Some things are just too good not to post about, right?
Yesterday was as jet set as my life gets...I got up early, sped across to London on the Eurostar (they do such a nice breakfast in first class, I find) had a day of meetings before heading back.
As the train emerged from the tunnel and back into France, my telephone beeped with several messages. Le FP had been trying to contact me, and had ultimately caved in and left me a message. Suffice to say that he doesn't 'do' voicemail. He believes that other people are there to take messages for him, so why should he do so himself. God help me.
Anyway, the message went along the lines of...
"Hello mon amour, I forgot to tell you that we are invited to the Gala de la Truffe this evening....call me when you get my message...."
Great. I had no idea what the Gala de la Truffe was, or why my presence was necessary, but hey - what's Monday night without a gala to attend?
I get home and le FP is sat on the sofa waiting for me. He has a big dumb smile on his face and in his lap is something particularly spectacular. A beautiful French Bulldog. Gorgeous.
"What the.....?" said I. After the addition of two fish and two cats recently, a dog is a step too far, even for me.
"We've borrowed her for the Gala this evening"
Seems the Gala is at Lancel, the fancy bag manufacturer, at their flagship store on the Champs Elysées, and it's all about stars and their dogs...ye gods.
I get changed into something suitably 'fashion' and we head off.
We rock up at the store and there's a red carpet, paparazzi and a legion of uniformed bellboys, each with a little dog on a lead, welcoming us to the craziness.
Inside is even crazier - Dachshunds, Bulldogs, Pugs and Jack Russels. Chihuahuas, Poodles, Afghans and Dalmatians. Labradors, Beagles, King Charles' and Pomeranians. All sniffing each others perfectly groomed asses, apparently unfazed by their Dolce and Gabbana outfits and Gaultier leads.
The owners are equally well groomed, equally 'fashion'. The champagne is flowing, the free gifts are flying off the shelves and everyone is beautiful, having a lovely time, darling.
The highlight of the evening for me?
Was it watching the photographers from 'Studio Harcourt' at work, taking their timeless and celebrated black and white shots? Was it watching the dog masseuses carrying on their dubious trade? Was it seeing the bold and the beautiful with their puppies-de-luxe?
No. It was none of these.
It was watching a small pug take a huge crap next to a display of thousand-euro handbags, and then seeing a very tall, very blonde, very glamourous lady (no stranger to the surgeon's knife, this one) step in it, slip and squeal before landing flat on her ass.
Free Champagne? Excellent.
Watching pretty dogs? Fabulous.
Seeing the mighty fall? Priceless.