tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60367138266393539912024-02-22T18:22:45.983+01:00travelling, but not in lovetravelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.comBlogger378125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-21055128786913829532011-02-07T20:15:00.001+01:002011-02-07T20:18:02.076+01:00senior dancers and serial killers<p class="MsoNormal">So you may recall it was recently my Mother’s seventieth birthday for which a big old family party was organised.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I say ‘you may recall’ in the hope that you read and remembered this fact from the farting in John Lewis part of the story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Anyway, the party was on the Saturday evening and by the time I arrived from Paris all of the family was in chaos busily organising their individual part of the party project.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Now, trying to organise my family is a bit like herding cats – nigh on impossible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>However, it seems that on this occasion they managed to get their shit together and throw a decent event.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The evening was a lot of fun – despite the location.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My brother had chosen a social club on the edge of town which left a lot to be desired.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>At least they turned most of the lights off so that the ugliness of the room was largely hidden.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">With the mood lighting on and the buffet table laid the scene was set for the upcoming and rather surprising spectacle of ‘older’ drunk people. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Now I’m not a teenager myself, but the majority of these folks had a good twenty years on me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And I’m not passing judgement nor am I saying that being oldezr and drunk is wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m really not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But some of them…..<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">For example my mom’s ex-colleague.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>62 years old, dancing with legs splayed to some awful reggae number (I do believe it was Eddie Grant’s “classic” Electric Avenue) going up and down like a good soul sister.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My mother, God bless her, did eventually go over and ask her if she’d like a pole, such was the erotic nature of the dance.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Then there was an old family friend that I haven’t seen for at least fifteen years who refused to believe that I was me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>On the basis that the last time she saw me there was no beard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Yes, really.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But the highlight for me was my drunken Aunt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My mom’s sister, seventy three years old and a national treasure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Halfway through the evening she spotted “Sheila” dancing along to a bit of Kylie wearing (and I kid ye not) gold lamé flares, a red shirt and a black crochet throw/wrap/scarf/debacle.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“What the fuck is Sheila wearing?” said my Aunt, making me choke on my pint of bitter.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Can I ask you a personal question?” she continued.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Of course you can” said I, my life being a fairly open book.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">She beckoned me to a quiet corner.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Tell me, do you think that <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-bristol-12351568">Shrien Dewani</a> is, you know…..a gay?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“You mean the british bloke who killed his new bride on honeymoon in South Africa?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yes…do you?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I’m not sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Why do you ask?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Well, you know,” she slurred “I was wondering if you’d (at this point she winked comically) ‘heard’ anything”.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Like on the gay network?” I asked.</p><p class="MsoNormal">“Well, yes” said my Aunt.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“On your gaydar”.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-52881132484949319812011-01-31T18:50:00.004+01:002011-01-31T19:18:48.438+01:00Do you have this dress in 'raspberry'?My Mom, having fallen over just before her birthday thus damaging her leg to the point of not being very mobile was now officially in a panic.<div><br /></div><div>Her birthday party was two days away and I'd promised to take her shopping for a new dress. I arrived in town on the friday morning and we'd have all of the afternoon to find something.</div><div><br /></div><div>But it seems that it wasn't the time constraint that was worrying her - it was more that she didn't know how she'd get along in the fitting rooms. As I'm the only one who can go and help her - yep, just me - and I'm a boy and therefore not allowed in english women's fitting rooms (who makes these rules?) then she'd be on her own to get in and out of frocks. Impossible.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, being a bright soul as well as a good son I came up with the solution. You knew I would, right? </div><div><br /></div><div>I booked her an appointment with the personal shopper in the local big department store. This meant that someone else would trawl the rails whilst me and mother could sip champagne in the trying-on 'suite'. </div><div><br /></div><div>And very fancy it was too. Big comfy sofa's, loads of room to help an old lady in and out of her clothes - and a big rack full of dresses that fitted the description that my Mom had given the personal shopper over the phone that morning.</div><div><br /></div><div>The personal shopper - called Rosemary - was as you'd imagine. Fortysomething, very glamorous in a high fashion kind of way. Perfectly coiffed, nails a-painted and tip top maquillage to boot. </div><div><br /></div><div>I did think to myself "maybe she's born with it?" but figured it had to be Maybelline.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I drink champagne, Mom tries on dresses, Rosemary prepares the next outfit.</div><div><br /></div><div>An hour into proceedings and Mother has successfully wriggled her way into a very tight Paul Smith number and is now struggling to get out of it.</div><div><br /></div><div>In a very inelegant scene, she has the skirt of the dress over her head and I'm pulling to try and release her.</div><div><br /></div><div>Obviously she starts to giggle.</div><div><br /></div><div>Giggling becomes laughing and laughing soon turns to exhaustion.</div><div><br /></div><div>She edges backwards, finds the dressing room stool and sits down, with the dress still over her head.</div><div><br /></div><div>And as she sits, she farts.</div><div><br /></div><div>Loud. Long. Farts.</div><div><br /></div><div>As the tears stream down my cheeks, all I can see of my Mom is a floral mess in the corner shaking uncontrollably.</div><div><br /></div><div>I can see Rosemary, perfectly fashionable and superbly stylish Rosemary, out of the corner of my eye.</div><div><br /></div><div>What on earth must she think of us?</div><div><br /></div><div>"Are you sure that frock's a Paul Smith?" said our personal shopper. "Only, it sounds to me like it could be a Windsmoor"</div>travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-39841901687979237212011-01-29T11:46:00.002+01:002011-01-29T12:07:41.399+01:00the bunny that bugs meWithin the space of thirty minutes I'd been asked for a cigarette twice, for a light once, directions three times and one girl asked if she could use my mobile phone. Yep, this is what happens when you're standing on the street corner waiting in Paris.<div><br /></div><div>I don't know what it is with the French but you know what? If you smoke, bring cigarettes. Bring a lighter. Be more organised. Like the scandinavians.</div><div><br /></div><div>That said, I was waiting and waiting and waiting outside this damn metro station because my very organised and never late scandinavian princess friend - let's call her Miss Norway (everybody does) - was late. LATE! For the first time ever, Miss Norway was late.</div><div><br /></div><div>She's never late.</div><div><br /></div><div>But she had an excuse. She'd been performing ritual fellatio on her very lovely husband just before leaving the house and he'd ruined her hair. So a return trip to the bathroom was needed in order to return her do to the seventies disco joy that is her pride and joy.