Heathrow. Terminal one, thank the lord. Which seems to have turned into a beautiful airport to fly from (once past security, natch) now that BA have shifted most of their flights over to T5. I'm flying BA, but curiously the Nice flight is staying here for the time being. Anyway, I'm not complaining - the shops are empty, there are loads of seats, the staff seem chilled and it's how airports should be.
Shame that the same can't be said for T5, but hey, je m'en fiche.
So, the deal has been done. I've signed up for two years in Paris.
I've had to pretty much sign my soul over to the devil, but I'm working on the basis that two years in Paris at someone else's expense doesn't come along every day.
The deal sees me travelling much less (but I'll believe it when I see it) and I'll also be getting an office (i.e. not the corner of my living room) and an assistant (praise be - I'll never have to put another printer cartridge in). No doubt the search for new office/home/assistant/slave will feature heavily over the coming weeks. You have been warned.
Now, all this is very well but it is only a two-year deal. As you may have noticed, I'm not really a man with a plan. But I fear I need one. It seems I have but two years to get this damn book written and achieve international-literary-god status so that I never have to sign of of these contracts again.
Am I setting myself up for a massive fall? Move to Paris, start new job, work full-time, and write a book in two years? Oh, and somewhere along the line I'm kind of hoping to fall in love.
That's all going to happen isn't it?