking Diet Coke?" they yelled at us.

"It's got vodka in it!" I told them.

This prompted wo of them to stumble down the carriage with little plastic cups, asking if they could have some drink. I still wasn't sure if they were hard or not, so we gave them some. We got chatting and they were actually really nice girls, they were just very drunk and rowdy. I think everyone on the metro was being so weird because people in Paris don't feel comfortable around binge-drinking Youths on public transport. (People stare if you even dare to eat a packet of crisps on the metro, never mind downing half a bottle of vodka.)

The girls we'd given some drink to then wanted us to go and sit with them and have shots of tequila and as we had about fifteen metro stops to sit through, we decided it could be a fun way to pass the time. As we walked through the carriage all the Normal People looked at us coldly as if to say 'Oh, you're one of them are you?'

And I did feel like one of them! We drank shots of tequila with them (they even had little wedges of lime to suck on) and let them practice their broken English on us. By the time we reached our stop, we had swapped 'details' and promised to go on a night out together. I have no intention of ever contacting them, but at the time I was sure we would all become Lifelong Drinking Buddies.

After our eventful metro journey, we managed to get a taxi and it took us about five minutes to get to Kayt's. While she ran upstairs to get her passport, I chatted to the taxi driver about Angkor Wat and Angkor Thom after discovering he was Cambodian. We had a lovely chat, until he said I was rubbish for not being able to speak French after living here for over a year. Hmmmm.

We got to Rex Club at the same time as Angélique and her friends and to our relief, the queue wasn't that big. By this point we were feeling quite drunk and I didn't want to pass out before we even got in, so we gave the rest of our vodka to a homeless man, in the hope that it would keep him warm. At the time we were really pleased with ourselves for being such Good Samaritans, but after half an hour of queueing we kind of wished we had the vodka to drink- the queue was not moving.

I have never, ever queued so long to get into a club. After an hour I needed a wee so badly that I thought I was going to cry, but we didn't think we'd have time to nip across to the restaurant over the road. Luckily, we decided to risk it and I'm so glad we did, because when we got back from the restaurant the queue hadn't moved an inch.

It was quite an entertaining queue- we chatted to the people around us and met a man wearing half a wolf-head as a hat- but after waiting in the cold for an hour, I couldn't take it any more. Me and Kayt debated Fucking Off, because I couldn't see how we would ever get in, but you get to that point when you've queued for so long that you think it would be stupid to leave... Plus we were really, really in the mood for raving, so we decided to stay put...

...we eventually got in after TWO HOURS of queueing!

But.

It was worth it. My shoes were crippling me so I took them off and held them in my hands as I danced... and I danced A LOT- I didn't even need any Disco Breaks. The only Shit Thing was that me and Kayt had completely run out of money by this point and I was so thirsty that I started retching, but Kayt saved the day by grabbing a random empty glass and filling it up with water from the toilets.

Hey! I never said I wasn't disgusting!

What a brilliant night. We left the club at about 6.30am and got the metro back to Kayt's. We had a cup of tea and watched that song from Flight of the Conchords before we went to bed. Do you know that song that goes 'Foo lafafa. Foo lafafafafa-aaa. Faaa-iii'? It's funny:

The next day I didn't have to do my au pair job for once, YEY, but I did have to work at the restaurant at 6pm. I thought an entire day would be enough time to get through my hangover, but I was tragically wrong. My hangover didn't kick in until just before it was time to go to work and I arrived at work looking like a very poorly sea elephant. If you don't know what one of those is, here:

I was absolutely dreading my seven hour shift, especially as I hardly ever work night shifts and I don't know what I'm doing....

But.

Do you know what? It was fine. I was working with two French guys I've never worked with before who are really nice and because they are quite new they don't tell me what to do and one of them can't speak English so we spoke in French, which is what I rrrreally need to start doing if I want to look back on my time in France as anything more than a Massive Waste of Time.
At first it was quite slow and I just had to be a 'runner', which basically means floating around trying to look busy and occassionally going down to the kitchen and bringing plates up. The kitchen staff were being really nice to me because I told them I was going to dance on the tables for them at the end of my shift. I actually meant to say something entirely different , which is why I need to stop trying to speak French. (Or maybe it means I should try a little harder?)

At 9pm we opened the downstairs bar and I had to be there all by myself. It was really busy and nobody would move out of my way. At point I was carrying a really heavy tray of drinks and loads of people were just stood there, ignoring my pleas of 'Excusez-moi! Excusez-moi!' and I got so angry that I kicked a man in his ankles. I jabbed another man really hard in the back and he nearly fell over. Not the most polite way to treat customers but honestly, there were so many people and they wouldn't FUCKING move out of my way.

I was supposed to finish at 1am but the manager asked me if I could stay 'a little bit longer' and I ended up staying until 3.30am. But for the last half an hour we were sat around chatting and having a drink and then the manager said she would give me a lift home. I got home just before 4am, but before I could crawl into bed, I had to charge my phone up to set my alarm. I plugged my charger into the wall, it made a loud POP and there were blue sparks and then everything went dark.

Right that's enough for tonight I need to go to bed, I'll finish this tomorrow.

Only seven days until Christmas!!

This Isn't Just Any Blog Post...

2011-12-15T17:14:00.000+01:00

... This is a hand-crafted, gently creamed blog post, draped in rich, velvety words and topped with a dusting of sweet, caramalised punctuation.

GUESS WHERE I'VE FINALLY BEEN?

I've been to Marks and bloody Spencer's haven't I? I thought I'd have a look on my way home from the restaurant, on the off chance that there might not be a queue, and I got lucky! From the cold streets of Paris I waltzed straight into the warm, motherly embrace of M&S and it was everything I'd dreamt it would be. As soon as you walk in the store you are greeted by racks of neat little cardigans and well-fitting trousers. You feel so at peace in the calming, clean atmosphere of Marks and Spencer's. Then, past the rows and rows of sensible clothing you are faced with shelves of shoes, some of which are quite nice actually, but you don't have time to stop and look at them because something else has caught your attention:

FOOD HALL

Around the sign a crowd of French people jostle for position as a security guard tells one customer to go in as another comes out.

(It's interesting how much French people slag English food off and yet here they are, anxiously queuing up for a chance to spend their hard-earned euros on such culinary delights as scotch eggs and Rich Tea biscuits.)

I didn't have to wait for long before the smiling security guard waved his hand like a genie, inviting me to step inside Aladdin's Cave...

It was fucking BRILLIANT.

It was everything I dreamt it would be. There were piles of boxes and plastic tubs, filled with such delights as Bakewell Tarts, Victoria Spongecake and Mini Flapjacks. There were hundreds of little Percy Pig faces smiling at me from inside their brightly-coloured bags.There were SANDWICHES, exactly the same ones they sell in England (only a lot more expensive). There were crisps and loaves of bread, packets of biscuits and fridges filled with ready-meals.

It was difficult to get around the swarms of French people puzzling over packets of Scotch Pancakes and English Muffins, but I managed to get a proper look at everything, silently taking in the Many Wonders of England, all the while keeping my eyes peeled for the one thing I was really searching for, yearning for.

Mince Pies.

I looked everywhere but they were nowhere to be seen. I asked a harrassed-looking manager where the mince pies were and he said they had run out, but that they would be getting more in tomorrow. My heart sank a little bit, but I have a plan to get up early tomorrow and queue up, so hopefully I will get some mince pies. I need them for Festive Fun.

By the time I discovered they were out of mince pies, a huge queue had formed outside the Food Hall. I realised that I couldn't predict when I'd next get the opportunity to come back. Who knows if I'll ever get as lucky again? I couldn't decide what I wanted or needed and to be honest, I panicked a little bit. I bought a packet of Digestive Bicuits, a Victoria Spongecake and a small Turkish Delight chocolate bar. It came to about four euros in total, which isn't too bad. The sandwiches might be a bit dear but apart from that, they haven't priced everything too extortionately, so I'm relieved. Now I just have to hope that after Christmas the queues calm down a bit so I can wander in whenever I'm feeling homesick.

Oooh! Only ten days 'til Christmas!!! Last night me and Kayt were invited to a Christmas party by our friend Liz, who has a French boyfriend and it was his work collegue's party or something. It was the randomest bunch of people I have ever found myself in a room with, but it was Good Fun and they had loads and loads of cheese. We met and American man called Frank who was insane, but we weren't sure if he was 'good insane' or 'bad insane'. We also met a Lebanese lady called Howa who owns a translation company and told us off for not speaking French. She has really sold me on Lebanon as a summer holiday destination.

I stayed at Kayt's and this morning we watched My Big Fat Gypsy Christmas and it was amazing!! I feel like today all my dreams are coming true. Oh, but wait. There is some bad news. Remember those trousers I bought from H&M that I suspected might make me look like a middle-aged frumpy woman with a huuuuge arse? Well, they do mae my arse look huge and Kayt came round so I could try them on for her and she pointed out they are too big for me around the waist, so basically I have bought myself some Clown Pants. If that wasn't bad enough, I have just found a photograph of Snooki wearing a very similar pair of trousers. I am taking them back tomorrow.

The Light Situation

2011-12-12T22:17:00.001+01:00

This morning was my last 'théâtre en anglais' lesson until after Christmas and I am GLAD because I can't cope anymore with the 8.30am start. I know other people have to start their working day earlier than that, but this is my blog and therefore: There is NO earlier start to the day than 8.30am!!! So there.

Last night we went to see Jamie Woon at Nouveau Casino and stayed out for drinks afterwards until about half eleven and I kept thinking 'maybe I should tell the other teacher I can't make it tomorrow...' because I couldn't bear the thought of stumbling about trying to make sense of the world while it's still dark outside, especially as I'm not even getting paid for the lessons. Well... I'm supposed to be getting paid in 'expenses', but only when I start teaching the lessons on my own (which I kind of hope never happens because the kids are Insane and I can't stop them from punching each other and climbing up the walls). I'm a teensy bit cynical about this 'expenses' thing: the woman who runs the company is really nice and she took a bit of a chance on me, so I'm sure she won't rip me off; but you Never Can Tell... So it's basically Good Will that's getting me out of bed at 7am every Monday.

Today after the class I went for coffee with the woman who runs everything (let's call her Florence for simplicity's sake) and one of the teacher/actors who I teach the lesson with. I've not seen Florence since the beginning of October and she wanted to know how the lessons have been going. To be honest I find the lessons really difficult and I'm dreading the day I have to teach on my own, but for some reason Florence seems to think I am doing really well, even though she has never seen me teach or act, and she told me today that she might have more lessons lined up for next year, adult classes, but that she won't take them on unless she knows I'll still be here. She wants me to teach a lot more lessons, for a normal hourly teacher fee, which I suppose would be quite good, except for the fact that I CAN'T TEACH and also I am ninety-nine percent certain that I am moving to London and not staying in Paris.

I'm not one hundred percent because... well, I don't know. I just don't know what to do with my life. I really want to live in London, but it's going to be extraordinarily difficult to find a job there. Not just a job, but a job that will enable me to support myself. Here I don't pay rent and I have three jobs, even today Florence gave me the number of her friend who wants Engligh tutoring for her kid... I also love Paris, a lot. I don't want to leave, ever.

BUT I want to live in London equally as much as I don't want to leave Paris.

What am I going to do?? Seriously, what I am going to do? If I stay in Paris I'll have to teach and waitress, which I don't really like doing, but if I move to London I'll just have the option of waitressing and I won't be able to tell people that I live in Paris, which sounds interesting enough to distract them from the fact that I'm not really doing anything with my life at all. (The bonus of learning French doesn't factor into the equation as I've now given up any hope of ever learning French. It's now painfully obvious that I will never speak the language, not even if I lived in France for twenty years and married a man called Jean-Claude who force-feeds geese for a living to make delicious paste with their livers.)

Oh fuck. I feel sick just thinking about The Future.

The good news that while I haven't got a new bulb yet, I did find this weird red Plastic Thing with a metal hole in it, and I found a bulb that doesn't fit in my 'big light' but I tried shoving it into the Plastic Thing and... I have light! Unfortunately I blinded myself, as I was looking directly into a lightbulb held two inches away from my face, but I've come up with a solution to make the light bearable...

Pure Snazz.

It's a colander, if you can't tell from the picture. Also, Kayt lent me some fairy lights so my room seems all cosy and Festive. AND I know it sounds a bit mental and I can't really explain how I know, but I have a Serious, Psychic Feeling that Father Christmas is going to come down my chimney. I know it. I just know. I've never had a real chimney before- I did't connect my fireplace with an Actual Chimney until it started raining inside it last week. It was kind of cold and shit but also magical at the same time! I feel like a Victorian maid! In a romantic magical way! I might start wearing a little bonnet and a shawl!

Anyway, listen to this if you like:

Dark Days

2011-12-11T11:49:00.001+01:00

Me and Tasmin* went shopping together yesterday. I went into Sephora to buy some shampoo and hair conditioner and came out with a Mac concealer and face powder. Turns out they don't sell hair porducts. But they were giving out free Lindt Lindor chocolates! Don't judge me, it wasn't even that much money and I really needed a new concealer because my skin has for Some Reason gone horrible all of a sudden- when I was giving the eight year old her bath on Friday, she put a hand infront of her face so she didn't have to look at my 'erghh face'. She's lucky I didn't drown her.

I don't know why it's suddenly got so bad... Unless it's all the sweets and chocolate I've been eating, and the late nights and alcohol drinking? The week that Amy was here, we worked out that we'd drank more alcoholic drinks that non-alcoholic drinks. That can't be good for my skin can it? From now on I'm going to drink lots and lots of water. I'm going to make myself 99% water, 1% Mac concealer and face powder.

I also bought some black silk trousers from H&M. Come on, I'm allowed to shop in H&M aren't I? I'm only going home for Christmas for three days. AND I'm getting the coach to London on NYE, for seven long and probably uncomfortable hours. I deserve some treats don't I?? DON'T I???

Yes, I do.

The problem is, now I need shoes to go with the trousers. They're high waisted and really tailored all the way down, so I'll need some extremely high black ankle boots to go with them. Otherwise I'm look like a middle aged, middle class mother called Sue, who wears seriously questionable trousers that: make her legs look stumpy; showcase her Massive Thighs; and serve to highlight that indeterminable bulge that spreads from her belly button to her youknowwhat (her 'gunt', for the uncouth among you). But it's all right for Sue- she doesn't have to worry about unflattering trousers because she so's 'busy busy, manic, darling' with the school run, Christmas shopping, making mince pies and taking the four dogs out for walkies. What's my excuse?

I've seen some really nice ones in Naf Naf. They're 90 euros, which I know is a lot but I had my heart set on a black, tulle skirt in there and they ran out of my size. The skirt was 45 euros and seeing as I can't buy it now, that's 45 euros I can put towards the boots. So really they'll only be 45 euros. And why can't I buy myself some boots for 45 euros? After all...

I'm only going home for Christmas for three days. AND I'm getting the coach to London on NYE, for seven long and probably uncomfortable hours. I deserve some treats don't I?? DON'T I???

I feel like I'll be copying and pasting that excuse many times in the run up to Christmas...

Anyway, I need to go now, as my FUCKING LIGHT has gone and I need to make the most of the daylight in my room. Last night I had to wash my hair by the light of two candles. It was not 'romantic' and 'back-to-basics fun'- I got water everywhere and shampoo in my eye.

I was going to ask the au pair family if they had a spare bulb but they were a bit annoyed at me because I had to leave work early to go to my restaurant job, so I thought it wasn't the best time...I fucking HATE working Saturdays. They asked me to go over at half three in the afternoon, so I assumed I'd be finished by six at the latest, giving me enough time to go home and get ready before waitressing at the restaurant at 8pm, but the mum said she needed me to stay until 6.30pm and could only go after I'd washed the little girl's hair, so I ended up with half an hour to wash and dry my own hair, in the dark.

I'm so fucking annoyed at the light. I had a bedside table lamp but it broke for No Reason, so I really have no light at all, apart from in my fridge. Yesterday I propped the fridge open and got up on a chair to see what kind of bulb it is, but it's like nothing I've ever seen before. It won't unscrew and I can't pull it off, therefore I must REMAIN IN THE DARK FOREVER.