</div><div><br /></div><div>So she turned up and we headed off to the birthday party of our friend, The Lapin. We call him The Lapin because of his obsession with small cuddly boys (which we call rabbits in French - don't ask me why). So he's obsessed with lapins, so we call him The Lapin. Jeez we're hilarious.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, the Lapin, despite his preference for the small and cuddly boys, has a thing for me. And it's kind of over the top and a bit embarrassing.</div><div><br /></div><div>"So, you and your husband?" he asked me at the party. "You know, when it's over with him, me and you - we're let's go ding ding fuck fuck marry".</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, this is actually what he said. In a thick thick french accent. ye gods.</div><div><br /></div><div>But the thing is, The Lapin is a new gay. At the tender age of 35 he's finally come out - to himself, to his family, to his friends, to the world. And now he's like a child in a sweetshop. Wants to touch everything, taste everything. It's exhausting.</div><div><br /></div><div>I met him in a bar a while back and we've become good friends really. However, I have an issue with him and my friends. Problem is, he sees them as some kind of gay shooting range. Where he can work on his skills before heading out into the real world.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thing is, he's handsome and he's sexy. And he goes for it. He's very seductive, charming and not afraid of the killer question. My friends love him. A bit too much.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the last three months, I've introduced him to a dozen or so friends of mine - and he's slept with at least ten of them.</div><div><br /></div><div>But every time he rings me afterwards and says "but it wasn't you, you know. Me and you - basta!" God help me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, last night he left with a German friend of Miss Norway. Neither of them spoke the other one's language but Lapin had been admiring the German's biceps all night (I actually caught him licking the poor Frankfurter's arm at one point) and I think they'd worked out what each was after.</div><div><br /></div><div>Seeing them leave last night, Miss Norway turned to me.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Fucking fantastic" she said.</div><div><br /></div><div>"What's that?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"He's been through your lot like a dose of salts, now he's starting on my friends!"</div><div><br /></div><div>There's only one thing for it. We need to find more friends. </div><div><br /></div><div>As Miss Norway says - "It's like feeding a Rottweiler - you keep them full up so that they don't attack you...."</div>travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-10584089798652565102011-01-21T00:23:00.001+01:002011-01-21T00:26:00.779+01:00Barcelona by night<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I left my job on the day of my birthday, July 31. It was a big day that came with a big cheque. And quite rightly so too. I spent my birthday with friends in Paris then jumped on a plane to Barcelona. I wanted to blow away some cobwebs, change my surroundings for a while and to get some sunshine.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">So, it was with images of Almodovar films in my head that I flew south to catch up with an old friend (an old flame who had since gone straight) in the Catalan capital.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">We were to spend just a week enjoying the city, the beach, the tapas y canas. And we did just that. We spent our days admiring our fellow beach-bodies and the evenings drinking and eating and chatting about how we missed our significant others.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Leaving the city, we passed two lovely days sailing a friend's cruiser in and out of the coves between Figuèrès and the French border. We slept on board in a small cabin, like two puppies in a basket. But it was just friendship - old, unchallenged friendship.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">On our final night in Barcelona we went out clubbing, and ended up - with it being sunday night and all - in the strangest of clubs, the only place we could find open at five am.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Like many european gay clubs, the place had a dark room. A place where anonymous encounters can be had for the brave, the curious and the foolhardy. Being all three - and not a little bit drunk - I went to have a look. Well you don't look as it's so dark - it's more like going to have a feel.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">And feel is what happened.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I stood leaning my drunken body against the wall and felt, as is normal practice, a hand touch my crotch.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I reached out and found a pleasantly shaped body. The hand started to stroke my afore mentioned body area. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Before I knew it, there were zips unzipping and buttons unbuttoning and some serious drunken passion was unfolding. It seemed like an appropriate way to end an otherwise sexless vacation. Anonymous pleasure, finding your way around an unknown body in the dark. It was hot and it was sexy. Things took their natural course and soon passion was replaced by a more relaxed intimacy.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">As I stoked the hairy, muscled chest in front of me, the body's head moved in towards my neck. Yes, like in a vampire movie. A gay vampire movie.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"Vous êtes d'ici?" the head asked me, in French - "are you from here?".</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"No," I replied in French, "I'm english but visiting from Paris"</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"Hmm" the head replied "you have a jolie accent." </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">A moment's silence.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"Do you know Michel et Carl?" Now, I've changed the names to protect the guilty, but this pairing of names only belongs to one couple - my good old parisian friends, the Fierce People. This person knew the Fiercies. Ye gods.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"Yes……." I said.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"So it IS you!" said the head, excitedly. "Mais, it is ME! Jérémy!!!!!"</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">And so it was. It was Jérémy. A guy that I knew quite well - and who's boyfriend I knew better. As a couple they were a fixture at the fiercies' parties and soirées. I also knew that they had just split up. Seems Jérémy had headed south to get himself some rebound action.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"So, how are you?" I said. Not sure what else to say.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"I am fine,", Jérémy replied, "I am here to shag that bastard out of my head".</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Nice.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"Well you're in the right place to do that" I said. "But maybe you should start by taking your hand off my dick".</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Yep, this whole time, he'd still been working the magic, and it had started to get a little bit uncomfortable.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"Oh, you are SO eeenglish!" he said. And, with one final squeeze, he was gone, vanished into the darkness. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The next day, with my friend already well on his way to the airport, I was stood in the hotel room with my bags packed, waiting for a bellboy to come carry them down for me.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I rang husband, le Fabuleux Parisien.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"I don't want to come home just yet. I'm enjoying Barcelona." I said. "The weather is so good, the beach is fabulous, the food……"</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"I'll call you back," FP replied, "don't go anywhere".</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Ten minutes later, he rang.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"I arrive at ten to nine tonight - can the hotel send someone to the airport to collect me?"</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">And that's how I ended up spending almost a month in Barcelona. We just kept on postponing our return to Paris. It was the best month, the best summer, the best holiday.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">It was a sunny Friday evening when we eventually arrived back in Paris. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">We deposited our bags at home and headed off to dinner chez the Fierce People. As we walked into their 'salon', I saw a familiar figure lounging on a sofa. