She stoops to, erm, conquer?

Me and le FP had been out for dinner the other night with a friend who is back in town from L.A.

He's a photographer friend who, amongst other things, publishes 'arty' books of photo's of handsome men, scantily clad. He did the Dieux du Stade calendar once too - naturally I'm very jealous of this and wish I'd known him at the time - I might have worked my way onto the set for that one....

Anyway, we'd been for dinner at the Gai Moulin - a lovely restaurant but for the fact that the owner sings. He sets up his little electronic keyboard in the corner and belts out showtunes and home-grown material. It's not a little tragic, but always fun, always funny.

Dinner had been full of anecdotes of semi naked rugby players, shoots in Mauritius with boys from Sex and the City, and curiously, tales of Brazilian transexuals. Safe to say we laughed a lot and were sad to say goodbye at the end of the evening.

Le FP and I decided we'd walk home. We do this every night, but usually end up hailing a cab, but this particular evening we did indeed walk home.

We headed through the Marais, across place de la Bastille and down my street. We'd been playing the fool all the way home, giggling like schoolgirls and laughing at nonsense.

As we approached my block le FP suddenly stopped. He looked horrified.

He pointed.

And then I saw what he was pointing at.

Next to a tree was a 'lady' crouching down. Squatting.

It was evident that she was taking a shit.

And not just a small, rabbit-dropping-style one either. This girl was laying cable.

We started to laugh. We were far enough away for her not to hear us, but I'd be surprised if she didn't notice the two grown men, bent double with laughter, tears rolling down their cheeks.

When she'd finished her 'business', she just pulled up her trousers and walked off. No wiping, you'll note.

Me and le FP pulled ourselves together and headed home. To get home, however, we had to walk past the scene of the crime. It was horrific.

Goodness knows what she'd been eating. But by the looks of what she'd 'delivered' my best guess was that she'd made a lovely meal out of a length of rope.

Yet again, I felt lost for words.

Le FP looked at me and uttered the immortal line "Erm, oui, mais, erm...comme on dis....Welcome to Paris" and once again collapsed into a fit of giggles.

God help me. God help this country.