Cheers, have a good Sunday. I'm going to see Jamie Woon tonight. I hope it cheers me up. Ooh I can put my new make-up on. By the light of two candles... I'm sure it will look fab.

*If you don't know who is Tasmin is, all I can is that you haven't been paying much attention have you?? Click here, if you want.

Magic Transforming Knickers and Re-appearing Passports

2011-12-08T15:42:00.001+01:00

Did I tell you that I found my passport? I can't remember. My memory is shockingly bad these days. I feel like my brain is slowly dripping out of the back of my head- too much alcohol and too much falling over and banging my head whilst under the influence of alcohol...

Anyway, after me and Amy spent every spare minute she was here hunting for my passport high and low, we concluded that it was Lost Forever. We searched every square cm of my room, as did some of my friends in case I'd left it at their places by accident. I resinged myself to forking out for a new passport, and all the Fucking Faffing that would come with it... I evisioned many tearful trips to the British Embassy and stressful moments at the airport, not knowing if they would accept my emergency passport or not....

Then, on the day that Amy left, we were in my room looking for anything she might have forgotten to pack, when I happened to glance at my bed and saw a flash of maroon. I didn't let myself get excited because a part of me knew it was probably Amy's passport. After all, a minute ago I could have sworn there was nothing on the bed. The only explanation was that Amy had put her passport there in the last five seconds.

But.

Remember when I lost my passport at Ibiza airport? And I could tell that it was my passport before I could even see the front cover? Because it had a Magic Magnetic Aura about it? Remember?

I just knew it was mine.

I reached out for it silently and as my fingers touched the worn, dog-eared corner, I knew. I looked at the picture, just to make sure I wasn't going mad and there it was, the hologrammed photo of Myra Hindley with dark hair. It was definitely my passport.

"Shut. The Fuck. UP!" I shouted.

(Honestly, that is what I really said. I don't understand why, perhaps in my excitement my brain got confused and thought I was a Californian teenager.)

Amy looked up and saw the passport in my hand, held aloft like it was a winning lottery ticket.

"AHHHHHH!" she screamed.

It was very exciting, we danced about and screamed for about five minutes. Then, when we'd calmed down, Amy asked me where I'd found it. I explained that it had just appeared on the bed, as if by magic. Except I didn't mean to say 'as if', because it had actually appeared by magic- we'd looked for my passport high and low for days and all of a sudden it appeared on my bed, when my bed had been in plain view, and quite obviously passport-free, all morning. The only logical explanation was that it had been spirited there by some benign, supernatural force.

Amy said that she thought a more likely explanation was that it had been in my pillow case 'or something' and had fallen out 'somehow'. Hmmm. Not exactly a water-tight hypothesis is it?

Why do people insist of making up hazy, improbable explanations for things, when it is clearly MAGIC?

Sometimes things just happen, because of magic. I have tried to explain this many times to many people and nobody ever believes me. Like the time a pair of knickers fell out of my fridge. Kayt said "Why did a pair of knickers fall out of your fridge?" and I said "I don't know, perhaps an apple turned into a pair of knickers. We'll never know will we?"

But noooooo! This apparently was 'a ridiculous thing to say' and what followed was a very tiresome arguement where I had to patiently explain to Kayt how I wasn't saying that an apple definitely turned into a pair of knickers, I was just saying that an apple probably turned into a pair of knickers. Was anyone there to witness an apple definitely not turning into a pair of knickers? No. So there. Why is everyone so negative, all the time?
Sigh.

In other news, I'm eating a mince pie and I'm feeling festive! I would put a festive Christmas video on here for you to enjoy but my laptop is being a KNOBHEAD so you'll have to provide your own soundtrack. Now I'm going to go Christmas shopping, for myself. Yey!

The Return of Shit Au Pair

2011-12-06T16:02:00.001+01:00

So. When I went to my au pair job on Thursday, there was nobody home except the dad and he asked me if he could talk to me. He said the mum was 'going crazy' because she had to keep telling me to do things over and over again. I asked what he meant and he said she had asked me to wash up the baby's plate three times, yet I still continued to put it into the dishwasher. He said "We can't put it into the dishwasher. Do you know why? Because we only have one plate for him and if we put it in the dishwasher it will not be done in time for his next meal."

He also said I'm 'like a shadow around the house' and that I'm too quiet and that I'm not smiley. He also told me 'My wife says about you, your head is not on your shoulders.' He then brought up An Incident last week where the girls thought I'd left the park without them, but I hadn't, I'd just gone looking for them because they ran away to the opposite end of the park and I was getting worried. (It's a really big park we go to after school on a Friday, and it was dark.)

I didn't really say much during the conversation other than the occasional 'Of course, yeah' and 'Right, ok'. I agreed with him and apologised, and we kind of ended the conversation, so I went off to start the dinner. But five minutes later he came into the kitchen after me. "It's expensive for us, you know. The money every week, and your food, and your room. We don't ask a lot from you, we are asking like ten hours a week from you (actually it varies between fifteen and twenty, but didn't see the point in correcting him), you told us how many hours you did last year, you know you don't have a lot to do. You could at least concentrate when you are here."

I felt quite upset, because everything he was saying was right. I had no recollection of anyone ever telling me about the plate thing, so I must have lost the information somewhere in my cloudy brain. And I know I'm too quiet around the house, but it's so difficult knowing how to behave when the mum and dad are there, all the time. I try and talk to the girls and be cheerful but recently they have just been point blank ignoring me or replying with a cynical rise of the eyebrows or a shake of the head. Even though they are only kids, it wears you down, constantly being ignored and made to feel stupid.

As the dad was talking, I debated whether to tell him the reason why I have been a bit quiet and miserable. I haven't said anything to them before it feels like I'm using it as an excuse, but really it is the reason why I have been so quiet and miserable, in my au pair job and at the restaurant. I just don't have the energy to keep bouncing back from snidey eight year olds. I don't have any words in my head to form a conversation with people I don't really know.

I don't really want to say what happened on here but basically something happened at home. I started to tell the dad I spluttered into tears. I didn't want to, it just happened. He kind of patted me on the shoulder and said "Well, if you have a problem in your life, we don't know. You need to tell us."

After that the mum and the girls got home. I tried to be bright and cheerful and 'concentrate' and the evening went really well. I left a bit later than usual, but I was really pleased with how everything had gone. The next day was the ten year old's birthday and I was really worried about giving her the Benefit lip gloss I had bought her. She was turning eleven, not twelve and all of a sudden it seemed like a ridiculously inappropriate birthday present.

Shit, I've just re-read what I've written and it's really boring. So to quickly sum up what happened next:

- she loved her present
- the family arrived and I made awkward conversation
- I realised nobody was going to suggest I leave and that the night would go on forever, becoming more and more awkward and awful for everyone involved...
- ...so I told the mum I was going to go but I said goodbye to everyone and wished them a good soiree

And that was that. Yesterday everything went really well. I think the eight year old was being so horrible with me because she could tell her mum wasn't happy with me and she's a really anxious child. The baby has inexplicably started loving me again, following me around and telling me sit down next to him all the time. The eleven year old even asked me to sit down with her 'to talk'. It was so lovely, she has never shown any interest in me before but she suddenly wanted to know what fashion houses I likes, whether I watched French X Factor...

The sad thing is, I have learnt since moving to Paris is that if you want kids to like you, buy their affection. buy them presents and Easter eggs. Buy their love. That is why I am never having kids, because I only want to spend money on myself.

Speaking of which, I had a Huuuuuge Dilemma about whether to get the Eurostar back to London for New Year's, or the coach. I asked on Facebook what I should do and the majority of people said I should get the Eurostar, even though it was £182 and the coach would be 82 euros. I decided on the Eurostar, because it's quick and easy, but my French card wouldn't work. I took this as A Sign.

I booked the coach.

It takes SEVEN HOURS but remember, seven is my lucky number.

And now I don't have to feel bad about spending money on myself, because I've made this huge, incredible financial sacrifice by getting the coach, therefore I can do whatever the fuck I want.

No Plaster Moons In The Afternoons

2011-12-06T09:58:00.001+01:00

I've been a bit of a Slack Alice of late when it comes to the blog, mainly because my laptop is behaving like a sick person, or more accurately, a hypochondriac. There is nothing the matter with it and yet all of a sudden, for no reason at all, it has started freezing and going jarr-jarr-jarr-jarrrrrrrrrzzzzzzgghhh when I try and listen to songs or stream TV programmes. Sometimes it freezes while it is emitting these annoying robot noises at the top of it's tinny voice and I have to hide my laptop under the duvet to avoid receiving any more annoying post-it notes from Mystery Neighbour.

Did I tell you about that? I have come home three times now to find a conspicious yellow slip of paper stuck to my door, with no name or introduction, just a snidey little complaint such as: 'Pas de bruit dans le nuit.' (No noise in the night.) No noise in the night?? Are you suggesting I have previously made noise in the night, Mystery Neighbour, or are you simply writing down random rhymes? If I ever find out who is it, I might start leaving random rhymes in return: 'No yawning in the morning' 'No plaster moons in the afternoons.' Although, I guess I'd have to write them in French... Pas de voir dans le soir?' I think that means 'no seeing in the evenings' but with my level of French, it could just as well mean 'Tram Door'.

Anyway, sorry it's been A While. I have a few things to tell you...

The Stupid Fucking Restaurant Job has been going quite well (touch wood) recently, mainly because I haven't actually been waitressing. They started putting me on the bar a couple of weeks ago and it's soo much easier. Even when it gets really busy and mad, I kind of have my own tasks to do, although it depends on the Shift Manager. There's a couple of really nice ones who let me do my own thing and honestly I am not being a Non-Team Player, but when left to my own devices, things run quite smoothly behind the bar.

But when I'm working with this other Shift Manager, an English girl who really, really likes telling people what to do, she comes behind the bar and tries to Get Involved. I don't know how old she is, but it's possible she's slightly younger than me, or the same age. How can people be so bossy? I understand managers need to 'delegate tasks', but don't be an Annoying Prick about it. She tells me to do things as I am already doing them. It is the most irritating thing in the world, to be unloading a tray of newly-washed, hot, heavy crockery, and for her to glide over (in her high heels, so she can't run down to the kitchen in case she trips), and say 'You need to do the dishwasher.'

Oh no, I think I've got that thing where you think your job problems are worth talking about and everyone else is thinking 'What the fuck are you talking about? You are so boring I want a sharp-beaked bird to come along and tear off my ears.'

In actual fact, most of the time, the Stupid Fucking Waitressing Job is going reasonably well, as long as it continues to actually be Ok Bar Job, which is what I was looking for in the first place.

But. Isn't it always the way, that when something starts going ok in your life another aspect falls spectacularly into the realm of the Very Shit?

I'm talking about my au pair job. There was a time, for the first couple of months, when it seemed to be going Quite Well. But recently, I'd say for the last few weeks, I've been living in denial that Shit Au Pair had made an intimely come-back from the shadows she's been loitering in since July...

Yep, she's back. Just when you thought it was safe to go back on the streets of Paris, here she comes, staring into space and looking miserable for no reason. She wanders aimlessly, leaving a trail of broken toys and poorly planned meals behind her...

Shit, I need to get ready for work now, but I'll tell you about The Return of Shit Au Pair this afternoon.

Tasmin

2011-12-01T16:13:00.001+01:00

Yey! Happy December everybody! From now until Christmas Day I plan on eatingnothing but mince pies, drinking nothing but mulled wine and listening tonothing but songs with the word 'Christmas' repeated in them, at least seventimes. Well, I don't have any mince pies as of yet, but Marks and Spencer’sopened on the Champs Elysees last week, so I can supply myself fromthere. I've not been in yet because the crowds have been too big, but I reckonthe initial buzz will have died down by this weekend, so I can go in and seewhat overpriced English treats they have.

As for the mulled wine, might have to supplement this liquid diet with the occasionalcup of tea or glass of water, as not sure I can waitress or look after kidsdrunk. Well, I'm pretty sure I could do both actually, but the point is, Ishouldn't, so I'll restrain myself.

But the Christmas songs are a go-go! They have even started playing them atthe restaurant, but I'm finding it difficult to drown out the noise of annoyingcustomers asking me for pints of beer and spoons all the time; I'm strugglingto concentrate on Wham's timeless lyrics.

Oh I feel festive!

Actually, I'm afraid The Spirit of Christmas might have carried me awaysomewhat... I may have gone ever so slightly overboard trying to get the elevenyear old (soon to be twelve year old) a suitable birthday present. It's herbirthday tomorrow and my only chance to go shopping was this afternoon. I wasthinking I could get her something small from a well-known cosmetics brand atSephora. The girls don’t own anything that doesn't have an expensive labelinside, and I figured the only way I could afford something 'good' would be ifI went down the cosmetics route...

I forgot what a complete gullible idiot I am when it comes to shopping formake-up. As soon as I walk into a shop like Sephora, the wafts of expensiveperfume circulating round the air vents hit me full-on in the face, dazing meand turning me into Clueless Consumer.

Most of my make-up shopping trips go like this:

"Can I help you Madame?"
"I'm just looking for a new moisturiser."
"Have you seen our Limited Edition Dazzling Radiance Bronzer?"
"I'm really only looking for-"
"It's made with real gold dust and it comes in a sparkly box,Madame."
"I'LL HAVE IT!!!"

I actually enjoy being sold to. I love it. Many a time I've hovered around amake-up counter and if the salesgirl hasn't offered to sell me somethingoutrageous in two minutes, I've moved on, looking for someone who willtry and rip me off and sell me crap.

I walked past all the perfumes, trying to keep my head down.

'Don't look them in the eye. You'll end up buying three litres of men'scologne.' I told myself firmly.

I made it past all the perfumes without interacting with anyone. But it wasdifficult, thoughts kept popping into my head that I had to dismiss on Ridiculous Spending Grounds:

'I haven't had any perfume for about two months now... Stop itwoman! Keep a clear head! Get the bloody gift and get out!'

I arrived at the make-up section. Crowds of expertly made-up faces beamed atme. Before one of them could ensnare me into their evil sales pitch, a shelf ofcolourful boxes caught my eye. They were cute little gift sets, perfect forteenagers and unfortunately priced for women in their thirties with a lot ofdisposable income. My eye wandered over to the Benefit counter... 'Benefit-perfect! I thought, 'Prettily-packaged and not a name to be sniffed at by afashion-conscious twelve year old.'

A smiley salesgirl appeared by my side. "Do you need any help?"she asked me. (Obviously she asked me in French but I can't remember what theFrench is. When I speak French it's like I'm possessed by the Holy Spirit andspeaking tongues: I have no memory of it whatsoever a few minutes later, all Ican remember is the general Gist of the conversation.)

I explained I needed to buy a present for a twelve year old. She had the'perfect thing', it was a cute little gift set with lip gloss and eye shadowin. While it was perfect, it was also thirty six euros. I tactfully told her Iwas looking to spend a bit less than that, because I was an au pair and it wasfor the girl I look after.

"Around twenty euros." I said.

Twenty euros!? I wasn't planning on spending over ten euros, but there's aconfident, rich girl who lurks in the deepest recesses of my personality andshe comes out unexpectedly when I'm talking to salesgirls or browsing expensivemake-up counters. I think her name is Tasmin and I can't control her.

Tasmin seemed to think twenty euros was the appropriate amount to spend on alittle girl who you don't really know and who doesn't really like you. Sheasked the salesgirls if they had anything for the lips? This might be a goodidea for a girl who is just starting to like make-up? (Tasmin can also speakquite good French.)

The salesgirl showed Tasmin a range of lip glosses, including Benetint whichis really a lip balm and that I already have myself. I happen to know it's notsuitable for twelve year olds because it turns your lips as red as roses, butthe salesgirls showed Tasmin a new version they have of it, a double-ended wandwith Benetint on one end and clear gloss on the other.

"It's not too red, it looks like the lip's natural colour." thesalesgirl told me.