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Jérémy. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">He looked at me nervously, surprised to see me. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"I believe you know each other" said the American Fiercy. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"Oh yes", said I. "We came across each other in Barcelona…."</p>travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-71123571520921035252011-01-18T00:01:00.001+01:002011-01-18T00:01:01.142+01:00Bambi's best friend<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBbuHhsSf4tZ1OLQ20EJLmIW61oBOjreR876DnB7E18LJhdoGO0ltY1HGyNQRO3hV65R9NlWq0m6EUGL-sZrVU6lbA4oripMXGO-nfTzyU2M37k4jChtgvlrusXMvPj61XiNxW0s-VikY/s1600/thumper185.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 185px; height: 149px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBbuHhsSf4tZ1OLQ20EJLmIW61oBOjreR876DnB7E18LJhdoGO0ltY1HGyNQRO3hV65R9NlWq0m6EUGL-sZrVU6lbA4oripMXGO-nfTzyU2M37k4jChtgvlrusXMvPj61XiNxW0s-VikY/s320/thumper185.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563164303692189218" /></a><div><br /></div><div>I rang my Mom from Sydney airport - with one flight behind me and two flights yet to go - to just let her know that I'd be out of contact for the next 30 hours. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh don't worry about me" she said "The man next door can always wheel me over to the shops if I need anything".</div><div><br /></div><div>Did she say 'wheel me'? Really?</div><div><br /></div><div>Seems that, what with all the snow and ice on the ground, my Mother had fallen over. Inside the house. Well, it was more of a sideways roll as she fell from a kneeling position whilst lacing her snow boots up. Anyway, it was enough to give her some serious deep tissue damage and put her in a wheelchair.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I land back in Paris, kiss my husband, have a few drinks with friends and then hop on a small (and imperfectly formed) CityJet plane bound for chez ma mère - with a bag full of nursing supplies and a uniform to go with.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was supposed to be a three day trip.</div><div><br /></div><div>I ended up postponing my flight twice. </div><div><br /></div><div>By the time I had delayed my return the second time I was actually getting cabin fever. I don't mind being woken up at 4 am because she's fallen on her way to the bathroom and can't get up again. I don't mind making three meals a day and endless cups of tea. But I just couldn't stand another evening of Bargain Hunt and Cash in the Attic on tv.</div><div><br /></div><div>I needed me some fun.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, I did what all thoroughly modern boys do these and cracked open the iphone. Now many of you will be familiar with the concept of Grindr or Scruff. For those who aren't, they're iphone apps that use GPS to it's best advantage - in order to tell you who is looking for a casual hook up and how many kilometres they are from you. </div><div><br /></div><div>I know, it sounds seedy and often is, but it's a major breakthrough for the travelling gays. It got me some of the best sex I'd ever had last summer in Barcelona when, with husband sleeping off the previous nights excess, I managed to hook up with a very handsome man from the island of Madeira who happened to have the room directly above ours.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I reached for Scruff - where the men are manlier - and took a flick through what was on offer.</div><div><br /></div><div>Having made my selection, I told my Mom that I was heading out to "see a friend" and, snatching her car keys off the hook, made a run for the door.</div><div><br /></div><div>The man in question was only 500 metres away, as promised. Literally, two streets away. And he was ready and waiting. He was as advertised - handsome, hairy of chest, strong of arm and not overly chatty. What he had omitted to say was that he was a thumper.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I moved in for the kill, I grazed his nipple with my hand. Thump thump thump.</div><div><br /></div><div>"What the fuck was that?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"My leg".</div><div><br /></div><div>Hmm.</div><div><br /></div><div>I kissed him on the neck and there it went again. Thump thump thump.</div><div><br /></div><div>Seems that whenever I touched a sensitive part of his body, he had an uncontrollable reaction - to thump the floor (if standing) or to shake his leg (if lying down). It was like fucking Thumper.</div><div><br /></div><div>What can I say, Dear Reader? It was disconcerting. It was a reaction that I've never seen before in my life - and hope to never encounter again.</div><div><br /></div><div>As he shuddered to his foot stomping, leg pumping, knee knocking climax I was relieved it was over.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm going back to Mom's again this week. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'll be avoiding his part of the magic forest. </div><div><br /></div>travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-45752127772989499592011-01-17T15:32:00.002+01:002011-01-17T15:36:23.913+01:00new year, new rules, new me, new directionsSo, like so many bloggers, I've chosen the month of January to re-connect with my former blogging self.<div><br /></div><div>To be perfectly frank and honest, I'd kind of gotten bored of the blog. I was busy everywhere else in life and had gotten a bit blog-weary. But I have to admit it, I missed blogging. I missed the creative outlet, I missed the daily routine of it and most of all I missed the constant adulation by people who I've never met. Jeez, where else do you get that kind of ego boost?</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, here I am and I'm planning to post regularly. Just, you know, don't hold me to anything. Let's take it a day at a time and see where we go from here.</div><div><br /></div><div>First post will be tomorrow folks, come back and see it. It involves extra marital sex and thumper the rabbit. You have been warned.....</div>travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-34444970196572109452010-07-13T02:39:00.002+02:002010-07-13T02:53:41.254+02:00cut off in my primeI love technology.<div><br /></div><div>I hate technology.</div><div><br /></div><div>Depending on the day/hour/minute either or both of the both can apply.</div><div><br /></div><div>Saturday I headed from Paris to Newark NJ on the big bird of Air France. The lovely people at Air France and CDG airport managed to get together and come up with a 90 minute delay as a leaving gift for me. Which was nice.</div><div><br /></div><div>So landing in EWR already late, it was with much happiness and smiling that I welcomed the news that another aircraft was parked at our stand and wouldn't be moving for at least 30 minutes.</div><div><br /></div><div>So much for my decision to bring cabin bags only. Like that saved me any time at all.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, technology. Upon landing (late) at EWR, I switched on my iphone. It found me AT&T and T Mobile. Quite the choice.</div><div><br /></div><div>However, it refused to connect me to either. </div><div><br /></div><div>I tried every trick in the book during the wait for the stand, the queue for immigration, during the line to collect my rental car. I carried on trying whilst sat in the queue for the Holland Tunnel. Whilst waiting to check in to my hotel.</div><div><br /></div><div>By the time I got to my room, I was distraught. How to tell friends that I was in town? How to set up a date for the night? How to give out my number to hot guys. Oh yeah, and how to ring my husband to let him know I'd arrived safely.</div><div><br /></div><div>There was nothing for it but to jump in a cab and head north. To the Apple store, driver, and don't spare the ponies....</div><div><br /></div><div>Well, let's just say that my visit to the church of the holy pomme was less than a religious experience. I left the underground chapel of the apple with a phone that not only no longer worked, but that now had no photo's, no contacts, zero music and zero apps. Yep, they wiped the fucker.</div><div><br /></div><div>Back at the hotel and with the world of technology and jetlag working against me, I attached the phone to my macbook and set it to restore before flopping on my bed.</div><div><br /></div><div>I fell asleep hoping that things would sort themselves out.</div><div><br /></div><div>I woke up with the sure fire knowledge that they had.</div><div><br /></div><div>How did I know that my phone had reconnected to a network?</div><div><br /></div><div>It would be the three am ringing, beeping and buzzing of the numerous 'where are you?' emails, texts, voicemails and facebook messages coming in from the ether.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yep, I had reconnected.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yep, I had woken up.</div><div><br /></div><div>Nope, I didn't get back to sleep.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yep, I hate technology.</div>travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-62857794821681888842010-07-09T10:10:00.002+02:002010-07-09T10:33:15.075+02:00The Canadians are comingSo I'm sat at my desk at work yesterday and in a dull moment, I decide to log on to a chat site that I visit from time to time.<br /><br />Now, one of the guys I chat with is from Toronto and (promise) I was initially attracted to the photo's he'd posted of his art. The fact that he's as handsome as a handsome thing didn't hurt either. Anyway, we're both happily married men and so we chat about fairly mundane things but enjoy each other's virtual company.<br /><br />So yesterday when logging on I get a message from him:<br /><br />"Husband is in Paris with work and is bored to bits. Can you call him and take him to a bar or two please? Here's his number....."<br /><br />And, being a good virtual friend, that's exactly what I did.<br /><br />That's how, at ten pm I found myself at the entrance to the BHV greeting a very handsome Canadian guy. Now we're talking handsome here. Really handsome. Kind of 'be still my beating heart' handsome.<br /><br />He was blond, stocky, big arms and shoulders, and a hairy chest showing at the top of his t-shirt. <br /><br />Knowing how in love this couple is, I didn't dare get too excited. But excited I was.<br /><br />So anyway, we meet up with a couple of my friends - the fiercies - and we get some drinks inside us. We start with chatting at the Freedj - my bar du choix. We then head on over to the Raidd bar to watch the boys dancing naked in the showers. Classy, right?<br /><br />Anyway, it's whilst at the Raidd bar that Canadian Boy receives an SMS, looks at it, giggles and then turns to me and says "do you and FP have an open relationship?"<br /><br />I splutter my beer over him, recover and try to be cool when I tell him that we do - but that we have no secrets. If we sleep with someone else it's allowed as long as the other one gets told about it.<br /><br />"Yeah, me and hubby have the same deal" he said. And he showed me the text message that he'd just received from his husband.<br /><br />It read "If he's that hot then you should absolutely go for it. And send me the photo's"<br /><br />Now, beyond that what can I tell you? You know where this is going, right?<br /><br />I mean, I could tell you about how we ended up in a sexclub. How we grabbed ourselves a cubicle. How it was the most amazing, passionate, dirty, refreshing sex I've had in a long time.<br /><br />I could go on at length about his arms, his chest, his ass.<br /><br />I could turn the whole encounter into a work of literature of epic proportions.<br /><br />I could do all this, but I won't. I'll spare all of our blushes.<br /><br />I'll just say 'hot damn' and 'God bless Canada' and 'oh my oh my oh my' and leave the rest to your imaginations.<br /><br />But as a word of warning - be careful who you ask to look after your husband when he's away from home. You never know where it could all end up....travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-39182143546427222032010-03-08T11:29:00.005+01:002010-03-08T11:54:42.759+01:00oh my God, oh my God, oh my God<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-206bgAXFKBgz1WizO_gAZ4Ij0gNf21YpXLS1ergeXp-DPbpVuRfY6xOB9wThMWupBKhEfV35DPQwalOx6BuK0z9OjSqaV-CXRDhn6aveDwxWeVHenViKoWbyfG8zloHpznNGtA_opH0/s1600-h/anna+grace"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446213354679961906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-206bgAXFKBgz1WizO_gAZ4Ij0gNf21YpXLS1ergeXp-DPbpVuRfY6xOB9wThMWupBKhEfV35DPQwalOx6BuK0z9OjSqaV-CXRDhn6aveDwxWeVHenViKoWbyfG8zloHpznNGtA_opH0/s320/anna+grace" border="0" /></a><br /><div>"Is that? It is! It is! Oh my God!"</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>This is the sound I made, having seen one of my all-time idols in the flesh. In fact, on a chilly sunday afternoon, in the middle of the 13th arrondissement, I ended up seeingtwo people that I *almost* worship and one that scares me to death but who I would LOVE to be.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>It happened like this.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>"I have a surprise for you on Sunday afternoon". This is how le FP started my weekend. </div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>"Tell me", I demanded. I hate surprises.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>"Nope, you'll see" and he kept schtum from that moment on.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Four o'clock Sunday afternoon arrives and he tells me we're leaving in 30 minutes. He also tells me to dress 'fashion fashion fashion'. Shit, I hate it when he does this to me. What on earth to wear?</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>So I rustle up an outfit - Jacket by Francesco Smalto, sweater by Massimo Dutti, t-shirt from Armani, jeans by Levis and fabulous silver Nikes - and fix my ever growing hair.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>We jump on the scooter and head off - in the opposite direction of anything that is fashion in Paris. I figured we'd be heading to the avenue Montaigne, to the Faubourg St. Honoré, to the Place Vendôme. Instead, we headed out of town and crossed the Seine on the pont de Bercy (still one of my favourites of all the Seine bridges).</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>He pulled up outside a dubious looking venue in the 13th. The venue was somewhat enhanced, however, by the presence of paparazzi and limousines. And a crowd of gawping public.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>With a flourish, he produced an invitation - written on a pirate's treasure map, no less - and whisked me through the crowd and past the security.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>"What the fuck...?!?" said I, still unsure of what was going on. It being Paris Fashion Week, I figured it was a show - but whose?</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>"It's John Galliano, baby" said le FP. Oh my. I love Galliano. This was going to be special.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>We made our way into the venue and were stood chatting with a friend who we'd bumped into when it happened. </div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Now, this never happens to me. I see famous people and I'm rarely impressed - I think it's funny, exciting, but never does my heart stop. But this time it did.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>"Excuse me" I heard a gruff voice say, and a security guard tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to see that he was making way so that they could pass. </div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Who are they, I hear you ask.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Well, I turned and there she was. My heroine. My idol. The grande dame herself.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Grace. Coddington.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Mon dieu. My God. Mon gode.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>And walking ahead of her was her nemesis. The Ice Queen extraordinaire. </div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Anna. Wintour.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Oh. My. Wet. Pants.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>I grabbed le FP's hand and squeezed. He looked at me and we knew that both of us had just had one of those moments that you never forget. </div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>I didn't know what to say. This was like the September Issue but for real. Oh my goodness.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>"Our life is amazing" said le FP. He's not wrong.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>We took our seats (third row, alas) and waited.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Then the chaos descended. </div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Lindsay Lohan was ushered into the front row directly ahead of us and the paparazzi descended.</div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>It was craziness. Push, shove, Lindsay! Lindsay! Over here Lindsay! push, shove. Madness.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>And then they stopped and turned.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>I stopped. I turned. I nearly fucking fainted.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>And there she was, walking in like the Queen of Fucking Everything. Beautiful, too beautiful.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Ladies and gentlemen, I give you....Beth Ditto.</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>And that was the moment where I started to breathe again and thought to myself, "How is this my life. How is this what I do on a sunday afternoon?"</div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Reader, I don't know the answer, but I do know that I'm a very happy boy. </div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>And a very lucky one at that.