Lies, I knew it was lies. So did Tasmin. But Tasmin doesn't care if she'sbeing lied to. She just doesn't want to lose face, ever, so she will never backout of a sale. Once you've let the salesgirls sell to you, you're in it untilthe end. There's no backing out.

It was twenty two euros. But at least we didn't have to explain to thesalesgirl that we'd changed our minds. I left Tasmin in Sephora and went toMonoprix, where I spent thirteen euros on Milka chocolate, coloured tissuepaper, a gift bag, cellotape and a birthday card.

Why has God cursed me with this Catastrophic Ineptitude for Finances!?

On the bright side, maybe the eleven/twelve year old will like me now.

I'm not holding out much hope. If only I could get Tasmin out more often, Ibet they'd bloody love her.

Snazz and Scuffles: Part 4

2011-11-29T21:21:00.002+01:00

I'll pick up where I left off- is that the phrase? Left off doesn't sound right somehow... How can you leave something off? Unless it's a kitchen appliance.

ANYWAY- I believe the last image I gave you was the rather alarming one of me struggling in the arms of huge Monster Bouncer who mans the door at Le Longhop and who I have had a couple of sharp words with in the past. As regular readers will know, The Bouncer is Left Bank Manc's Natural Enemy and Ancient Foe.

(Oooh did I really just refer myself in the third person? Yes, she did, folks, yes she did.)

As I struggled to prise his arms apart, I told Monster Bouncer what I thought of him. Unfortunately I can't yet pull off saying 'You're a massive nobhead, kindly release me from your vice-like grip' in French, so I had to make do with saying 'You are not nice! Don't touch me, you are nasty!'

When I finally managed to escape, me, Amy and Olivia ran and hid in another part of the dancefloor and thankfully Monster Bouncer wandered off, in search of other females to drag back to his moster's lair. Olivia's Drunk Friends kept disappearing for 'air' and 'a sit down'- they clearly needed to go home. They were both staying at Olivia's but me and Amy (rather selfishly) persuaded Olivia to give them her key so she could stay out with us. One of them had sobered up a bit anyway.

By this point the Sober Three were actually feeling a little less than sober, despite only having two drinks. (I would like to excuse myself by saying that there must have been alcohol leftover in our system from the night before, otherwise I can offer no explanation for the level of drunkeness we reached after just two pints of beer.) We were just starting to enjoy ourselves and Amy had started chatting to a dashing Parisien lawyer, no really, he was dashing- he had one of those flouncy scarves on tucked into the neckline of his shirt.

We bid a fond farewell to Olivia's pals and started dancing with Dashing Lawyer and his friends, one of whom was a plastic surgeon. We felt quite pleased with ourselves for managing to meet respectable, charming men for once, especially in a shit hole like Le Violin Dingue. Olivia saw a very tall boy in Geek glasses who she said was 'just her type' so me and her disco-danced over to him inconspiciously. (Yes, it is possible to disco dance inconspiciously. Just don't point your hands in the air so violently.)

He noticed Olivia. They got chatting. It was all going so well... and then who should spoil the party but Monster Bouncer? Out of nowhere he was suddenly looming behind us and he grabbed me and Olivia, this time bending us both over and pretending to thurst his you know what into our you know wheres.

The indignity of it all!

We literally could not wriggle free. It was awful. At first we were laughing a bit, but then everyone on the dancefloor kind of cleared away from us... 'Let's leave that Mammoth Rapist to do his job' they seemed to be saying with their awkward facial expressions. I looked to Olivia's tall boy in Geek glasses. He seemed like the kind of boy who read poetry in cemetries.

"Do something!" I implored him.

He pushed his glasses up and looked in to the face of Monster Bouncer. I thought he was going to run away, but credit where it's due (ooh what a horrible clichéd phrase, sorry) he stepped up and demanded that the Monster Bouncer 'release us'.

Much to Olivia's and my relief, Monster Bouncer did release us. Then he stepped closer to Geek Glasses... and that was enough for the poor boy- he quickly disappeared into the crowd, as did me and Olivia. We found Amy with her Dashing Lawyer and his friends and we spent the rest of the night dancing and chatting, whilst keeping a beady out for the return of Monster Bouncer.

At about 5am, Dashing Lawyer announced that he and his friends were leaving and Amy, of course, decided they would probably be having a Brilliant After-Party, so we left with them. Dashing Lawyer had checked some library books into the cloakroom (we didn't ask) so we waited around the bar. There was a very drunk, swaying man with a hideous cardigan tied round his shoulders. For some reason he fixed his glassy eyes on Olivia and started calling her horrible names. Olivia got upset and to make ammends I took her by the hand and marched over to him. I couldn't think of one word in French, so I decided to start insulting him in English, at least Olivia would understand and it might give her some closure. I let out a torrent of insults, I can't remember exactly what I said but it was something along the lines of:

"Who knitted that jumper? Yer nan? Your jeans are shit, you've got crap shoes and you can't even stand up. You're a SHOW."

Unfortunately, his friends could speak English and one of them, the most Beautiful Man we had ever seen, said in a very reasonable voice "Why are you being so mean to my friend, girls?"

I explained how he had insulted Olivia and made her feel like shit and he listened thoughtfully. Then he pulled Olivia to one side and apologised for his friend. His sincerity was undeniable. As was his Gallic Beauty. MMM. Amy's Dashing Lawyer and his Charming Friends came back from the cloakroom, so we all went upstairs, also accompanied by Beautiful Man and his gang of pals which unfortunately included Hideous Cardigan Man, but we let him stagger about a few yards behind him.

Amy was on her After-Party Mission. I think she needs to seek professional help, it is not normal to be so obsessed with After-Parties. She asked Dashing Lawyer if he was having one, but he said he lived with a housemate he didn't know very well, so he couldn't have everyone back. His Charming Friends were staying in a hotel as they were visitng from Lyon, so that was a no-go. Amy's only hope was Olivia, who lives in a studio, but a spacious studio. She agreed, but only so she could get Beautiful Man back to hers...

We were incredulous. For once we had managed to entice Decent, actually quite Beautiful, Parisien men back to an after-party. Nearly all of them had those little scarves on, worn with Proper Coats. We had met men who wore Proper Coats! As we skipped down the road, the cold night air ruffled our hair and I knew it was the Winds of Change...

But.

Did you think you had stumbled across somebody else's blog by mistake? Somebody who doesn't end every night out with a drunken disagreement or a near rape/tear-gassing? If you did, let me put your mind at rest- you're not reading the wrong blog. The night ended in a Street Brawl. Obviously.

I still have no idea how it happened. One minute we were a big happy gang of Northern girls and scarf-wearing Parisiens; the next minute, we heard scuffling and yelling behind us, so we turned around to see that Amy's Dashing Laywer and Olivia's Beautiful Man were fighting. Well, I say 'fighting', they were kind of chasing each other around and trying to hit each other, it didn't look too serious. A couple of the Lawyer's Charming Friends tried to break up the fight, but they ended up getting into a fight with two of Beautiful Man's Friends.

It was all very tiresome. Me, Amy and Olivia stood in the cold with our arms folded, waiting impatiently for the fighting to stop so we could continue on our way, but the fighting didn't stop, it got worse. Two guys and a girl walked past and the girl went crrrazy, yelling that someobody should call the police. Us Northern girls, thinking of nothing but the After-Party I'm afraid, thought this was a bit extreme, but before we could stop her, she'd called the police.

I didn't think there was any need for the police to come, but I was slightly annoyed that we had to wait around in the street for no reason. Just as I was starting to think that maybe we wouldn't get our After-Party after all, Beautiful Man managed to actually hit Dashing Layer and he fell to the floor, then he started kicking him in the stomach.

We ran forward instinctively to intervene, but the two sets of friends got there first. It was like West Side Story. I wanted to sing "Boy, boy, crazy boy. Get cool boy"* but I didn't, because at that moment the police really did turn up. They walked towards the scene of Mass Street Brawl quite casually, perhaps they could tell from a mile off that these boys in flouncy scarves wouldn't be any trouble. Before the police got too close, everyone dispersed down the street and me, Amy and Olivia had about four seconds to decide who we were going to go after.

Amy wanted Dashing Lawyer. Olivia wanted Beautiful Man. I just kind of wanted to dance around singing the soundtrack to West Side Story, but I thought I better follow Amy as she was supposed to be staying at mine. By the time we'd decided what to do, Beautiful Man was gone so Olivia said she would walk home. It was the opposite direction to us, so we said goodbye and let her go alone, which was despicable of us really. No, let me take that back. It was despicable of Amy, everything that happened that weekend was her fault and her's alone.

So, we walked to the nightbus with Dashing Lawyer (he was upset because he'd lost his library books in the fight), then I can't really tell you what happened next because Amy might get embarrsassed. But let's just say, three of us got a taxi, and only one got out on my street.

I had four hours sleep, then got up and dragged myself to work at the restaurant. Mercifully it was quiet all day, but I felt ill and dizzy all day- it seemed as though I was looking at the world through glasses with Vaseline smeared around the edges. Amy rolled in to the restaurant about 3pm, a look of utter agony on her face from the boots she'd borrowed from me, the boots that are strictly for 'one drink' nights or sit down meals.

I gave her my keys and she hobbled home.

When I finally, finally finished work, I couldn't wait to hear all the hideous seedy details. Let's just say- lovely sweet guy, gorgeous appartment, then, come morning BAM he turned into a complete and utter nobhead, a sulky spoilt brat because he couldn't have his own way.

So. Phew. I can't believe I have only just finished telling you about the weekend Amy was here, although techically she was here for seven days. She went back exactly a week ago today.

Aww. It was lovely having her here. Even though she made every night out Ridiculous. The good news is, she really misses Paris and she is seriously considering coming back for good! She is going to save some money up and look for a Proper Job, as she doesn't want to be an au pair or an intern again. Amy made me think twice about moving back to England, because she says since she has been home, things have taken a turn for the Shitter and she really misses Paris, a lot.

Hmm.

I really want to finish this off now as I am ready for my bed, but tomorrow I will do another post rounding up everything I have done this past week, which unfortunately includes chasing away a man who was wanking behind us on the street.

Oh, and...

I found my passport!!! It was inside my bedsheets for Some Reason!!! YESS!!

Snazz and Scuffles: Part 3

2011-11-28T16:24:00.002+01:00

I'm down to my last teabag. Grim, very grim. But let me get back to describing last weekend...

On Saturday me and Amy went to Angelina's for hot chocolate. We drank our deliciously thick chocolat chaud (seriously, it doesn't pour from the jug; it creeps through the air slowly and folds itself into your cup) and sat back, feeling very Grand and Proper in our decadent surroundings. In the faded opulence of Angelina's, with it's wall-length mirrors edged with gold-leaf frames, we felt far away from the Hideous and Somewhat Confused events of the night before...

That is until our Hangovers crept over us like two little green goblins, slowly making their way through the maze of white tableclothes, silently stepping over well-heeled feet until they reached our table...

"I think I'd like to sit outside." Amy said slowly.

Ten minutes had gone by without either of us saying a word. We were too hungover to think, let alone talk. I suddenly noticed that Amy's face was grey.

"Let's pay." I suggested.

From Angelina's we stumbled across the road to Tuileries, but we didn't even make it to a bench. We slumped down on the stone steps and stayed there until the cold air blew away the edges of our Hangovers and we regained the Art of Conversation.

We decided that our initial plan of Happy Hour Mojitos at L'an Ver du Decor would have to be abandoned, as neither of us could stomach more alcohol. And yet. Olivia said she had two friends staying for the night and I really wanted Amy to meet Olivia (as they are both from Liverpool), so we agreed that we'd go out for one drink and then have an early night.

After a two hour disco nap, we woke up feeling a lot better. I even mustered the energy to put some wedges on and Amy borrowed my high heeled ankle boots, which are the most uncomfortable shoes in the world but we figured she'd be fine in them for 'one drink'.

We met up with Olivia and her two friends. I'd assumed they were from Liverpool, but it became apparent they were not scousers when one of them said to me "Oh, you're Northern! How cute." They were very, very drunk and me, Olivia and Amy were quite Smug in our sobriety. It was nice to be the sober ones for change.

We walked around the Marais looking for a bar where 'we could dance' and Olivia's friends got more and more impatient. They both live in France, but not in Paris, and they were not prepared for the massive amounts of walking involved in a typical Parisien night out. I had a stroke of genius and remembered that Saturday is 'RnB night' at Le Longhop. Me and Amy were a little bit hesitant after what happened the last couple of times we went there, but Olivia's friends were mollified by the promise of some good old, cheesy RnB music, so off we trotted to Le Longhop.

I worried that we wouldn't get in, because I still couldn't find my passport and the last time we tried to go none of us had any ID and they wouldn't let us in, even though most people in our group were aged 25 and over. Luckily, it wasn't the Nobhead Bouncer that we fought with last time, it was a Reasonable Bloke who let us all in with a nod and a smile.

We got in and got some drinks (it's about five euros for a pint which is really cheap for Paris) and surprisingly, the place was packed. The DJ has changed since last time we went and the music was quite good, if you happen to like Shit RnB, which I do. A lot. We danced to the music and watched with amusement as Olivia's two very drunk friends cosied up with some very unattractive men. One of them was wearing a black silk shirt.

Oh, looking back, we were being so Annoyingly Smug and Superior, it almost serves us right for what happened later...

Le Longhop closed at 1.30am and none of us were ready to go home, so we decided on Le Violin Dingue again, just because it was close and we knew it was open late. After a tense time in the queue when we thought Olivia's mates might not get in because they were so drunk, we made it inside and went down into the cave so we could all have a dance. We got another pint and me and Amy got our Second Wind.

At one point I went to the toilets on my own and I wish somebody else had come with me, just so they too could have witnessed the horror I saw in the queue. I was at the back of the queue behind two girls and the girl next to me was doing this weird squatting and shuffling about thing. I glanced down and realised I could see her bare thighs. Girls in Paris don't go out with Naked Legs. Then came the sound of somebody weeing, but it wasn't coming from inside the locked cubicle, oh no. The girl next to me in the queue was weeing, onto the floor.

At least I thought she was weeing onto the floor- when she finished she produced a pint glass from inbetween her legs, it was brimming with what looked like frothy beer, but it was obviously her URINE. The whole time she'd been weeing, I'd been catching her friend's eye and laughing. Her friend went into the toilet and when she came out Weeing Girl went in after her. I thought she must be going in there to do a few lines of coke or something, after all, I'd just seen her produce an entire pint of wee, surely she couldn't squeeze anymore out?

She said to me in French: 'Don't stand near the door and listen!'

Unfortunately the sound of her POOING was too loud for me to ignore. When she came out I gingerly went in behind her and Thank The Lord, there weren't any disgusting telltale signs of her recent activities- no smells or skiddage. I've never talked about poo on this blog before. Sorry if you were eating something.

Anyway, after I witnessed a girl weeing into a pint glass (she left it on the side of the sink and I hope against hope that nobody mistook it for an untouched beer) I went back to the dancefloor and joined Olivia and Amy. Amy pointed out a massive monster of a man.

"That's the nobhead bouncer that wouldn't let us in to Le Longhop last time!'

So it was. I was sorry I'd lost my passport, because the last thing I'd said to him was "Next time I see you, I'm going to slap you across the face with my ID for not believing how old I am."

He saw us pointing at him and assumed, as most men do, that because we were looking at him we must fancy him, so he made his way through the crowd, grabbed us and started to dance with us. When I say 'grabbed' I mean he literally got all three of us in his arms and bounced us about and there was NOTHING we could do about it. It was terrifying. He is so fucking strong, we were trying to wriggle away from him but we couldn't. He was like an extra in a cheesy 1960s movie set in Ancient Times; I felt like we were three Slavegirls and he was a Cyclops, determined to carry us off to his lair and ravage us.

Olivia and Amy managed to wriggle away but I was stuck with him. Somehow I managed to say to him in French "You didn't let me in to Le Longhop because I didn't have my passport, and I'm 22 years old!" He looked all surprised and said it wasn't him and I almost believed him until Amy popped up next to me and said:

"It fucking was him!"

Oh shit I'm going to be late for my au pair job, I'll finish this tonight when I get back.

Snazz and Scuffles: Part 2

2011-11-27T17:16:00.001+01:00

Oh la la! This post has been a long time coming.

Before I start, I need to address a few mistakes in my other post. First of all, I said the bar we went to last weekend was called Le Violin Dinde. Then Kayt corrected me and said it is called Le Violin Dingue. I then changed it and added a little comment saying "Oh dear! I called it 'The Meat Violin' instead of 'The Crazy Violin'! Silly me!"

But I wasn't being silly, I was being ridiculously thick, because dinde means turkey, not meat, (I was thinking of viande, which is, erm, in no way similar apart from the fact that it assonates with the end of dinde, although there's a strong chance that I'm pronouncing it completely wrong) so I had in fact called it 'The Turkey Violin' and I didn't even realise because my French is so fucking TERRIBLE.

Also, Le Violin Dingue is nowhere near Chatelet, I must have been drunker than I thought. In fact, I can't really remember a lot of the night, I started telling you last time how me and Amy were considering getting on the back of two scooters with two French boys... (Boys is definitely the right word- we made them show us their I.D and one of them was born in the nineties, the NINETIES! I know, I know. It's done now. Stop looking at me like that.)

As far as I can recall, one of them wanted me to try his helmet on and dance around in it, which I'm happy to say I didn't do; even in my Drunken State I knew that squishing my head into a helmet would be most unbecoming. I wanted to leave because it was about four in the morning and it was past our bedtime, but Amy was convinced we were about to be invited back to The Best After-Party of Our Lives...

From out of nowhere came two Horrible Men who were jeering at me and Amy and saying the most ungentlemenly things. I wasn't too worried at first because we were with two guys, but then one of them tried to push Amy against a wall and one of the Scooter Boys turned to me and said "You need to go home and get these men away from us."

I was absolutely furious. He was acting as if me and Amy had called the men over, as if were asking for it. Oh, that phrase I hate above all others- 'asking for it', not actually spoken, but insinuated, which was good enough for me. I saw red. I exploded. I might have called him a wanker in Greek just so they couldn't understand me and so the two Horrible Men would think we were Greek and stop treating us like 'slaggy English girls'. Somehow me and Amy managed to push the Horrible Men away and walked off to find the night bus.

Honestly, that is how I remember it happening...

However, the next day when we were telling Kayt about our night, when it came to this part of the story Amy interrupted me with howling laughter and said "That's not what happened at all!"

Bemused, I listened to her side of events, which are slightly different to mine. In a Left Bank Manc First, I got Amy to write down her recollections of the event and I am going to share them with you, just to prove I am not a Corrupt and Biased Blogger:

LBM has tried to sell Saturday night as if she was unwillingly dragged kicking and screaming into a series of ridiculous events. This is not the case. At all.

(Also I would like to preface this guest entry with – yes, I am Northern and yes I did have eyelash extensions and sleep with roller in but I am NOT an extra from desperate scousewives. I am a normal colour and can read and write. LBM was not painting a very pretty picture of me.)

So…. we were in the middle of lots of fun and I had it in my head that the longer we were out the longer the fun would continue. This kind of thinking has gotten me into trouble before (see tear gassing incident).

But instead of leaving to get the N11 (old faithful nightbus) as we SHOULD have we followed the scooter boy who seemed to be interested in bedding both LBM and I. I promise this is not why we followed him. LBM and I are close. Just not that close.

I just thought he might have a nice apartment and we could ride around Paris on a scooter. Earlier in the night he had confessed to having homes in both Chelsea and St Tropez (the less naïve amongst you are now sighing and holding your head in your hands) but I believed him and wanted to see how many square feet he had.

Upon leaving the ‘meat violin’ we hovered around the scooter boys and I am afraid my brain went into overdrive as I replayed the Paris episode of The Hills in my head only me and LBM had replaced the glamorous Americans with our drunk northern selves.

I was adamant we were going back with them for a party and offered the half drunk Evian bottle of red wine in my handbag as my contribution.

At this point some men who definitely did not have houses in Chelsea and St Tropez approached us and started to undo their pants. It was here that it all went horribly wrong.

Scooter boy gallantly stepped in and told the men that we were his girlfriends and not to approach us with their genitals. He did this as he was putting his scooter helmet on and it seemed to be this gesture that caused LBM to become apoplectic.

‘He’s just going to fuck off on his scooter and leave us and he’s telling us to go away! Go on then dickhead, fuck off on your scooter. ‘

He wasn’t. He was telling us not to engage in conversation with the men as it would only encourage them and it could end badly for both of us.

So of course LBM then turned her attention to the men attempting to flash us.

‘And you can just fuck off, you’re disgusting. Je suis Grecque ! Tejgdhvijlisddjgvg!’

(Fake Greek, LBM likes to speak ‘fluent’ nonsense to all of our would be attackers and pass it off as other languages for some reason)

It continued in this same vein for about twenty minutes by which point the scooter boys looked more scared of us than the sex offenders. She then got it into her head that I was siding with the scooter boy in attempt to go home with him for a ‘party’. Understandably she was very angry at me for this. I had no intention of having a ‘party’ with him. (Let’s just say there were some age issues) I just thought it would be a good idea to keep the men who didn’t want to assault us in good, protective spirits so we weren’t left alone in the street with two would-be rapists. The more I tried to explain this to her, the more furious she became until it got to the point where I wanted to put my own face through a window rather than listen to her anymore.

To make matters worse we had now alienated the only people who were offering to prevent us being raped.

I decided this was a good time to leave (as did the scooter boys, funnily enough) and managed to drag LBM down the street before we ended up arrested or dead or trafficked into Senegal and forced to drive cars across the border. Things like this do happen, I’ve seen Panorama.

We argued all the way down

Rue St

Jacques, all the way across the river, all the way to the bus stop. We then stopped arguing because I noticed LBM was silently crying. I felt awful then as I thought it was because she thought I hadn’t defended her in our ‘mass brawl’ (mass exaggeration if you ask me) but no.

She had lost her scarf.

So the night culminated in a lost scarf and ham crisps in bed.

I really miss Paris.

Well well well. Rather put your own face through a window eh, Amy? I don't know what night out you went on, but it wasn't the same one as me. You have made the Scooter Boys look like normal, slightly valiant, nice guys and you have made me look like a swearing, aggressive horrible cow who pretends to be Greek and speaks in nonsense. In fact, the whole thing makes look suspiciously like a bit of a Dickhead. That can't be right...

Complete fabrication, every last word. We were being attacked by hundreds of Horrible Men and I fought them all off with my karate moves- that is what I think you meant to say, Amy.

I've just realised, I didn't explain the title of these posts. 'Scuffles' is because there were lots of scuffles, obviously, and 'snazz' is because Amy said 'Pure Snazz' so much that we all started to say it. I can't believe all the snazzy scuffles happened a week ago, I've still got Saturday night to tell you about... Stay tuned for Part 3. If you can be arsed.

Snazz and Scuffles: Part 1

2011-11-23T15:39:00.002+01:00

'Part 1?' you might be asking, 'Who is this egomaniac who thinks her weekend is soooo exciting that people will want to read about it in instalments?'

I am assuming that is a rhetorical question, readers.

Enough questions, Amy is sat on my bed reading a magazine as I type and I need to finish this blog post before she gets through the end of 'Fifty Things Men Say Women Should Do To Make Them Good At Sex' (She's reading some out to me and it's made me never want to have sex again, not if I have to 'wear cowboy boots, naked' or 'treat the penis like an ice-cream'. It's not 1999 and your penis is not an ice cream, no matter how much I wished it was.)

So. I'll start at the beginning...

Me and Kayt collected Amy off the Roissy-Bus on Thursday night. It was so exciting and lovely, the shops were glittering with Christmas illuminations and our favourite Scouser was back in the City of Light. (You could tell she'd been back in Liverpool for a few months, because she had eyelash-extensions in and when we all went to bed at Kayt's, Amy went to sleep with a roller in her fringe.)

The first night we all stayed at Kayt's, because she has a real studio with a mezzanine and a double bed and a door separating her bathroom from her kitchen, but she had friends from uni staying, so for Friday and Saturday Amy was my 'house guest', although it's not a house is it? It's basically a kitchen with a bed and a shower in the corner (which is my excuse for eating so much, because how can you control yourself when you LIVE in a kitchen?).

I was a bit worried about how we were going to handle the 'shower situation' but we got around the problem by not washing. Well, one of us did, the other showered while the dirty one was at work. I won't tell you who is who, but erm, Amy doesn't work in Paris anymore...

On Friday night Kayt and her friends had tickets for something and me and Amy, being skint, decided to have a cheap night out on our own. We drank two bottles of Vieux Pape, the cheapest, most hatest red wine in France, then we went out and met Chloe, who was my current family's au pair last year. She was here for the weekend because she misses Paris, obviously, and also to see the kids again. (Yes, the kids that I now work with, keep up.)

We went to a bar called Le Fifth (or something like that) on Rue Mouffetard, which was quite nice, but after one drink we decided to go somewhere where we could 'have a dance'. Chloe's French friend Julliette suggested Le Violin Dinde* (The Crazy Violin) which is a really touristy bar/cave club near Châtelet. None of us were really overly-excited but we were all skint and no better ideas, so we ended up trip-trapping across the city to get there.

Once we got inside, Chloe got talking to some Americans who complained that it wasn't 'popping'. "Do you know where it's popping?" they asked us. I had no idea what they were talking about, but I assumed they wanted to go to a club with Proper Music, so I wrote down the address of Nouveau Casino. I felt all Smug and Knowledgeable, until they asked us why we weren't going there too.

"We, erm, can't afford it." was our answer.

But we had a good time anyway! Dowstairs in the cave was a lot livelier and they were playing music we could dance to- indie/RnB etc. The drinks weren't too expensive and we got shots bought for us by two gentleman who took a liking to Chloe. Unfortunately they thought that as they had bought tequila, they were entitled to ask us if we were 'shaven or waxed' so we said a few sharp words to them and took to the dancefloor.

I know I say this a lot but men really are awful aren't they?

Me and Amy got chatting to someone who insisted he could get us both back to his apartment for a threesome. He said 'If you come back with me I will pay you a hundred euros each if you don't both climax.'

Well, we couldn't lose really could we?

We found that statement so amusing that we decided to stick around a bit longer, just for the Laughs and Jokes. Chloe and Juliette decided to leave about 3am and me and Amy really, really should have left with them. But we didn't. We stayed until our new mate was leaving and then Amy made us follow him out of the club to see if he was having 'an after-party'. This is why I blame Amy for everything, because she is obsessed with after-parties. She always want the night to go on and on, even if you have gone late-night shopping at H&M, you have to drag her back from asking the shop assistants if are having an after-party after the shop closes.

So. Outside we were chatting with Our New Mate and his two friends, and we saw they had scooters. SCOOTERS! It is every girl's dream to ride around Paris on the back of a mysterious dark-haired man's scooter...

Ok Amy didn't realise it was going to take me this long, so I'll finish this later tonight.

*Kayt just informed that it's called Le Violin Dingue, Le Violin Dinde means 'The Meat Violin' which as Amy just said, 'sounds like a really vile euphemism'

The Return of the Ridiculousness

2011-11-20T23:32:00.001+01:00

I'm so sorry I haven't written on here for a week, I think it's the longest time I've ever gone without posting anything! I have so much to write about, but I need to do it tomorrow when I have more time, so I can sit down properly and tell you the whole sorry story.

It's all Amy's fault. I've worked out she is the reason we did so many Ridiculous Things last year on nights out (getting tear-gassed, narrowly escaping gang rape by the river, sitting on park benches drinking wine instead of going into bars like Normal People...) because so far this year (academic year, I mean) I haven't done anything too Ridiculous, but Amy is here for a week and so far we have been the cause of a mass brawl in the street, had a dispute with two boys on scooters and one of us had a one night stand, I won't tell you who but it certainly wasn't me because, as regular readers will know, about seven months ago I took a Vow Of Celibacy in an effort to limit the amount of Ridiculous Things I was getting up to.

Other fabulous things that have happened since Amy has come to visit:

-I put my watch in the washing machine
-I left my favourite (only) scarf in a club
-My laptop is fuuuucked
-I lost my passport. Yep. Don't talk to me about it, looks like I'll be going home for Christmas crouched down between two crates of Camembert in the back of a lorry.

On the plus side, Amy brought me Dairy Milk, Haribo sweets, Maryland cookies, English magazines, an advent calender and she even smuggled in some Tesco Extra Special Pork and Red Onion Sausages. I've eaten all the chocolate, sweets and biscuits (and most of Kayt's), but the sausages are in my freezer; I can eat them on Christams Day if I really do get stuck here because I lost my FUCKING PASSPORT.

Anyway.

In preparation for my amazingly detailed account of the Ridiculous Weekend we have just enjoyed, you should read these posts about Le Longhop, because that is where we went on Saturday and let's just say that the past came back to haunt us...

Ghetto Princesses Part 1-
We instigated an aggressive dance-off and made some new friends

Ghetto Princesses Part 2-
Our 'new friends' stopped us from being gang-raped and one of us was tear-gassed. No, really

Villette Sonique-

The bouncer of Le Longhop wouldn't let us in and we got into a little dispute... unfortunately said bouncer featured very heavily in our night out yesterday/this morning

I'm really Paranoid now that everybody has lost interest because I haven't posted for so long, but I'll write the first part of my Ridiculous Weekend tomorrow morning, in the Time Window I have between teaching and waitressing. Please read it... I've lost or broken every single thing I own of value, you have to feel soz for me and don't stop reading.

Ok?

Ok.

Reasons To Be Cheerful

2011-11-14T10:18:00.002+01:00

Once my aunty called my mum up and said: "What I like about LBM* is, she doesn't feel sorry for herself."

Me and mum** took this as a huge compliment and a sure indicator that I was Well-Balanced and Adjusted, until my mum said suddenly, "What have you got to feel sorry for yourself for?"

Then we were quite offended, because now we were wondering if my aunty was in fact suggesting I was a Special Person who smiled bravely whilst struggling to cope with life using the insufficient mental capacity assigned at birth...

My point is, I never used to be a moany, whingy bitch.

So.

Reasons To Be Cheerful:

My room is tidy!

I have booked my flights home for Christmas!

Amy is coming on Wednesday and Chloe is coming at the weekend!
(Although, I might not get to see her because she is mainly coming to see her old au pair family, i.e. my au pair family.

I have thirty followers on my blog!

I paid back Julia and I gave Amo half her money!
(Although, I ended up borrowing seventeen more euros off her and I somehow now owe Kayt fifteen euros as well.)

ALSO

I am currently In Talks with myself as to whether I can make it to London for New Year's Eve and New Year's Day (all the Best People know NYD is the new NYE.) Fingers, toes and fairy wings crossed.

On the downside I hacked away at my fringe on Saturday night and I now look like someone who has been given a job at McDonald's as part of their 'Capability Equality Act'.

Now it's off to my Stupid Fucking Restaurant Job. Big smiles everyone!

*Do I really have to tell you, yet again, that when I write 'LBM' I am just substituting it for my real name, which nobody can ever discover or I will explode like Rumpelstiltskin?

**If anyone read 'me and mum' and thought 'Oh dear, that really should be mum and I'; then I would kindly ask you to STOP READING MY BLOG, maybe go out and make some friends, find a hobby, start living your life...

Give Me A Sign.

2011-11-12T15:01:00.000+01:00

Amo is staying over later, I have finally dragged her away from her beloved Disneyland for the night, on the premise that I will give her back the 100 euros I owe her. What she doesn't know is that I am planning on getting her really drunk and then asking her if I can give her just half of the money this week, as I need the other half for cocktails tonight. Am I a terrible person?

Yes.

But I have Big Problems when it comes to money, it has always been a Mystery to me; I nearly didn't go out on Thursday because I realised I couldn't really afford it and Kayt said "How can you not afford to go out? You have a full time job" and I had no answer to give her. As a consequence I was forced to go out against my will and spend the money I should really be giving to Amo...