</div>travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-9426144157591047362010-02-08T14:04:00.002+01:002010-02-08T14:22:55.871+01:00curious questions #2So, I was on the métro heading home the other evening. The train was full, rammed, blindé.<br /><br />I hate it when the train is full - I'm always thinking that I'll get my wallet stolen, so I tread a fine line between keeping my hand on my pocket and holding on to a 'grippe-A'-infested handrail. <br /><br />At Hôtel de Ville, a guy got on and came to stand next to me.<br /><br />Well, I say he came to stand next to me - he actually had little choice, it was the only space available. And he didn't stand next to me, so much as stand <em>against</em> me.<br /><br />I looked up to see who had suddenly squashed up against me. It turned out to be a well built, hairy, well-dressed bear of a man. As I looked at him, he chose the same moment to look at me and there was an uncomfortable moment when eye-contact was briefly made.<br /><br />Well, it was uncomfortable for me - it's just not the done thing - but for him it seemed to be the opposite.<br /><br />"Bonsoir" he said, cracking me quite the grin.<br /><br />"Bonsoir", I replied, looking away.<br /><br />Two stops later, the train pulled out of Bastille station. We both looked up at the same time, again.<br /><br />"Where are you getting off at?" He asked.<br /><br />"Quoi?" said I. "What?"<br /><br />"Which station are you getting off at?"<br /><br />"Gare de Lyon", I replied. The next stop.<br /><br />"That's a shame" said the bear. "I'm staying on until Vincennes".<br /><br />And with that, the train pulled in to my station. I stepped out and gave a backwards glance at the guy.<br /><br />He once again cracked that big smile and winked. Yes, he winked at me.<br /><br />Nice to know the old magic is still there, but I have one question - how did he know I'd be interested in what he was offering?<br /><br />Hmm. Could it be because when he purposefully pushed his crotch into my wallet-protecting hand after saying bonsoir, I didn't pull away? I may even have pushed back a little. <br /><br />Yeah, thinking about it, that might be what gave the game away...travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-71177816139944338262010-02-03T13:14:00.003+01:002010-02-03T13:22:43.591+01:00curious questions #1A couple of days ago, I left le FP on the sofa and headed out in search of a taxi to take me to meet friends for a drink in the Marais. <br /><br />It was nearly one a.m. and I asked the taxi driver to drop me on the corner of rue du Temple and rue Ste Croix de la Bretonnerie. This is an intersection where you'll find at least five gay bars within twenty metres. It's kind of poofy like that.<br /><br />"You smell like basil" said the taxi driver as I settled into his cab.<br /><br />"Really?" said I, a little taken aback.<br /><br />"Yeah, like a bowl of pasta" he replied.<br /><br />"Good enough to eat?" I ventured, jokingly.<br /><br />"Well, erm, maybe" he replied, definitely uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken.<br /><br />"le Marais is full of queers you know" said the taxi driver.<br /><br />"Really?" I said. "You do surprise me."<br /><br />"Are you gay?" he asked.<br /><br />"Why do you ask?"<br /><br />"Well, you don't look gay but you're going to the Marais at this time of night".<br /><br />"Well," I said, "I'm not gay, but my boyfriend is." I nearly pissed myself laughing at how funny I found this.<br /><br />"I don't understand" said the taxi driver.<br /><br />"Never mind" said I. "Probably best if you just concentrate on driving".travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-40384058859924844072010-01-28T16:01:00.008+01:002010-01-28T16:52:25.311+01:00New friends, flat packs and fisting<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiZPDDwK1fflhafyo7oCZxDkqWVpexjHfe5oDhFcgySu5_6N4U5hvn2lJKZmLm6EiJ4dK6P0__8A_F9-gPIpIztw1UfIZTYAdKsKjMKtZD28dMm0aFBqKS7sEJWul6ZwqaZ5E9UoiZyGk/s1600-h/Ikea_map.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431806582024119634" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 220px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiZPDDwK1fflhafyo7oCZxDkqWVpexjHfe5oDhFcgySu5_6N4U5hvn2lJKZmLm6EiJ4dK6P0__8A_F9-gPIpIztw1UfIZTYAdKsKjMKtZD28dMm0aFBqKS7sEJWul6ZwqaZ5E9UoiZyGk/s320/Ikea_map.jpg" border="0" /></a>I hate Ikea.<br /><br />I don't object to their furniture. I don't object to their meatballs. I don't object to their stupid names for things.<br /><br />I just detest the whole experience.<br /><br />Traipsing out to an industrial wasteland on the edge of town.<br /><br />Feeling depressed by the people running out of the store clutching 2 euro vases that they think hold the secret to happiness.<br /><br />Trying to find an 'assistant' to 'assist'.<br /><br />The fact that you can't get in and out in fifteen minutes.<br /><br />So, it was with a heavy heart that I accepted le FP's request to go to Ikea last night. We've needed new wardrobes for, like, ever and last night a friend was offering to take us out there in his car. We couldn't really say no.<br /><br />The friend is a guy who le FP knows vaguely and I know even less well. I have a feeling he's after a threesome. He keeps on doing us both favours and turning up at the house with gifts for us. Anyway, I digress.<br /><br />We don't know him that well, but last time I saw him, he was in a bar wearing 'military' gear (i.e. a camouflage jacket, a khaki string vest and green make up on his cheeks) and heading off to a 'specialist' evening in a salle de fêtes in the suburbs.<br /><br />He spent the entire journey recounting his evening at the 'Soirée Cuir, Latex, Uniforme'. Now, these kind of salles de fêtes cater to marriages, funerals and barmitzvahs - you know the kind of establishment. <br /><br />What they'll have thought of this fetish evening, God only knows.<br /><br />Apparently, there was pubic shaving, various swings and glory holes and - la pièce de résistance - a 'fisting podium'. But again, I digress.<br /><br />We arrive at Ikea and I'm hungry. Three 50 cent hot dogs (that's how much they cost, they're not designed by the rapper) later and I'm still starving, but more willing to take on the behemoth of a store.<br /><br />Actually it turns out that this Ikea is no behemoth. In fact, it's positively rikiki, the smallest Ikea on earth, quite possibly.<br /><br />Nonetheless, we still manage to lose three hours within those hellish yellow and blue walls.<br /><br />The friend has turned up wearing some god awful outfit that includes a badge that reads 'be happy'. I'm not sure if this is a reminder to himself or what, but he's just lost his job so I can only think it's some kind of motivational device. Anyway, he's so badly dressed that le FP and I are very happy when we manage to give him the slip somewhere behind the Billy bookcases.<br /><br />He finds us again as we are busy choosing our wardrobes. He listens to us rant and wail about how the house is full of shit and how we have to stop buying things. He hears our tales of woe as we recount to the poor assistant how we have no storage space in our apartment.<br /><br />He then disappears. Again.<br /><br />Next time we see him we're at the checkout. He's paid and is waiting for us to be reborn into the real world - the world where tables don't have names.<br /><br />He has a trolley full of shit.<br /><br />When we get to the car, he presents us with a gift each.<br /><br />He gives us each a 2 metre long cuddly shark. One each. I kid you not.<br /><br />"Thank you" says le FP, graciously.<br /><br />"Where the fuck do you expect me to put these" say I, somewhat less graciously, but worn down by the whole experience.<br /><br />"I thought we could use them in the bedroom" said the friend, with a menacing look on his face.<br /><br />We journeyed home in uncomfortable silence. He dropped us at the front door and we took our shopping from the boot (the wardrobes being delivered at a later date), thanked him and sent him on his way.<br /><br />As we waved him off, le FP turned to me.<br /><br />"Don't those sharks look lovely in his back window" he said. <br /><br />He's méchant, that boy. <br /><br />I guess that's why I like him....travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-59463834906393141172010-01-26T15:01:00.009+01:002010-01-26T15:33:56.641+01:00The opposite of cool<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtb3SQuwQ5EOooTJQwYfvupYs_vQ45eQ2I8leu-NP31xb1-KK195TR9L8H2vWCBMZua-UEtqnYdhEE9Vg-L69oev1zJdCtnNP2SxvJW4K-yavNZkbWSRQFWb8benp1uPdJL_QNPM3IU7c/s1600-h/cafe-beaubourg.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431052128069310946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtb3SQuwQ5EOooTJQwYfvupYs_vQ45eQ2I8leu-NP31xb1-KK195TR9L8H2vWCBMZua-UEtqnYdhEE9Vg-L69oev1zJdCtnNP2SxvJW4K-yavNZkbWSRQFWb8benp1uPdJL_QNPM3IU7c/s320/cafe-beaubourg.jpg" border="0" /></a>Le FP got given a handful of Nintendo DSi's a while ago (don't ask).<br /><br />Naturally, one found it's way into my workbag and was soon loaded up with les Lapins Crétins. If any of you have a big commute, I can truthfully say that slingshotting virtual rabbits into the air at virtual targets is a fine way to pass the time.<br /><br />So it was a bit of a worry when I realised late one night that my workbag had suddenly gone missing. I'd had it that evening when I left for dinner with my boss. But then I couldn't recall seeing it afterwards and decided that it was in Debbie's car.<br /><br />I didn't really worry too much - I was certain that it was in Debbie's boot - and so went to bed with an easy mind.<br /><br />At 1am the telephone rang. It was the manager of the Café Beaubourg.<br /><br />Now I know I'd been there for a drink earlier in the evening, and that they obviously appreciated my patronage - however, I did think it was a bit much to be ringing me at such an hour to thank me for my visit. Turns out that that wasn't the purpose of the call.<br /><br />Apparently they had found my bag. Apparently I'd left it there in a moment of giddiness.<br /><br />Well, luckily it's an honest establishment, given how the bag contained a full life support system of passport, wallet, keys, DSi, Blackberry charger and a small insignificant thing called my work laptop.<br /><br />On top of all that is the bag itself - a lovely Lancel number. It's worth a pretty penny and was a gift from le FP in our early days. Yikes. Well done them for being honest.<br /><br />The next day, I went to collect my bag. I took the opportunity to meet up with an old flame that many of you will remember - Skaterboy. He works in the neighbourhood so meeting up for a boisson seemed like a good idea.<br /><br />When he arrived, I looked at him and started to wonder what I'd seen in him all that time ago. He's cute enough, but, to be honest, he's not my type. He's thin - and I really don't like thin. And he's nerdy. Although I quite like that. Plus he looked like he needed a good wash. I really don't like that.<br /><br />He sat down next to me.<br /><br />"So you got your bag back then?" he said.<br /><br />"Yeah, thank goodness" I replied. "le FP was about to kill me for losing one of the first gifts he ever bought me".<br /><br />"I got the best ever gift from my boyfriend this Christmas" Skater boy said.<br /><br />I never knew there was a boyfriend, but hey, it's not like I'm bothered (nor would I have been had he been mentioned at the time of our 'thing').<br /><br />And then he started to tell me what his boyfriend had bought him.<br /><br />A gun.<br /><br />A rifle, to be exact.<br /><br />A real one, from the German army. Decommissioned.<br /><br />"Is it a modern gun?" I asked him.<br /><br />"No," he replied, "It's from World War two".<br /><br />"So it's a Nazi gun?"<br /><br />"Yeah, a real classic".<br /><br />"Right. A used Nazi rifle. And what exactly are you going to do with it?" At this point I was getting a bit worried.<br /><br />Rightly so, it turned out.<br /><br />"Oh, I'll be taking it out with me when I wear the uniform he bought me for my birthday" he said, cheerily.<br /><br />"Let me get this right" I said. "You have a Nazi uniform that you wear outside the house and now you have a real-life-used-by-Nazis-nazi-rifle that you plan to wear with the Nazi uniform?"<br /><br />"Yeah" he replied, enthusiastically "Cool, isn't it?"<br /><br />I couldn't even begin to explain to him how this was so far from cool that it was off the scale.<br /><br />I got the bill. I paid. I left.<br /><br />I deleted his number.<br /><br />Some things are best left to others to deal with, right?travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-58549701561736954372010-01-12T10:02:00.003+01:002010-01-12T10:20:43.406+01:00Did someone order a threesome for two?So. The new blog. <br /><br />I kind of thought it was a good idea, but it didn't feel right. I felt like I was cheating on TBNIL. The goal was to find motivation to post, but it went the other way. I felt less motivated to post there than I did here.<br /><br />So, fin bref, I'm back.<br /><br />Back chez TBNIL and back in Paris after a huge trip to the states and Canada with le FP. And I'm back with tales to tell, you'll be happy to note.<br /><br />Let's start with a wee tale of Los Angeles and how not to have a threesome with your boyfriend.<br /><br />You see it all started really innocently. As do most things in my life (yeah, right).<br /><br />Me and le FP had just arrived in LA and, as is our habit, we got online and started surfing the 'boyz' sites to try and find someone who could tell us where the best bars, clubs, etc in town are to be found. This is how we found Serge.<br /><br />Serge was an American guy, born to French parents and desperate to communicate with someone (anyone) in French. He lived and worked in LA (in the movies, bien sûr) and we chatted for a while. He told us about some great bars (really great bars) and before signing off he invited us to go eat sushi with him.<br /><br />Now me and le FP are both sushi freaks and we'd been craving some good maki rolls for a while. The offer was to good to turn down (plus Serge was cute...).<br /><br />We ate sushi together, we drank drinks together and we flirted with each other - me with Serge, Serge with le FP, le FP with me, and so on....<br /><br />Anyway, by the end of the evening, me and le FP had decided that he was a great guy, but that he wasn't going to be getting the ménage à trois that he was so obviously looking for.<br /><br />So how he ended up using the bathroom in our hotel room is beyond me. Suffice to say I'd had a few drinks too many by this point.<br /><br />As Serge slipped into the bathroom, le FP muttered something about having to make a phone call and he quickly disappeared off to the hotel lobby with a grin on his face. <br /><br />He'd left me in the bedroom with Serge in the bathroom - and, trust me, he knew what was about to happen.<br /><br />I, on the other hand, was pretty clueless and unsuspecting.<br /><br />When Serge exited the bathroom completely naked I was somewhat taken aback.<br /><br />When he got down on his knees and undid my jeans I was somewhat startled.<br /><br />And then I was just kind of shocked.<br /><br />I grabbed my phone and texted le FP...<br /><br />"COME BACK TO THE ROOM. NOW!"<br /><br />He did come back to the room. But only once I'd managed to extract my nethers from Serge's grip and sent him packing. Only then did le FP appear at the door, laughing hysterically.<br /><br />He'd left me in the lurch with a lovestruck, horny, desperate American boy. <br /><br />He'd skeedaddled when he knew that Serge would be making a move and that I was too drunk to be able to resist. <br /><br />He thought this was the funniest thing ever.<br /><br />I wasn't too sure that it was funny. But it certainly stuck in my mind for a couple of days afterwards....travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-57074215219136941822009-11-17T08:31:00.002+01:002009-11-17T09:16:56.344+01:00Kennel ClubSome things are just too good not to post about, right?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Anyway, the message went along the lines of...<br /><br />"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...."<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"What the.....?" said I. After the addition of two fish and two cats recently, a dog is a step too far, even for me.<br /><br />"We've borrowed her for the Gala this evening"<br /><br />Seems the Gala is at <a href="http://www.lancel.com/">Lancel</a>, the fancy bag manufacturer, at their flagship store on the Champs Elysées, and it's all about stars and their dogs...ye gods.<br /><br />I get changed into something suitably 'fashion' and we head off.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />The highlight of the evening for me?<br /><br />Was it watching the photographers from <a href="http://www.studio-harcourt.eu/00.php?lang=en">'Studio Harcourt' </a>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?<br /><br />No. It was none of these.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Free Champagne? Excellent.<br /><br />Watching pretty dogs? Fabulous.<br /><br />Seeing the mighty fall? Priceless.travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-81792756849119814032009-11-12T14:59:00.002+01:002009-11-12T15:04:05.172+01:00I'll be right backHey there lovely readers....<br /><br />It's with a heavy heart that I say that I'm struggling to keep up with blogging at the moment.<br /><br />Now, I'm not walking away and I'm certain there'll be another post up here within a week or so, but I just didn't want you to wonder what had happened to me.<br /><br />The thing is, I just don't have two minutes to breathe at the moment - work is going to hell in a handbasket, homelife is the opposite and my social life is pulling me in another direction altogether. <br /><br />I don't want to post crappy posts, just for the sake of posting, so for the time being, watch this space - I'll be back faster than you can say "what the feck happend to TBNIL?"