Although, I am being More Careful these days. I only bought one drink on Thursday and then we went home on the night bus. We were going to pay 12 euros to get into Nouveau Casino but on our way there from UFO -a strange little dive on Rue Oberkampf where they project 'erotic thrillers' from the 1960s onto the wall, to a soundtrack of reggae and ska, played by a man who looked suspiciously like Jimmy Saville- we decided to get a Subway, which landed us in the middle of a bizare disagreement between the Sandwich Artist who was holding the fort on all his lonesome and had locked the door to stop more people coming in, and four Police Officers who demanded to know why he had locked the door...

Seriously though, I am really trying my BESTEST to be Super Careful because not only do I owe Amo money; I still owe Julia thirty euros for my We Love Art ticket AND I still owe Clare money from last June AND then there is my friend who lent me the money to put down as a deposit for Ibiza...

Oh dear, I've just realised I am a Massive Dickhead.

But enough about my idiotic Financial Situation, the least I can do for Amo is tidy up my room- since Laura stayed last weekend it has gotten even worse. It's so messy that I've not been in my room since Thursday morning, I've been out all day at my two jobs and then stayed both nights at Kayt's. I couldn't bear to sit amongst piles of dirty clothes and dirty dishes and bits of paper and broken hangers and bottles of hairspray and scruffy make-up brushes and old magazines and bras and books and wet towels and bits of fluff and huge knots of tangled-up Electrical Things... ARGH.

RIGHT.

I'm going to get started on it now.

No more distractions.

Once I've finished I'll feel so much better, then I can concentrate on Organising My Life, which chiefly involves booking my flights home for Christmas. I've decided that flying is my only option, even though I don't really trust myself to fly alone after the disaster in Ibiza. But I only have four days and I want to spend as little of that time as possible travelling. The restaurant said I could have from the 20th to the 26th off, which I was pleasantly surprised and excited about until I remembered that I have to work my au pair job until the 23rd. So that means I can fly home on the 23rd and fly back to Paris on Boxing Day.

I can't believe I am going through with this. I honestly thought I would just quit the resto job if it meant only having two full days off at Christmas, but the fact that I am really skint with the waitressing wages makes not having the waitressing wages a scary prospect...

There's some Good News though:

I'm getting New Year's Eve off!!

I really, really hope I can go to London, but we'll have to see, I might have to be in work the next day and everyone is going out on New Year's Day rather than NYE, so I'll need at least three days off. Ooh, exciting prospects though! If I can't go to London then Abby and Julia said I'm welcome wherever they're going in Paris.

GOOD TIMES.

And at the same time... very very bad times, back in England. I can't believe I am writing all this trivial shit on my blog about money and tidying, because I had some Bad News this week and it makes everything seem... stupid. Sad and stupid and ridiculous.

But you just have to carry on as if everything is normal and not think about it too much.

Carry on, carry on...

Try to think about the future.

Although, actually, don't bother. You might never get there. In some ways I'm worrying that I'm doing the wrong thing. Why should I bother with this Stupid Fucking Waitressing Job, shouldn't I just spend as much time with my family and friends as I want to over Christmas, rather than worrying about money and the future?

I've not booked anything yet anyway, so let's just see what I decide. I'm going to wait for a Sign. I like Signs. Somebody give me a Sign, but make sure it's the one I'm looking for.

Oh God. 'Someone Like You' is drifting through my open window. Excuse me while I go and slit my wrists.

Crying and Consuming: Part 2

2011-11-10T17:19:00.004+01:00

I believe I was talking about a narrow staircase, filled with flowers...

We finally reached the top floor and piled into the apartment that belonged to one of the guys we had made friends with, don't ask me which one because I don't know- I can barely remember what they looked like, except they all had dark hair. I can remember the girl they were with however, because she was covered in open sores and scars. She had done 'special make-up' for Halloween, even though Halloween had been over for nearly a week. In fact, now that I think about it, I don't think the girl was their friend at all, I think she was a stray that they'd/we'd picked up at Le Truskel...

Anyway.

The apartment was quite nice, at least it was a 'real apartment' and not a chambre de bonne (bedroom with a shower and a hotplate inside) or a 'studio' (large bedroom with a shower, a toilet and hotplate in it) like most people I know seem to live in. There were even separate rooms, about five of them! And there was a corridor between the rooms! Me and- I want to say Olivia, but I can't really remember- went into the toilet together at one point and the ceiling was unexpectedly really high. There were shelves going right up to the ceiling and they were full of cycling and hiking gear: massive rucksacks and helmets and Stuff. It was a bit trippy, because while Olivia (or whoever it was) was having a wee (ooh, too much information?), I was looking at the 'gear' and thinking 'Where can you go hiking in Paris?'

Everyone was sat in the living room, drinking, chatting, listening to music etc, and I was sat on the floor with Julia. I wasn't really part of the conversation, I'd kind of zoned out and was having a silent, drunken conversation in my head. (Probably discussing my new shoes with myself.) I glanced around the room and for the first time since we'd entered the apartment, I noticed there was a framed print on the wall of Gustav Klimt's 'Mother and Child'.

If you don't know what it is, it's this:

Me and my mum always say that we are the 'Mother and Child' in this painting- when I was born I had the same hair as the baby in the painting and I think that the Mother's face and colouring bears more than a little resemblance to my mum's. But regardless of whether we actually look (looked I mean, I'm not a baby anymore, unfortunately) anything like the 'Mother and Child' or not, whenever I see this painting it reminds me of my mum. It's a popular painting and lots of people have prints of it hung on their walls, but you don't expect to see it hanging in a stranger's apartment that you go back to for an impromptu after-party. It took me a little by surprise and perhaps that's why I, er, reacted the way I did.

I'd had quite a lot to drink, remember.

I'd also had a Bad Week.

Plus, I've been feeling really homesick lately. It comes and goes in great, sad waves that start in the stomach, making you ache with something you can't put your finger on... you wonder if you are hungry, then you wonder if you are tired, then you realise what it is you are aching for... The wave spreads from your stomach, tightening your chest as it moves up your throat, choking you, then suddenly you are trying to stop it escaping through your tear ducts...

Well I was drunk and I couldn't stop it.

I burst into tears upon seeing the painting and the tears wouldn't stop coming. I honestly tried to stop crying, but I couldn't. Julia let me cry into her hair so to stifle the noise, butI still made a Big Scene. I remember the guy sat next to me said half-heartedly"Don't cry..." but none of them knew what to do. I didn't care though, my mind was far away, on the people that really matter to me, and I wasn't worrying about four random strangers (that would be the three guys and Halloween Girl, not Olivia, Julia and Laura), one of whom lived in a strange building filled with potted plants.

I don't think anyone has ever cried so inappropriately. Olivia asked Julia "What's she crying for?"

I felt bad then because, as I mentioned in the previous post, Olivia has very recently checked-in to Heartbreak Hotel and we were supposed to be cheering her up. Lauren even told her I was the best person to be around when you are newly single, because I am, in Lauren's words, a 'boyfriend-hater extraordinaire.'

Well, my floods of tears didn't really cheer Olivia up, in fact because I was crying she started crying as well and then I tried to make amends for crying for no reason. I tried to look at Olivia through my tear-filled eyes as I struggled to say, between the choked sobs that I was forcing back down my throat:

"I...I've g-ggot... nothing t-tto... c-cry...a-a-a-about...you-you're...the one...with... some-something... t-to... c-cry... about!"

Oh dear.

I think it was shortly after that that we left, but I don't remember being sad as we left. In fact I don't remember anything at all. I do remember standing outside a hotel while Olivia and Julia went in to ask for a taxi. Laura saw that they had set up for breakfast.

"Go in and steal us a croissant." she said.

I went in, keeping my head down, and grabbed two croissants, then I walked straight back out again. Victory was ours. Olivia and Julia joined us outside with a message from the guy on reception. I thought it was going to something aggressive about croissants, but in fact he'd just written down his name and telephone number for Laura, who he must have fallen in love with her whilst watching her having a fag outside the window, eating her stolen Continental Breakfast.

The taxi arrived. First it dropped Olivia and Julia off, then... then I fell into a deep sleep. I was having dreams and everything, about being late for work and throwing caramel shots in people's eyes, then all of a sudden the taxi had stopped and he was telling us to get out. I looked around and had no idea where we were, so I repeated the name of my street. He just kept pointing and saying "C'est la! C'est la!"

For some reason, we took his word for it and Laura paid for our journey on her card. It was almost forty euros, so fuck knows where he'd driven us. We got out of the taxi and Laura said: "Shit, I was proper asleep then!"

I don't think it is a Good Thing that both of us fell asleep in the taxi, but luckily for us the taxi driver had actually dropped us off near my street, so we only had a five minute walk and then we were riding the elevator to my horrible, messy bedroom. We both put on our new pyjamas and as we climbed into bed, the light outside my window was the petrol blue that proceeds a winter's sunrise.

The next day we met Kayt for 'brunch' (is it still brunch at half three in the afternoon?) at the Rose Bakery, near Pigalle, which is a lovely English-themed bakery and restaurant that only uses organic, free range, locally-sourced blah blah blah. It's fucking Well Dear and you always have to queue to get a table, but it's Worth It. I had Bacon, Mushrooms, Eggs and Tomatoes which came with huge slices of toasted baguette and chunky, sweet marmalade. I also had a pot of rooibios tea and all in all, my 'brunch' nearly cost me twenty euros, but I've lived in Paris for long enough now that it doesn't seem that extortionate...

After the Rose Bakery, Laura got her train home and me and Kayt ate an absolutely shocking amount of English chocolate, plus tortilla chops with a tub of cream cheese and slices of chorizo... Seriously, I am going to try and control my Feeding Habits, especially as Ibiza 2012 is already booked.

I'm very excited for that obviously, but it also means more things to pay for. Still, I feel a lot happier this week, the restaurant has been going better and I have Ibiza 2012 to look forward to...

Now I'm going to see how many cups of tea I can fit in before I have to go to my au pair job, I have to leave in fifteen minutes...

Crying and Consuming: Part 1

2011-11-07T22:05:00.008+01:00

I've just found a weird French flyer that has 'Adrian' scrawled on the back of it, along with a mobile number. It wasn't for me, it was for Laura, who happens to have a boyfriend living in Belgium. (No, he's not Belgiumese, he's actually an English guy that she met whilst working in St Tropez this summer: he was flipping burgers on an English campsite, she was cleaning caravans- what could be more riveria chic than that?)

For a moment or two I had no idea where the flyer came from or who 'Adrian' was, but then I got Total Recall and the whole drunken night came flooding back to me. I have since made myself a cup of tea and I'm now getting settled in my bed, because I think this is going to be a long one...

Let's start at the beginning.

On Saturday I got up at 9.30am and went to my au pair job, in a foul mood because I resented working yet another Saturday. I took the eight year old and the baby to the park, but it had been raining and everything was wet, so the kids couldn't play on anything and we had to come home after half an hour, even though the mum told me not to come back for at least an hour.

When we got back I curled the eight year old's hair with my curling tongs. It took about forty minutes and when I'd finished, she said she didn't even like it. I know she secretly loved it though, because she couldn't stop marvelling at herself in the mirror; pouting and tossing her curls about.

After lunch her little mate came round and we did 'choreography' which basically means the eight year old and her friend sit on the bed and yell Danse! Danse! at me and I have to dance to the Black Eyed Peas while they watch me, smirking. I was dancing for them for about an hour, struggling to think of new moves and wondering how many more Katy Perry songs I could bear to listen to, when finally, finally the baby's nanny arrived about 3pm and she said I could go- I was freeee to start my weekend.

I had an hour long Disco Nap and then Olivia rang me to discuss The Plan for her birthday drinks that evening. I suggested Le China near Bastille- we went there last May and I fell in love with the place, it's a bit pricey but I thought it would be ok for everyone as we were celebrating and it is 'lush', as Kayt would say.

Plans made, I met up with Kayt and Laura for a quick trip to H&M. Laura was down for the night from Amiens, which is a couple of hours away from Paris. When she moved away from Paris last year I thought we would never get to see her, but she's come to Paris so many times since we all came back in September that it's like she still lives here.

Oh my God, I have just realised I am telling everybody about my life in the most excruiatingly minute detail, I'm so sorry, it's just that I have such a shit memory, and writing my blog really feels like I am writing in my diary- I want to capture everything for Future Reference... You know what? You could stop reading at any point, so don't be bitching about me being boring.

Anyway, we went on a little shopping trip... Since getting paid from the restaurant I have been uncharacteristically sensible about my spending habits, but I was feeling ever so slightly miserable on Saturday and as much as it pains me to admit me this about myself, Consuming makes me feel GOOD.

I bought a coat, a pair of shoes, some tights and some really cute pyjamas. Actually, it doesn't sound like a lot now that I've written it down and I really needed a new coat and it was 50% off. Just for Crystal, here is a picture of the shoes, but I'm not even sure if I like them anymore:

They look a bit cheap, but I was just desperate for some new 'going out shoes' and these are black, they're quite high and they're really comfortable. Tick, tick, tick. Nobody will look at them in dark clubs anyway. And they look really nice with my new camel coat...

After the shopping spree me, Kayt and Laura ate a disgusting amount of filled pasta and pesto in my little Cinderella room and got ready to go out. Well, me and Laura did, but Kayt had to go and babysit. I'd like to say that because I knew Laura was staying, I tidied and cleaned my room... but I didn't. It was and still is absolutely disgusting, I half feel sorry for Laura and I half don't really care, because I am a very Selfish and Lazy Girl.

Anyway, we went to Olivia's for pre-drinks and on the way I bought a bag of Haribo Ours d'or (gummy bears) because when I am feeling A Bit Miserable I can't walk past food I like and not CONSUME IT and I like Ours d'or A LOT. I thought everyone would be up for gummy bears, but I ended up eating almost the entire bag by myself and I felt a bit sick. Also I drank quite a lot. We were at Olivia's remember, Ms Mixologist. She made us Espresso Martinis and Mojitos, plus there was a lot of wine.

There was also her mum, who was visiting from England and was lovely. She was drinking and chatting with us and Abby said it was weird drinking with somebody's mum, because French parents don't realise that their children drink to the extent that they do. She said her mum and dad think that she only drinks alchohol with meals! How weird is that? Last Wednesday afternoon me and Abby went out for 'a coffee' and we got a glass of wine instead which then turned into a bottle of wine back at mine... we were drunk and arguing about spaghetti carbonara before I bet her mum and dad had even sat down for their dinner.

I digress, a lot...

There was six of us that went out. We headed to Le China at about half eleven and it was absolutely rammed. We had to go downstairs in the club bit and they don't make all the nice cocktails down there. We waited for agesss to get served and I think me and Laura were the only ones who liked our cocktails. Maybe it was because they were too busy, but they just weren't nice. Last time we went I had one of the best cocktails I've ever had ('The Cointreaupolitan', made with fresh sage) and there was a really calm, elegant atmosphere, but it was just ghastly on Saturday night, simply ghastly.

I felt really guilty for bringing everyone there but honestly, it can be a really special place. I think the best time to go would be early on a Friday night, when it's quiet. Apparently the food is really, really good.

Anyway, we cut our losses and got on the metro to Le Truskel. I can't exactly remember why we decided to go there, but I do remember getting a ham and cheese crêpe on the journey... We also lost one of our number on the way there, as Abby decided to go home, I think she had uni work to do or something.

Le Truskel is basically a glorified 'celtic pub'/Indie club. It's a bit scrubby but it's fun.

HOWEVER. We did get approached by a lot of horrible, horrible men. It started at the bar when I was pinning up my hair, a man wearing a Pretentious Scarf pointed at me and said: "Why do you put your hair in shape? Nobody cares! It's so late!"

I had no fucking idea what he was talking about, so Julia asked him if he wanted her to translate for him and he got all huffy.

"I lived in London for six months, I speak fluent English!"

Yep, ok, I'll just continue to put my hair in shape then...