<br /><br />TBNIL xtravelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-57737594779420241152009-11-03T10:35:00.002+01:002009-11-03T10:56:23.093+01:00Paris by nightYesterday evening we picked up a rental scooter for a couple of days. I worry that I just said 'we' but hey, get over it. Anyway, it's a very cool, black Piaggio X9 (if that helps). <br /><br />Leaving the house, le FP took the control and, with me riding the back seat (oh yeah, baby), we headed out into the Paris night.<br /><br />We zoomed up to Bastille, rue Saint Antoine, Rue de Rivoli. We took our life into our hands at the Place de la Concorde and then there we were - three minutes after leaving the house, l'avenue des Champs Elysées.<br /><br />Let me tell you that, even as jaded and blasé as I am, there are still moments in my life when Paris really gets me. Pulling onto the Champs, with the red tailights on one side of the road, the white headlights on the other, the Arc de Triomphe at the top and the cobbles underwheel, I felt like my life was perfect.<br /><br />I put my hands in FP's pockets, stroked his tummy and thought to myself "does it get any better than this?"<br /><br />FP had promised me a good old-fashioned sightseeing tour of Paris by night, so, at the Place de l'Etoile I was expecting that we'd hang a good left and head to Trocadero and then down to the Eiffel Tower. Alas, this wasn't what he had in mind.<br /><br />Within five minutes, we're cruising the Bois de Boulogne - the rue des Branleurs (Wanker Street) to be precise. The truckers are all parked in a line, the lights on and curtains open indicating that they're looking for, erm, company. As we sailed past they looked out of their windows at us. Some winked.<br /><br />We moved on to the Bois 'profond' where we came across the street of Brazilians Transvestite hookers, turning tricks amongst the bushes. There were all sorts there, including taxi-drivers, waiting for their customers to get their business over and done with.<br /><br />The traditional hookers stand by the roadside, and as you approach they open up their coats to reveal alarmingly small underwear (barely) holding in place their alarmingly large breasts. <br /><br />One of the girls looked like a librarian at a bus stop until she opened her mac to flash her dayglo peekaboo bra and pantie set.<br /><br />Just as we were leaving the area, we happened upon a group sex 'event'. At least five men with their pants round their ankles, servicing each other and the couple of trannie hookers that were amongst them. Yikes.<br /><br />Then, as if it had all been a dream, a glimpse of hell, it was all behind us. We re-crossed the boulevard periphérique and were in the 16th, the home of all that is French preppy BCBG-ness.<br /><br />We whipped on home and rolled into bed.<br /><br />"He was quite cute, that last trucker we saw," said le FP.<br /><br />I had to agree. But hey. <br /><br />Having sex with truckers....now that's an period of my life that I don't need to re-visit.travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-6808421728961631412009-11-02T08:52:00.003+01:002009-11-02T09:07:12.779+01:00You're not one of us.I've started to notice, working in the 'banlieues' as I do, that there is a difference between Parisiens and suburbanites.<br /><br />The difference is generally in the clothes, the hair, the make-up. I take the train from Paris to the suburbs every morning and it's filled with smart, stylish Parisiens and Parisiennes - elegant, generally, in a very understated kind of way.<br /><br />The platform when I arrive, however, is a different story altogether. The folks from the banlieues look like they are dressing 'as if' they are Parisien, but are overcompensating for it in some way or another - the hair is too extreme, the jacket is too fashionable, the boots too crazy. It all reminds of Melanie Griffith and Joan Cusack in Working Girl - with the immortal moment where Joan Cusack's character finds out how much the Manhattanite boss paid for a dress "but it's not even leather!" she screams....<br /><br />Anyway, I left the 'burbs behind on Friday afternoon and headed back into Paris to join le FP for lunch at the fashion shoot he was working on. It was a world apart from my office and the area I work in. As I sat eating with the models (they ate tissues, mainly) I couldn't help but feel that this was all a bit on the ridiculous side, going from one extreme to the other so quickly.<br /><br />This morning, inspired by all of this elegance, I got dressed and headed out to the office.<br /><br />I felt very stylish in my work ensemble of jeans, black/white gingham shirt, black cashmere sweater, calf length boots and long black cashmere coat. I felt like I was looking good, like I belonged in this city where style is everything. <br /><br />Until I got to the office.<br /><br />I walked in the door and Debbie looked me up and down. I felt like Anne Hathaway in the Devil wears Prada, meeting Miranda Priestley for the first time.<br /><br />"You may live in Paris," she said "but you are not FROM Paris".<br /><br />"What's wrong today?" I asked, startled by her reaction.<br /><br />"Hmm. It's the hair" she replied, "I <em>think</em>..."travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-86963215001460869122009-10-30T10:24:00.003+01:002009-10-30T11:10:55.719+01:00Space invadersSomedays I like to just come home, put my feet up, sit on the sofa with the boy and slowly fall asleep in front of a badly-dubbed episode of CSI.<br /><br />I know, it's hardly rock and roll, but hey, even Joan Jett needed a rest from time to time, right?<br /><br />Last night was one of those nights. I've been out every evening for 11 days now, and have a full weekend of visitors from the UK ahead of me. I'm struggling with my extended commute and thus my extended day, and I needed a rest.<br /><br />When I got home, le FP was sat on the sofa with our lovely Dainty Friend - a truly beautiful, petite, gorgeous French girl who is an old friend of le FP. She's easygoing, funny and fun and the three of us ate bowls of pasta and then cuddled up in an ugly old pile of arms and legs to watch TV.<br /><br />I was enjoying the love-in when the doorbell rang.<br /><br />It was a crazy French-Canadienne friend, turning up to show us her latest purchases - a pair of rubber trousers and some Louboutin-esque red, sparkly heels. My evening immediately descended into chaos as she stripped off and threw on the rubber pants before giving us her best ANTM runway moves. <br /><br />The champagne got opened and I figured my cosy evening was over.<br /><br />The doorbell rang again.<br /><br />It was the other le FP, le FP Light we'll call him. FPL had brought his boyfriend round to show us his broken hand - he'd fought off some muggers in the cité where they live two days ago and was visibly hurting. <br /><br />So, amidst screams and whelps and cries of delight - this group hasn't been in the same room as each other for some time it would seem, and they had lots to catch up on - I headed off to the drinks cabinet. Well, it's actually a white leather trunk stocked to the hilt but I like to call it the drinks cabinet.<br /><br />I opened the 12 year old Japanese whisky and retired, gracefully to my bedroom.<br /><br />I popped open my freebie webbook (thanks Sony) and did a bit of surfing whilst sipping at the single malt.<br /><br />Within minutes, I wasn't alone.<br /><br />Le FP arrived and lay down on the bed next to me.<br /><br />"Sorry" he said, looking sheepish.<br /><br />We were in the middle of a tender moment when the door to the room opened to a chorus of screams and a round of camera flashes. Le FP got everyone out of the room eventually and, feeling like a party-pooper, I went and joined them in le salon. <br /><br />As I got steadily more drunk, I relaxed and started to appreciate the company of these crazy people a bit more - either that, or I started to care less....<br /><br />At 2am, they all headed off home - except for the one that had decided to stay overnight - and me and le FP went to bed.<br /><br />I got up with my alarm at 6am this morning, leaving le FP in bed - he had at least two hours of sleep ahead of him before he needed to leave for work - a day's fashion shoot at a fancy design hotel. He didn't even wake up when I rolled him over to kiss him goodbye.<br /><br />Now I desperately need a night off.<br /><br />I need for no-one to turn up unexpectedly.<br /><br />It's going to be Sunday evening. Lights out, no-one at home.<br /><br />I'm hanging out the do not disturb sign.<br /><br />Heaven help anyone who comes a-knocking...travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-37363308631068654792009-10-29T14:32:00.003+01:002009-10-29T15:04:46.792+01:00She stoops to, erm, conquer?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVYunjViNZAANUlCml-XaGHEas27qiETs25IE4ww414bKCPk8TrqYpHxGBsbJ_vDHMkrs9RS4j4aK1riux_mK7Cxy3YNJTD1vm2VH9gCoZKRrEfSfKLpAlQiv6RJqHdItXPfomSeteRD0/s1600-h/je+ramasse"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398014936822035442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 146px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 143px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVYunjViNZAANUlCml-XaGHEas27qiETs25IE4ww414bKCPk8TrqYpHxGBsbJ_vDHMkrs9RS4j4aK1riux_mK7Cxy3YNJTD1vm2VH9gCoZKRrEfSfKLpAlQiv6RJqHdItXPfomSeteRD0/s320/je+ramasse" border="0" /></a> <div>Me and le FP had been out for dinner the other night with a friend who is back in town from L.A.