After Prententious Scarf Man, we got hounded by a whole gang of Horrible Men at once who were all mates with each other. Maybe they met at a Woman Abusing Conference. By this point, I was at that stage of Drunkeness where I decide I must lie about my Ethnic Origins and I told everyone we were Swedish so that they wouldn't try and talk English to us. We quickly tried to give outselves 'Swedish names' but we only managed Ulrika and Erika before we ran out of ideas. After a lot of gibberish talking (which is an Excellent way to convince drunk people you are Swedish or Greek, I have done it a lot in Paris and I would highly reccommend it if people won't leave you alone because they want to speak English to you) we finally got rid of the Horrible Men, only to be approached by a gang of Not As Horrible Men.

These men had heard us yelling and hollering so they knew we spoke English, but we just wouldn't admit it. We decided to all give ourselves different nationalities, I don't remember most of them but Julia was a Russian girl called Natasha and I was, obviously, a Romany Traveller called Esme. The brilliant part of the plan was that we pretended I was ashamed of my real name, which was Esmerelda, because it was so obviously Romany Traveller, so I made everyone call me Esme and not tell anyone I was a Romany Traveller, but of course they let the cat out of the bag...

Anyway, it all gets a bit hazy. Everyone left to go for a smoke and I kept the table. One of the Not-So Horrible Men actually turned out to be pretty Horrible and because I wasn't touching his arm whilst laughing coquettishly in his face and saying things like 'Ha ha that is so charming', he started to say things like "All your friends have a sense of humour, you have no sense of humour. You are horrible, men will be horrible to you, you deserve it." Obviously I didn't understand a word he was saying because he was talking in English and Esme only speaks Romanian, but his friends were really embarrassed and they dragged him away.

I went downstairs to wait for the girls and lo and behold, Pretentious Scarf Man popped up out of whatever arsehole he'd been lurking about in, wanting to apologise but also to try and make me look like a dick at the same time, in that way that men do. "You over-reacted, I was only being friendly, I'm sorry." I am sounding like a real man-hater in this post... oh well.

After the girls had finished their fags in the disgusting, windowless 'smoking room', we moved onto the dance floor. It was very crowded and a lot of people were pushing into each other and knocking drinks over. One guy barged into Olivia and knocked her drink all over her, so in retalliation and annoyance she threw her shot at him. Unfortunately it went directly into his eye and he Flipped Out. There was a lot of shuffling around, trying to remain in the middle of him and Olivia and then thankfully he stalked off somewhere, rubbing his eye and making a big deal out of nothing.

Come on you aggy bastard, some people do shots through their eye on a regular basis, we've basically given you a shot for free!

After the Drama we had some good dancing times and then, somehow, we appeared to have made friends with a group of Not Weird Men, one of whom kept showing me photos of his wife and his little boy, so there was definitely a refreshing lack of the threatening/sinister behaviour that I've come to associate with the lovely gentlemen of Paris.

The club closed. We were outside talking to the three Not Weird Men and then suddenly ShotEye pounced on us from the shadows, shouting at Olivia and generally being an Aggy Bastard. Olivia said to him very seriously "Who cut your hair? I'll get them for you." I had never heard that one before Olivia said it and now it's one of my favourite Scouse sayings. (It means you have shit hair, he did have quite shit hair.)

The Not Weird Men, plus their Not Weird Female Friend, tried to intervene and before I knew what was happening, we were all walking back to a party at a random apartment which was 'just around the corner'. ShotEye followed us for quite a long way and we had to keep stopping and yelling at him. We were all venting our man-hating anger on him and eventually he skulked off with his shit hair.

The next thing I can remember is... creeping through a dark courtyard filled with flowers. I can remember whispering "Whose are all these flowers?"

I have a really weird impression of the building and the feeling of the place- it seems like I'm looking back at an old photo, or it could be a faded scene from one of my earliest memories, those moments you can't really remember but you can recall the feeling of them.

The courtyard was filled with pots and troughs of flowers and then we walked into a tiled hallway that was also filled with flowers. We were led up a narrow, winding staircase and there were pots of flowers on each step for the first couple of flights of stairs and then they gradually disappeared. I can't remember what flowers they were.

I'm so tired all of a sudden, I feel sick, I'm going to finish this tomorrow afternoon. Good night!

Time Window

2011-11-07T15:51:00.005+01:00

Work at the restaurant wasn't too bad today! It was absolutely dead and I was on the bar for the first time, so I was just making drinks and polishing cutlery- it was Excellent. Also, the shift manager was an English guy who is really nice and the only other person working was the Danish girl and we got on fine today, although I pleasantly asked her how her party went (that I wasn't invited to) and it transpires that she invited Aggressive Australian Chef. Maybe they have shagged or something.

Anyway, I have a little Time Window so I thought I'd do a quick blog. How busy am I?? I have 'windows of time' now, whereas before I started this Stupid Fucking Waitressing Job I had wide open plains of time, I had meadows and forests and oceans of time and all I did with them was sleep and look at pictures of really obese people on the internet...

Nowadays I am extremely busy. I'm completely swamped, darling. Today I've worked in the restaurant, I'll be doing my au pair job later and this morning I had my Drama Lesson Thing. It went quite well today, although I was only assisting the lesson really. The French actress who was teaching had to keep yelling at the kids in French to make them behave, even though there is supposed to be No French in the class at all. I don't know what's going to happen when it comes to teaching them on my own, but in a way I'm looking forward to it; even though they are quite naughty and a bit loony, I like the class a lot. Today some of the boys sang an English song that they learnt in school last year and it was the Best Thing ever, seeing them so excited and having fun and learning at the same time. I really would consider being a teacher if I didn't think I'd be so crap at it. Also if schools didn't start so early.

After the lesson the French teacher asked me if I wanted to 'grab a coffee' although of course for me that means tea, because the taste of coffee makes my taste buds want to run away and hide in a dark corner, shuddering. (They never actually do of course, but then again I rarely subject them to the taste of coffee, because I don't care much for it myself. I only make them taste coffee when there is coffee cake on offer, or chocolate-covered coffee beans that look exactly like chocolate-covered nuts.)

The French actress/teacher is really lovely and the good thing is she thinks it's rubbish that I've lived here for over a year and I don't speak French, so she frequently talks to me in French, as she says it's the only way I'll learn. She has an eleven year son and she asked me if I'd be available for babysitting sometimes AND she said she'll pass on my details to her friends if they want an English teacher. So she might throw some work my way, plus it's good to speak French with her. She said that the best way to learn another language is to get a boyfriend who doesn't speak English, which people have told me time and time again, but I can hardly put an announcement in the FUSAC can I?

Wanted: French man for Sexy Times and Conversation. Must not speak English. If you can understand this announcement, you are not a suitable candidate.

She said "I know some Nice French Boys, I will introduce you."

People say this to me so often in Paris that I have stopped believing them. It's really weird, whether they are French or English, as soon as they find out I am single, people say "I know some Nice Boys! I will introduce you."

As if I will take any Nice Boy and that they will take me just because we are both single. Can you imagine how awful it would be if I actually went on a blind date? I can barely hold a conversation with my co-workers, who I have known for almost a month now and who all speak English. What would I say to someone I don't know, in French? Oh God, I am cringing just thinking about it.

Oh shit, I have to go to work now, but later I will write about the weekend- I know there are millions and millions of avid readers out there who are just desperate to know how I spent my weekend.

Commenters and Followers

2011-11-06T23:02:00.004+01:00

Ahem.

That was me clearing my throat in preparation for the Big Speech I am about to deliver:

I would just like to say a big Thank You to everyone who has commented on my blog recently. I don't know why, but all of a sudden I am getting quite a lot of comments and I am Loving It. Also, I would like to say MERCI BEAUCOUP to my 27 Followers, because even though 27 is quite a small number compared with other, bigger numbers (28, 29 and 30 to name but a few), I am grateful that anyone at all likes my blog enough to 'follow' it. It gives me Thrills.

So that was my Big Speech.

Now I am going to get in bed with a book and a cup of tea, because I've got that Drama Class Thing in the morning and I have to be up very, very early. But tomorrow I will tell you all about my weekend- I bought some new shoes, Olivia threw a shot of caramel vodka in someone's eye and at 6.30am this morning I was in a random Parisien apartment, crying because I missed my mum.

Good News and Bad News

2011-11-04T21:51:00.004+01:00

Bad news and good news.

The Bad News is that this week my friend Anna left Paris, for good. She decided on the spur of the moment to go to Australia for a year, as you do. (Is it 'on' the spur, or 'in' the spur? What is a 'spur'? I'm assuming it's not the same as those metal things cowboys have on the side of their boots...) Ah Anna. You are quite mad but I will miss you. Who else would come out with me on a Friday to see some dubstep music and then not come home until Sunday morning, on a TGV from Lyon, with nothing but the clothes on our backs and an amusing anecdote to share?

(If you don't know what I'm talking about readers, then I don't think I can bring myself to tell you.)

So, another friend leaves Paris. I thought enough people left last year.

But that brings me onto my Good News, because Amy is coming back for a visit in two weeks! Yey! We are probably going to drink cheap wine and eat Chinese food on benches in the street like the good old days of last year!!

Ah, but I have more Bad News. I found out my friend Jen from home, who went to Australia for six months on a work placement, has been offered a permanent job there and is going back in a few weeks. She is going to be there for at least two years and I won't get a chance to see her before she goes. Sad times.

Ok, let me think of some more Good News to cheer myself up... I got paid from my restaurant job this week and I have managed to not spend any of it yet! Well, I've spent thirty euros but those who know my Wiley Ways with money will know that this is very restrained and responsible of me!!

Talking of the 'resto' (if you don't know, this is the short word for 'restaurant' in French and as it's handy for texting I use it quite a lot), my manager asked to have 'a chat' with me yesterday. She said that the last week has gone really well, but before that she wasn't sure if she was going to keep me on because I was so diabolical. She asked me why I thought things were going a lot better suddenly.

"Because the restaurant's been quieter, I suppose." was my honest answer.

It's true- the restaurant hasn't been as crazy recently, so there hasn't been as many things to Fuck Up.

Unfortunately, it seems we spoke too soon, because today it was really busy again and I got all flustered: I put an order through the till wrong; I mixed up some table numbers; and I forgot to 'Follow Suite' which means a couple of tables had to wait for ageessss for their next course... The French Shift Manager was charging around swearing at me and bitching about me to the other staff, which made me loose my focus even more. I've realised that I Fuck Up the worst when I'm working with this particular French Shift Manager, because she just yells random things to me all day and I get very, very confused and also the anger and resentment kind of bubbles up inside me like hot acid, burning away all my common sense and reason...

When we had our 'little chat' yesterday, the manager said that I also need to make myself 'part of the team'. I read between the lines:

"Does everyone think I'm really rude?"

"...No." she said, "They just... they just think you are quite shy. It's horrible being the person at work that no one speaks to and sooner or later everyone will just stop trying."

I tried really hard today to say 'hello' to everyone and to ask them if they were looking forward to the weekend, all that Boring, Personable Crap that I have no interest in because why would I want to chat to people who clearly aren't arsed about chatting to me? I'm not offended, I don't give a shit if they like me or not, but I just resent forcing my false-friendliness onto people who would clearly prefer it if I just wasn't there; I don't know if I'm being paranoid or not, but I get the feeling some of the other staff don't like me very much.

Anyway, I'm making an effort so we'll see. The Danish Girl who I actually thought was quite nice invited everyone to her house-warming party today, everyone apart from me, and it was really awakward because I was part of the conversation and then I had to kind of politely divert my attention elsewhere when she started discussing her party. Why didn't she just wait until after I had gone? Why didn't she invite everyone individually, on the sly?

Oh god. I feel like a really Bad Gimp. I feel like I have a really awful personality and everyone who meets me wishes they hadn't. At first, I comforted myself by thinking 'Well, I've got lots of friends and I know I'm not a Weirdo' but actually, when I think about it, I always make bad impressions: when I started a new Secondary School; when I started Sixth Form College and my friends weren't in any of my classes and we didn't have any of the same Free Periods; even when I started Uni... I don't have any social skills. I have the charisma of a cotton wool pad. Less even, because I'm looking at one right now and there's just something about it, so soft and spherical, I bet it has no problems getting on with my other toiletries. I bet it goes raving with my blusher brush and my tweezers, I bet it has a holiday to Ibiza booked with my eyelash-curlers.

Oh and also in my 'little chat', I discovered that I will only have four days off for Christmas. FOUR DAYS. I was kind of expecting something like this, but I assumed I would quit if it came down to it. However, I really need the money. If I keep this job up all year I could pay off my credit card and pay off my overdraft and I can move to London debt-free. (Let's not mention the £18,000 Student Loan, please.)

Four days for Christmas though? Father Christmas better bring me something really good. And speaking of Santa, baby, the girls taped their Christmas Wish Lists to their bedroom door last night. The eleven year old wants a Longchamp bag and a pair of Ugg boots (she already has a grey pair and a beige pair) and the eight year old wants her own bedroom and a Blackberry. I was planning on getting them bath bombs from Lush, so... let's see how well that goes down.

Tonight, when I was washing the eight year old's hair in the bath, she took a good, long look at my face.

"Why you have something here, here, here and here?"

She was pointing at mosquito bites on my face. YES on my face. They are not only on my face, they are also all over my neck, my chest and my shoulders. I look like a Diseased Girl. The worst thing is, I'm pretty sure it's only one mosquito who has been hiding in my room for three days. I can't find him anywhere but then I keep waking up, half-asleep, to a buzz buzzzzzz sound in my ear. The scariest thing is I'm pretty sure mosquitos don't buzz, so I could be harbouring some sort of exotic, buzzing, biting insect that is super dangerous and hard to get rid of.

I tried to explain this to the little girl, but she didn't really get it. To change the subject, I took my hair out of the bobble and showed her how curly my hair was. She loves it. I really think I am onto something with this curly hair thing. French girls seem to really admire curly hair for some reason. She was cooing and going 'So nice! So good! You do this to your hair all the time, ok?"

As I put it back into a ponytail, she glanced at my armpits and I know this is probably Too Much Information, but I may or may not have neglected them for a couple of days. I put my arms down quicly but it was too late. She smirked.

"You no have boyfriend?"

'Here we go,' I thought, 'This will be just like last year, when the eight year old kept asking me why nobody loved me until I was nearly in tears.'

"No." I said.
"Why?"
"I don't want one."
"You don't want one?!" she looked amazed.
"I'm busy. I have a lot of friends... I'm very busy."
"What's 'busy'?"
"It means I have lots of things to do."
"So? You don't want boyfriend?"
"I don't have time, I'm busy."

No matter how much I tried to justify myself, I could tell she wasn't impressed by my answer.

"Maybe you dirty. You dirty so you don't have boyfriend!"

The scary thing is, I think she's right.

So. The Good News is... Amy is coming in two weeks.

The Bad News is... i'm dirty, everybody at the restaurant hates me, two of my friends are moving to Australia, I can only have four days off for Christmas and there is a small, flying monster hiding somewhere in my room...

Oh and I'm working my au pair job again tomorrow. Instead of 'one Saturday every two months', it's worked out more like 'one Saturday every two weeks'.

A Year Ago Today...

2011-11-01T00:43:00.002+01:00

I just looked back on my blog out of interest to see if I posted anything on this date last year, and it just so happened to be my first day back after a Really Fun week in England. I hadn't started my new job yet, or met Kayt, Amy, Georgie, Clare, Emma, Mairi, Laura or Anne. I hadn't even seen the place that would become my home for the next nine months...

I'm no longer home, I'm back in Paris, the city where people feed me grated carrot and UHT milk. Later I am meeting my new employer and she is taking me to my new 'place'. I say place because I have no idea if it will be a hole or a nice little bedsit... I had a dream last night that my old family wouldn't let me have my stuff back. I have no idea how this whole thing is going to go down, but I guess 'que sera, que sera'.

How weird about the dream, because they didn't let me have my stuff back at first and then when they eventually did let me have it, they brought it down stairs for me in a suspicious bin bag.

We Love Art

2011-10-31T23:55:00.002+01:00

Mmm I've just eaten a lot of creamy pork and I'm not using any disgusting euphemisms. Before I came to France I never would have thought of frying meat in butter and cream, but it's so nice. I'm worried though that the things I eat most often in Paris consist of cream and some sort of fatty meat: chicken cooked in cream and butter, pork cooked in cream and butter, lardons cooked in cream and parmesan cheese... why does fat taste so nice?

Anyhoo, on Saturday night I went raving with Julia and her sister (Julia is Abby's friend, Abby is my French friend who I met through Lauren, who met her when they both worked in Oxfam in Manchester about four years ago) and now, because of the magic of my new Blackberry, I can show you some photos, finally, after months of having no camera!! The night was a 'We Love Art' night called Boombox and I'm going to tell you all about it...

I didn't get home from work until about half seven and I was absolutely shattered. My body ached and I needed a shower and a Sit Down. I was supposed to go to Julia's flat to get ready and for pre-drinks, but she lives in one of the banlieus and I didn't know if, once I'd had a cup of tea and got all my stuff together, it would be worth travelling to where she lives. But Julia texted me saying they had made pasta and I realised I'd barely eaten all day. I'd had been given an 'English Breakfast' at work at half eleven, but it had been covered in baked beans and I don't eat baked beans (unless someone's mum cooks them for me, then I'll eat them to be polite), so I just picked at it.

It didn't actually take that long to get to Julia's and it wasn't a scary banlieu, although I took the wrong exit off the RER and had to wait in a deserted carpark while Julia and her flatmate tried to locate me. (When they finally found me, me and Julia didn't recognise each other at first because we have actually only met three times before and I had no make-up on, so obviously I looked like a Scary Mess and not like my usual self. She stared at me as she walked past and I just stared back at her in a rude way and then after she'd gone past we both went 'Ohhh!') From the RER station Julia drove us to her flat which was a bit exciting for me because nobody else I know has a car in Paris!

Her flat is really cute, she has two pet rats which she lets run around the place and she said she was nervous I would freak out, because she read on my blog how I hate animals. But I don't hate all animals! Just ones that want to eat my face with their huge, strong jaws. Her rats are actually really sweet, but I kept thinking how weird it would be if she hadn't told me she had pet rats, because they snuck about in the cupboards and hid in our coats. Imagine if you didn't know she had pet rats and then this guy ran across your feet:

We ate pasta and we drank quite a lot of vodka and then rather misguidedly we decided to get ready after all the drinking. I remember trying to focus on the mirror and pulling on my pony tail to make it really high and bushy which is never a good look, no matter how drunk you are.

As it turns out, it was a Good Job I went to Julia's to get ready, because I ended up borrowing a dress from her and some really nice shoes that she bought from Topshop. She buys Topshop things online and gets them delivered to Paris, which must be soo expensive, but it's kind of made me want to do it as well...

In my rather drunk state I took a picture of her toilet, because people have written on the walls, as though her flat is a bar or a club. I'm going to share it with you to prove that I do finally have Real French Friends:

Eventually, we made it out of the flat about half eleven. Her flatmate was a bit annoyed because, when we told him we'd be 'ten minutes', he believed us and made plans to meet his friends in town. Obviously when we said 'ten minutes' we meant 'an hour' so he was very, very late to meet his friends, but girls always take longer than boys to get ready, especially when you factor in the alcohol. We got the bus to the RER station and none of us paid. I was quite shocked but Julia said "Nobody pays the bus here!" We jumped the RER barriers as well, because my Navigo doesn't work outside of Zones 1 and 2 and Julia and her sister said they never pay for the metro.

"You never get caught when you expect to get caught!" they said and it seemeed like Good Logic to me.

When we got off the RER to change on to the metro (I can't remember where we changed) I swiped us through the barriers with my Navigo. In our drunken haze we hadn't seen the swarm of Transport Police waiting for us on the other side.

The pulled us up straight away and said Julia and her sister had to pay fifty euros each there and then. They had loads of people against the wall and some rough looking guys were arguing with the police, being really confrontational. The guy who pulled us up kept flitting between us and the agressive guys and when he wasn't there a little light bulb flickered on in the back of my foggy brain- I remembered an au pair last year who got caught out and the Metro Guy said it was fifty euros or he'd call the police. She told him to call the police and he said "Ok, it's twenty five euros."

Also, when I got caught last year, it was twenty five euros, so this policeman or whatever he was just Trying It On. I told Julia and her sister and they were like "Are you sure? Are you sure?"

"Yes! It's twenty five euros, he's lying! It's twenty five euros!"

Julia went up to the guy and asked him why it was fifty euros, when it was normally twenty five. He told her that it was twenty five euros when you can produce a ticket that isn't valid, but it's fifty euros when you are caught 'jumping' (literally jumping over the barriers, like most people do, or sneaking in behind someone else). Hmm. It still seemed a bit dodgy but there wasn't much we could do about it. The guy who had pulled us up seemed really irritated and he kept glancing over at the aggressive guys against the wall, one of whom was being pushed back by a lady police officer because he was trying to get all up in her grill, y'all.

Luckily, the guy who had been dealing with us couldn't cope with our annoying questions anymore, so he passed us onto someone else who was really, really nice. It was so weird- he was really polite with us and he said to Julia "Ok, you are sisters, twenty five euros for the both of you." Julia paid it before he could change his mind and he gave her a ticket for the rest of our journey. Twenty five euros instead of one hundred- it just proves they make it up as they go along and will try and get whatever they can from you, so be careful. (Or buy a ticket and don't jump the metro, I suppose.)

The venue was le Grand Halle at Parc de la Villette, which by now has become one of my favourite places in Paris. As well as looking really modern and interesting, with strange architecture and landscaping, they always have good events on and it is home to the music venue Cabaret Sauvage. This weekend at the park there was a festival on called Pitchfork and I found out tonight that on Saturday, while I was raving, Georgie was working at the festival, just behind the Grand Halle, taking photographs backstage.

The only problem with Parc de la Villette is that it's a bit ghetto and when you get off the metro, you find yourself in an empty building site. You have to walk in the dark for quite a bit until you get to Cabaret Sauvage. As I have been before, I managed to get us there from the metro, but we weren't going to Cabaret Sauvage were we? None of us could remember where the venue for We Love Art was.

On the canal opposite Cabaret Sauvage, there is a random club on a boat that is always open, but always empty. We asked the bouncers if they knew where the 'big party with DJs' was and they pointed us in the right direction. Literally, they pointed in a direction and told us to walk as far as we could. Look how bloody far we had to walk:

We walked along the canal, following the bright lights, for ages and ages. It was cool though. At one point someone was yelling at us from across the canal and the lights were so bright we couldn't see who it was. We had a conversation with the Mystery Person over the glittering water for about a mile and I started to think maybe something weird was going on, like we were talking to a ghost or maybe we were so drunk we were conversing with our own echoes... But eventually we got to a bridge and we crossed paths with the Mystery Person. He wasn't a ghost, he was just a weird guy. He said he hangs out by the canal 'just on the off chance' he'll meet a girl there. To rape, he probably meant.

I started to think we'd never get to the rave and we'd just follow the bright lights forever. But then we got to the rave, finally! And it was really good. (It made up a little bit for the fact that I couldn't make it to Mulletover.) The venue was huuuuuge, normally it's an exhibition space. The DJ booth was really high up and surrounded by projection screens:

I didn't really know any of the DJs, but the music was quite good. I haven't been to a rave for ages and ages so I was just enjoying bopping about and being Generally Fucked. But at one point, things got a bit weird...
We were chatting to this guy and he went off to get a drink. When he'd walked off I thought 'Shit! What table number is he?' and I couldn't remember it. I decided that he was probably sat at table 16, but then where was everyone else sat? There were too many people and where were all the tables? Then the guy came back with his drink and I couldn't figure out where he'd got his drink from. Where had everyone got their drinks from? They weren't allowed to bring their drinks this far from the restaurant, surely?

I have definitely been working at the restaurant too much this past week.

After a while I realised I wasn't waitressing, I was raving! I had a Good Time. We were just dancing and dancing. There were no nobheads there and the light effects were amazing:

We finally left about six am. It took us a VERY LONG time to get back to Julia's, it was about half seven when we got back I think. The next day when I woke up, it felt a bit surreal because I was half-asleep and Julia and her sister were talking to each other in French. I've never actually stayed over at a French Friend's place before. There was no language needed really; we mostly sat in silence and stared at the wall, feeling really Terrible and Ill. At about five pm, Julia drove me back to mine because she had a family meal in Paris. I'm so glad I got a lift home, I couldn't have faced the bus, then the RER and then the metro.

Driving through the outskirts of Paris was weird because I never see that part of the city, ever. It went from being industrial and a bit grimy to being really modern and futuristic and then suddenly we were back in the grand boulevards of Paris. We had to drive around the Arc de Triomphe which was crazy. There really are no lanes, you just have to try and get across any way you can without smashing into the other cars.

Julia dropped me off at the top of my street. I said goodbye and walked up to my building, looking forward to a cup of tea and then cooking myself something nice to eat. I was Starving, Freezing and Tired. I went into my building, passing Homeless Man who sits on the step all night and all day. I put in my code and got in the lift. I slumped against the wall in the lift, nearly there, nearly there... The lift stopped and I got out. Nearly home, nearly in reach of a kettle and teabags... I put my key in my door, walked in and switched on the light.

Nothing.

I plugged in my lamp, nothing. I tried all the switches and nothing was working. I had no light, no cooker and my fridge and my little freezer were off. I tried to text my au pair family to ask them for the Gardienne's number, because I couldn't remember where she lived, but my phone wouldn't let me text or ring anyone. I went downstairs and hovered around where I thought the Gardienne lived, but I wasn't sure and I didn't know what to do.

I was in no state to deal with Electricity Problems. I went back upstairs and sat in the dark, crying.

It was very cold and I was hungry and I could barely see my own hand in front of my face. I thought about going to Georgie's, but I didn't know her code and if I couldn't use my phone, it might be more upsetting waiting outside her building in the dark with no way of contacting her.

I opened my door and used the light from the corridor to find where my electricity box thing was. I messed about with all the switches. Nothing. Then, just as I was about to give up, I noticed there was a little square that said 'OFF' on it. There was a sticky-out thing next to it so I pulled on it and the square said 'ON'. The lights came on. My fridge hummed back to life. I was saved.

I have no idea why that switch had been turned off and furthermore, I wonder why it was in English? Anyway, I'm just glad I got my electricity back.

Wow. I don't think anyone has ever written so much about one night before. I think it's time for bed. I worked at the restaurant today and I'm working again tomorrow. Today went really, really badly- I had the dreaded Front Section. How long am I going to keep this up until I quit??

Ha ha! Just chatting to Lauren on Whats App and she said that at the weekend, she made friends with a Randomer in Bumper (a club in Liverpool that has a tendency to be a bit pretentious) and they both pretended to be wearing Subconcious Hats. Then somebody I went to uni with, who Lauren doesn't know that well, ended up going home with her and her flatmate to eat Yorkshire puddings at 5am in the morning.

I am really missing England at the moment.

Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

2011-10-31T19:01:00.001+01:00

I wonder if anyone reading this blog saw what was coming? I used to read a very good blog called Notes From The Intern (she's gone travelling now) and she kept mentioning how money was going missing from her company. I had a horrible feeling she was going to get blamed and then one day she wrote how the company had suspended her and called the police in to investigate and she was the main suspect! It was all ok in the end- her horrible boss got caught stealing the money and The Intern received three grand in compensation, hence the reason she is now too busy travelling the globe to blog.

My point is, sometimes an outsider can see all too clearly what is going to happen, as if they are reading a book and they can guess the ending. I wonder, did any of you readers guess what was going to happen with the Halloween costume?

'FANCY DRESS OBLIGATORY.'

'Everyone is really going to go for it.'
'I'll be more miserable if I'm the only one who isn't properly dressed up.'

When you were reading all of this, when you were reading about how I ran around Paris and spent thirty euros on a shit scarf, a lacy top and little hairclips with black flowers on them, could you guess what was going to happen?

Did you guess that I would get to work and NOBODY ELSE WAS DRESSED UP?????

Because I sure as fuck didn't see that one coming.

I got up early on Saturday and curled my hair, then I got to work fifteen minutes early so I'd have time to do my make-up. When I walked in I saw that the shift manager wasn't dressed up and the other English girl working (who is now training to be a shift manager by the way, which makes 50% of the staff shift managers- what is the point of having so many managers?!) was wearing a polka-dot shirt. I wondered if this was her 'costume', because she said she was going to dress up as a Dead Minnie Mouse...

I couldn't decide whether she would be offended if I asked her if she was wearing a costume or not.

"Is everyone wearing their costumes all day today?" I asked casually.

"Oh shit! I've forgotten my costume!" she said.

I asked her if I should put my costume or not and I showed her what I'd brought. She said that maybe I should just put the veil on and do my make-up, so off I popped into the toilets.

I couldn't get the veil to look like it had done the night before, when I'd been messing about with it in my room and managed to make it look half-decent. The shift manager told me it was time for the Briefing and to eat our lunch.

"It looks cute, but you can't have your hair like that, it must be up." she told me.

I thought they might say something like that, but I was hoping because I'd pinned some of it back they'd let it slide as it was 'part of a costume'. No such luck, but as I walked off the manager said to the other English girl: "She has gorgeous hair." If someone who hates me so much can say that about my hair, when she thinks I'm not listening, then I'm not being a Big Headed Twat but it must have looked nice. I'm going to start curling my hair more often because when my hair is straight I look like a raggedy pagan, or like I belong to an obscure sect of Christianity (you know, the ones that don't believe in taking antibiotics, or the ones who will only live on corners*).

Anyway, I bounced off to pin up my 'gorgeous hair' (I'm not letting go of that compliment, am I?) and to do my make-up. The make-up looked kind of shit, because I was in a rush and the lighting was weird, plus I felt a bit self-concious because nobody else was dressed up, so I didn't put as much on as I should have done...

The prediction I made in my last post was an accurate one- I ended up walking around the restaurant with a lacy vest top hanging off the back of my head, with 'scary make-up on', only my make-up wasn't even that scary.

When the chefs changed over after lunch, one of them asked me why I had 'dark stuff' on my face and then he translated it for the other one, so they had clearly been discussing why I had weird make-up on.

"C'est 'alloween!" I said, "It is not my normal make-up, it's for my costume."

But by that point, my veil was an absolute mess and my make-up had rubbed off a bit, so I just looked like a strange, strange idiot.

Some of the chefs in the kitchen really don't like me, because I don't speak French and because I always look miserable when I go in to get plates. Two of them are my mates now because they asked me why I was so rude and I said I wasn't, I was just nervous and worried and I hate my job and I started smiling at them more and now they love me. One of them is an little old man from India and whenever I go into the kitchen he goes "Hello darrrrlink! I am very happy to see you! Let me see your smile, darrrlink it is very very beautiful!' so then I always smile, and I go out of the kitchen feeling all nice and happy.

See! I can be a happy waitress, that is where the other staff are going wrong. Instead of swearing at me all day and tutting at me, they should be showering me with compliments. I might bring this up with the manager...

"So why are you such a shit waitress?"
"It's not me you see, I need to bathe in the golden glow of compliments. If you could let the other staff know, that would be great. Nothing too indulgent, you know, just simple things like 'Nice smile' 'Great legs' 'What pretty eyes you have'... That sort of thing will be fine."

Anyway, when the Indian man is working it really makes a difference, because I love going down to the kitchen and saying hello to him, but on Saturday it was this new guy from Australia who is really aggressive and rude. In a way it was quite good because I was able to snap back at him without feeling unjustified and it relieved some of my tension. He said things like "Oi! I just caught you putting a dirty plate there and not scraping it into the bin!" and I marched up to him and said "Look! There's no bin bag!" (Not the most inspiring or rebellious revolt in the history of the world, but it made me feel a little bit better.)

So, Aggressive Australian Chef went home at lunchtime and was replaced by a French guy who can't speak English and gets annoyed when I try and explain things to him in shitty French, and a chef who I think is Bangladeshi. They were both being a bit rude to me, but I wasn't really arsed, until I went downstairs and he started singing a song a song at me in Bangladeshi, singing my name as well so I knew he was singing about me. I wasn't sure why, but I had a feeling he was singing something a bit rude or insulting.

"What language is that?" I asked him.
"Bangladeshi."
"Do you know any songs in Hindi?"
"...Yes."

He looked confused. Ha... When I was a teenager I was obsessed with Bollywood films and I used to listen to the songs on my Ipod. I always knew it would come in handy... I sang to him:

"Khabi khushi, khabi gham, khabi khushi, khabi gham..."
(Tears of sadness, tears of joy, tears of sadness, tears of joy.)

He didn't say anything, but he was kind of smiling and he looked a bit taken aback. The next time I went down into the kitchen he was singing the song I'd just sung and now he proper loves me. Yes. Now I have the Indian and the Bangladeshi chefs on my side, I can... erm... I'll think of a purpose to this plan later. The point is, I have acheived it. Bon.

When I finished work at 6.30pm, the girls who came in to cover my shift were dressed up in really good costumes, with fake blood and everything. I told them their costumes were good and then I left them to their little 'Halloween Party'. I had a party of my own to go to, but I will talk about that later because right now I am going to Georgie's and we're going to cook some pork.

*Seriously, this is a Real Thing, something to do with the direction the sewage runs in, I think. I can't remember the name of the religion but there are a few of them living in Stockport- they all live on corners and love God.

Later...

2011-10-29T02:23:00.006+02:00

Work wasn't too bad... because I ran out crying after twenty minutes of working on the Front Section, so they put me on the Back Section which is a bit smaller and it was really quiet all evening, plus everyone was extra careful not to push me in case I started crying again.

It wasn't even that awful, I don't know why I started crying really. I was stood on the Front Section and things were just beginning to get busy and somebody asked me something in French and I didn't really understand and they were being a bit snooty and then the shift manager, an English girl who I haven't worked with before, came over and said:

"Look happy! You look really unhappy, are you ok?"

And you know when you feel a bit like crying and then somebody asks you if you are ok and before you know it you've run away with your emotions and before you know it you're on the border of Crying County and you didn't even realise the car had started?

Worst Analogy Ever.

But you know what I mean. I said "I am really unhappy."

It occurred to me that maybe they think I enjoy the job and I just look sad because I'm a miserable bitch no matter what?

Then I started to say "I'm finding it really difficu-" but I had to close my mouth because I could feel the wails of despair welling up and I didn't want to do that embarrassing choking, gulping thing I do when I don't want to cry but I can't help it.

The shift manager looked really shocked but she was actually really nice. The Ridiculous Thing is that I found out she is TWO YEARS YOUNGER than me, as are a few of the other people who work there. I know two years isn't a lot, but it's weird because I've been feeling like everyone has been treating me like the baby of the workplace, whereas clearly they all know I'm not a baby; they have just been treating me like an idiot.

Anyway, I had a little hysterical cry behind the bins and then a more senior manager, who happened to have dropped by for Some Reason, walked past and saw me huddled over, weeping. I told her that I was finding the whole 'speaking French thing' really difficult and that it had all got on top of me. She told me to just speak English to people if I'm struggling, because it is an English-themed pub after all and a lot of the customers are either tourists or business people, so they probably speak English.

It wasn't really the French thing though. I started the shift feeling miserable because when I arrived people were milling around downstairs waiting for the 'briefing' to start and I just stood there wondering what was going on. The more I stood there, the more everyone else ignored me.

I guess that maybe, to the other people who work there, it seems like I'm always ignoring them and so they ignore me out of principle, but I just can't force myself to be a People Person. I feel awkward and confused and because I'm so paranoid I second-guess everyone all the time, assuming they don't like me or they're busy when maybe they're just wondering why I've worked there for two weeks and I haven't bothered to find out their name.

Or maybe they are just a bunch of bastards who hate me for no reason, who knows?

After my little cry I went back out there to discover that they had changed me onto the Back Section. It really is a lot easier to work, because there's no bloody outside terrace that you have to keep running back and forwards between and the tables are all within eyesight. Luckily for me, it was a quite night tonight, so nothing went catastrophically wrong and I was allowed to leave half an hour early, meaning I got the last metro.

But as soon as I got home I had another problem to worry about... my Stupid Fucking Costume for tomorrow.

Earlier today I said I was going to look for a 'Corpse Bride' type of thing. As I'm sure you've guessed, my Mad Shopping Dash was an absolute disaster. I went to the Marais with the intention of finding a vintage white, lacy dress or at least something lacy I could rip up and improvise with. Coiffeurs, the cheap vintage shop next to L'as du Falafal, had nothing in it. Except for annoying English and American tourists who don't understand it is a tiny shop you need to be spacially aware and not stand there dithering about when some people are in a rush trying to look for a Halloween costume thank you very much fucking move out of my way...

After Coiffeurs, I marched as fast as I could to Hotel de Ville, because I remembered there were some good vintage shops along the way. Unfortunately, they were too good and everything in them was about seventy euros. In a blind panic, I ran back to the metro, thinking I could go in H&M and look for something highstreet that could be somehow turned into a 'scary costume'. On my way back to the metro I stumbled across a little stall selling hideous scarves,, but one of them was kind of lacy and veily, so I bought it. It was ten euros. Don't say anything.

I bought a black scarf, because Kayt gave me the idea that I could wear this nice, black dress I already have and go as a bride who wears all black. It's quite long, with lace on the bottom and a mirrored bodice. Erm, it sounds disgusting but it is actually really nice, I promise. Oh my god, I have just realised, now I've got a Blackberry, I can take photos for my blog again! Ok, I'm going to take a photo of the dress so you can see what I'm talking about!

I keep those two dresses hung on the wall as a 'decorative feature', but I completely forgot that they'll probably absorb all the cooking smells and will forever carry a faint whiff of spaghetti carbonara. Anyway, it's one of those dresses that looks nicer on than it does on the hangar... Goodness Gracious, how do you spell hangar? Is it hanger? My brain has melted.

I'm rambling now. Where was I?

Oh yes so I panic-bought a shit scarf, then in H&M I bought a black lacy top that I thought I could wear with the dress or wear as a veil, then I bought about six black flower hairgrips to pin it into place and make it look more 'veil-like'. Overall I spent thirty euros, which is so stupid, but I just go mental when I've got a bit of money in my pocket, it's part of the reason why I try to never have any, because money makes me Insane.

As soon as I got in from work I tried out the veil and some quick make-up ideas. I managed to make a veil by pinning the lacy top to the back of my hair, it looked all right after a lot of tweaking but I doubt if I'll remember exactly how I did it when it comes to recreating it at work tomorrow... The make-up looked dreadful, but I'm planning on buying some very pale face powder tomorrow morning before work, so that might improve matters slightly... As for the dress, I like it a lot, but that's because it's one of my favourite dresses and think I look nice in it, it doesn't look spooky or anything. I tied the shitty scarf around my waist so that it looked a bit more unusual and decadent but in all honesty, it makes my waist look smaller and that's the only reason I did it. (Also I need to justify the ten euros I spent on it.)

So. In conclusion, I've spent thirty euros on some shit I will never wear again and tomorrow I'm going to have to get up Super Early so I can curl my hair and get to work with enough time to faff about in the toilets with black eyeshadow and some flowery hair grips. I'm basically dressing up as 'girl in nice black dress with lots of eye make-up and a t-shirt hanging off the back of her head.'

Oh, one last ramble (not a rant, not quite a rambling), there was a New Guy who started work tonight and he started doing all my jobs for me and he was really On The Ball and Competent. The bastard.

Corpse

2011-10-28T15:34:00.001+02:00

Later I am doing my Stupid Fucking Waitressing Job from 6pm until 2am. I don't even know how I'm going to get home afterwards, because I think the metro will have stopped... I can't remember if the metro runs until 2.30am on the weekend, or 1.30am.

I'm also working tomorrow at 10am which means I have the next two hours to get myself a Halloween costume for tomorrow. I was originally thinking something along the lines of 'slaggy cat' but as I'm working in the daytime, I guess it's not really appropriate. Also, it appears as if everyone else at work is going to really 'go for it' on the costume-front and while part of me wants to be miserable and not join in, another part of me really, really loves dressing up and I think I'll be more miserable if I'm the only one who isn't properly dressed up.

I had a really good idea for a costume last night- a Corpse Bride although to be honest, I just want to wear a flattering dress and do nice hair and make-up... I hate looking 'scary', whenever I've had to dress up for Halloween I've managed to choose a costume that doesn't require me to shade in horrible, grey bags under my eyes or rub dried blood everywhere. When I think about it though, I've always looked kind of shit at Halloween... Hmm.

In my head I was picturing this sort of thing:

What a DILLUSIONAL FANTASIST I am.

I hate living on my own, I've realised since leaving uni that if I don't have five other girls to dress me, lend me jewellery, do my hair and put my fake tan on for me; I just look Shit. All the time.

My other problem is that I was supposed to get paid from the Stupid Fucking Waitressing Job today, but my bank card is still blocked, so I can't get any money out anyway. I've got my au pair wages (even though I've hardly done any au pair work at all this week) but I need it for tomorrow night, I'm going to- FUCK! It's half three already!!

Right I've wasted a lot of time for No Reason, I need to get out of the house and look for... erm... what am I even looking for???

Oh fuck fuck fuck. a white dress? Where can I get a veil from? Where does one buy white face paint from in Paris??

Stress stress stress.

Anger anger anger.

I know there are lots of typos and spelling mistakes in this post.

I don't care.

What Did You Do At School Today?

2011-10-24T22:13:00.003+02:00

Ooh I am actually really enjoying this cold weather. I love it when I'm cooking in my room and all the mirrors steam up and over the sound of onions sizzling (yep, I fry onion in the same room that I shower and sleep in. And what? AND WHAT???), I can hear the rain on my window. I feel all warm and cosy in my room on dark winter's nights, especially because I actually tidied it up on Saturday night, finally! Having a tidy room really makes a difference to my mood; I feel so much calmer and productive.

Unfortunately the cold weather also makes me want to eat. All the time. I feel like I've turned into a Christmas pudding and it's not even December yet. We've not even had Bonfire Night. Or Halloween. But don't get me started on Halloween this year...

Anyway, I thought I would do a quick blog just because I felt like it.

Nothing to report really, apart from I had an ok shift at the restaurant on Sunday and then Georgie cooked a huuuge amazing dinner (posh people and Southerners read: lunch) on Sunday for me, Kayt and two French guys she'd invited, but not in a weird Mrs Bennet* way: it's just that we don't have any male friends in our little Paris social group and whereas I can take them or leave them, the other girls have been feeling the lack of 'masculine energy'; so Georgie thought it would make a nice change if she invited a couple of guy friends round.

And oh! I'm so glad she invited them, because one of them brought two little cardboard boxes round with him and do you know what was in those little boxes? Cakes. Six little works of art; the kind of cakes I see in the windows of enticing pâtisseries several times a day but can never allow myself to buy because they are at least six euros a pop... They were beautiful, in taste and appearance. I can't remember any of the names but that doesn't matter because I will never forget what they look like.

Actually, I just tried to picture them and I have forgotten what they look like, but I'm sure if I saw them in a pâtisserie the taste would come flooding back to me, filling my mouth with saliva...

Sorry that image was a bit disgusting.

Anyway, before the cakes, we had this amazing smashed/smushed/crushed (roughly mashed, let us say) potato thing with garlic and then this big pot of pork and chorizo and lardons cooked in plum tomatoes and paprika... MMM.

After lunch we even went for a walk around the Bois de Bologne, how very quaint and Austenian of us, taking a turn around the grounds after a long and leisurely lunch! But. We saw a duck with ducklings on the lake. Am I the only person who thinks this is worrying? Ducks are born in the Spring. Seeing tiny, fluffy ducklings in the winter felt like a bad omen, like if a farmer's wife happened to be walking past, she would shake her head and say "Nay good can come from seeing ducklings in the autumn I tell thee, nay good at all."

There was a fucking yappy little dog there, of course, pacing up and down the edge of the water, growling and barking at the fluffy babies.

"He's going to eat them." I said.

The owner just happened to speak English. He translated what I'd said to his wife and she cried:

"C'est pas vrai!!"

Of course it's not true, sorry Dog Owner! He doesn't want to eat those lovely little ducklings, I'm sure he's only trying to snatch them into his jagged, canine jaws so he can let them have a cosy sleep in his warm, stinking dog mouth... Once again I've seen that Dog Owners are completely fucking mental.

The male Dog Owner thought I was having a Laugh and a Joke, but as they walked off the dog went for the baby ducks again. The Dog Owner turned round to share a smile with me but he caught me muttering expletitives under my breath, my face contorted with hatred. I've decided that maybe I need to Chill Out on the whole dog thing.

So, Sunday was about lovely food and then today I went for lunch with Anna. She is leaving Paris in a week! She's moving to Australia for a year, she decided this about two weeks ago and her work visa has just come through, so she's off. Maybe I will do something like that if I can pay my overdraft off this year. Not Australia though I don't think. For some reason Morrocco keeps coming into my head and it won't go away... maybe because there are massive tourism posters for Morrocco in every metro station.

We went for lunch in this Spanish restaurant near Gare de Lyon, it was really nice and not too expensive. It was 13 euros for the formule, I had starter and main and Anna had main and dessert, but we ended up sharing the starter (calamari) and the dessert (some sort of nice cake with fruit). After lunch (I know I said before only posh people call it 'lunch', but when I eat it in a restaurant I call it 'lunch'... I guess because it's posh to eat in a restaurant in the middle of the day) we went for a walk around Jardin des Plantes.

It was so nice having time for Leisurely Persuits today. I wasn't working in the restaurant/pub because I told them I'd be doing my au pair job, but in the end the family didn't need me until 3.30pm.

I had a really nice time at work actually. When I got there the mum told me I would be taking the kids to the park with her grandma, who seems about the same age as my grandma which is weird. I chatted to her a little bit on our way to the park and she said once she went to London and she loved it, but she said that everything was trop cher, like Paris. She doesn't live in Paris anymore, which might explain why she's so nice.

At the park, the great-granny played with the baby in the toddlers' area while (whilst?) I was supposed to be watching the girls, but they kept moaning and saying they were bored. I tried to get them to play an 'imagination game' where we were little people who lived in the woods and we had to sneak out of our tree houses to get nuts and berries and hide from the goblin monsters who wanted to eat us, but they weren't having any of it. I was kind of gutted that they wouldn't play my game, but I put a brave face on and suggested we race each other instead. That got them running around and I really enjoyed it- I haven't been so Fast and Free (like a 1920s jazz floozy) for ages.

The girls said my run is: "So funny! So stupid and funny!"

After the race we did headstands and cartwheels... Well, the girls did cartwheels- I did a roly poly which made me so dizzy that I had to have a Lie Down on the grass.

When we got back to the house we did some drawing and the eight year old kept saying "So good! So great!" and even though I know I am supposed to be a Grown Up and not allow myself to patronised by eight year olds, I was bloody loving it and kept drawing and drawing. My tongue was even sticking out of the side of my mouth, which as everyone between the ages of 6 and 9 knows, helps you concentrate.

That's why I like being around kids- I can do a nice drawing or a bit of dancing and they go "Wow! So good!" because I'm an adult and they are children, so of course I'm better at everything than them. Well. Not cartwheels, admittedly. Or handstands. Or running. Or hoola-hooping. Or skipping. Or swimming. Or riding a bike.

In conclusion:

I ate lots for my dinner it was yummy then I went to a nice park then I went to another park and I did a roly-poly and then I done a good drawing of a girl in a nice dress and then I came home and I ate some pasta for my tea and I ate all of it and then I got ready for bed all by myself and now I'm going to read myself a bedtime story and go to sleep like a Good Girl.

*If you don't get the Mrs Bennet reference, she's a character in 'Pride and Prejudice'. Don't tell me you haven't read 'Pride and Prejudice'?**

**I haven't read it either! I've only seen the film versions, both BBC's famous 'Colin Firth In Wet Shirt' version and the more recent one with Keira Knightley. Don't tell anyone.