</div><br /><p>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....</p><p>Anyway, we'd been for dinner at the <a href="http://www.le-gai-moulin.com/">Gai Moulin</a> - 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. </p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>As we approached my block le FP suddenly stopped. He looked horrified.</p><p>He pointed.</p><p>And then I saw what he was pointing at.</p><p>Next to a tree was a 'lady' crouching down. Squatting.</p><p>It was evident that she was taking a shit.</p><p>And not just a small, rabbit-dropping-style one either. This girl was laying cable.</p><p>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.</p><p>When she'd finished her 'business', she just pulled up her trousers and walked off. No wiping, you'll note.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>Yet again, I felt lost for words.</p><p>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.</p><p>God help me. God help this country.</p>travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-52120093523934530322009-10-27T09:21:00.003+01:002009-10-27T10:11:31.973+01:00Sous le ciel de Paris<em>"Sous le ciel de Paris s'envole une chanson</em><br /><em>Elle est née d'aujourd'hui dans le coeur d'un garçon.</em><br /><em>Sous le ciel de Paris marchent des amoureux</em><br /><em>Leur bonheur se construit sur un air fait pour eux."</em><br /><br />I love Paris, but you already know that.<br /><br />This morning, on my hellish commute, I was thinking about how fabulous life in the city of lights is. Or, more specifically, how fabulous <em>my</em> life in the city of lights is.<br /><br />Yes, it's expensive. Yes, it's polluted. Yes, it can be frustrating. But I love it.<br /><br />I hate my commute, but every single evening the view from the C train as it crosses the Seine and heads to the Rive Gauche makes me happy. I look up from my book as the train leaves the station at Avenue Kennedy and the Seine opens up before me - the view is straight down the river and the Eiffel Tower fills the frame. My heart sings a little and I know that I'm almost home.<br /><br />When I head out of an evening to meet friends in the Marais I always go on foot. 200 metres from the house and I'm at Bastille - the grande place with the striking Colonne de Juillet at the centre. The traffic is crazy, there are motards everywhere, the cafés are buzzing and the city is alive. Again, my heart sings a little and I thank my lucky stars.<br /><br />Sunday morning and I slip out of bed. I throw on a pair of joggers and some kind of jumper and head to the <a href="http://www.davidlebovitz.com/archives/2006/01/le_quignon.html">boulangerie Bazin</a>. I wait in line (there's always a line at the best bakers in town) and take in the sights and the smells. I buy my <a href="http://chocolateandzucchini.com/archives/2003/10/chouquette_story.php">chouquettes</a>, my pains au chocolat and a baguette. I head home, undress and slip into bed next to my boy. We sleep a while longer knowing that when we wake up the best breakfast ever is waiting for us.<br /><br />I stand at the bar at my favourite nightspot - the Freedj - and I chat to my friends. We speak a mixture of English and French together, depending on who's in town. We laugh - boy do we laugh - we share our ridiculous weeks and we down a few drinks. We leave the bar and head off for cheap chinese food.<br /><br />Crossing rue Beauborg, we pass the Centre Georges Pompidou - beautifully lit at night and causing controversy even when closed, even so many years after it was opened.<br /><br />the Pompidou centre reminds me of myself in so many ways. It is so clearly not born of the city in which it has been planted. It has a style that is different to the local style. It expresses itself using a different language. But despite this, it has been welcomed into the hearts of Parisians....even if they didn't like it particularly at first.<br /><br />I love Colette, Monoprix and Galeries Lafayette.<br /><br />I love donning my sunglasses and strolling <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Champs-%C3%89lys%C3%A9es">'les Champs' </a>on a crisp, sunny Sunday afternoon.<br /><br />I love taking taxis (alarmingly inexpensive) and riding the last métro home. I love ordering a noisette and a tartine for breakfast, vite-fais. I love a Salade de Chêvre for lunch and a carafe of rosé. I love walking <a href="http://www.promenade-plantee.org/">'la Coulée Verte'</a>.<br /><br />I love Paris, but you know what? What it is that I love most of all?<br /><br />I love being in love in Paris.<br /><br />But I think that's a different post altogether.travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-57636124945575173962009-10-21T09:43:00.004+02:002009-10-21T10:09:12.028+02:00Beats so big I'm steppin' on leprechaunsI'm determined to get my posting back on track but I don't want to post any old crap.<br /><br />The two subjects I could easily post about are a) run-ins with the law, but that's over and done now and b) soppy, doe-eyed posts about le FP. Which, let's face it, no-one needs right now.<br /><br />Luckily, my family are alive and crazy and provide never-ending blog fodder.<br /><br />Take my Aunt for example. No, really, take her. As far away as possible. Ha ha. <br /><br />She's the older sister to my Mother, and trust me when I say that Aunty definitely got the crazy gene. uh-huh. She got it.<br /><br />Problem is, she drinks a lot and she's accident prone. Things that don't go together very well. Last time she visited me in Paris she ended up in hospital having dislocated her arm. She did this when she tripped in the middle of the road in front of the Eiffel Tower. When I asked why she wasn't watching where she was going she said simply that she hadn't seen anything quite so phallic in a long time and was just 'admiring its beauty'....<br /><br />Equally, let's not forget that this is the same woman who - when pretending to be blind - fell down the stairs, having mistaken the door to the stairway for the door to her bedroom. That ended with a broken wrist.<br /><br />At the moment, my Mother is living with this sister, my Aunt. Mom sold her house recently and has bought a new place, but it's being 'brought up to standard' as she likes to say to her friends. So while the works are being carried out, she's shacking up with her big sis.<br /><br />The first day that they are room-mates, I get a call from my Mom. <br /><br />"Your Aunt is in hospital", she said wearily. "She's broken some ribs"<br /><br />"How on earth...." said I.<br /><br />"She was stretching to trim her clematis when the rabbit she was standing on gave way. She fell backwards, hit her head on a tortoise and broke her ribs on a little girl with a puppy."<br /><br />I kid ye not. This was my Mother's explanation of events.<br /><br />"Did you explain this to the doctor?" I asked.<br /><br />"Yes" she said. "He didn't seem impressed. But then I don't think they have garden ornaments in India, or wherever it is he's from."<br /><br />You see, my Aunt's garden has for a long time been a health hazard.<br /><br />On many occasions I've nearly twisted my ankle on a concrete frog, or bruised my shin on a donkey with baskets. It's like an awful, babes-in-the-wood-meets-tim-burton nightmare of a garden. Wherever you turn there are dull concrete eyes staring at you, lifeless, desperate to be turned back into their living, breathing forms.<br /><br />"The thing that has upset her most" said my Mom, "is that she broke her 'I wuv you' when she fell".<br /><br />"What?"<br /><br />"The little girl with the puppy. She's always called it her 'I wuv you' - that's what she thinks the little girl is saying to the puppy".<br /><br />"Please stop"<br /><br />"No, really, she fell on her 'I wuv you' and she broke the girls head off. She's planning to get it fixed though, once she's up and about again." <br /><br />The next day, my Mom called me again.<br /><br />My Aunt had returned home from hospital the day before and gone straight to bed feeling queasy and shakey.<br /><br />The next morning she had woken up blind. Yes, blind. Couldn't see a thing. She couldn't open her eyes and when she did so manually she couldn't see anything.<br /><br />"Doctor says it's the shock" said my Mother.<br /><br />"Just tell her to stay out of the garden" I replied. "And away from the staircase".travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-17432682374619528752009-10-20T09:10:00.004+02:002009-10-20T09:52:07.943+02:00Choose your friends wiselyHe walked into the flat and we held each other.<br /><br />Each told the other that he loved him.<br /><br />That moment lasted forever. I never wanted to let him go and, by the way he was holding me, it was evident that the feeling was mutual. <br /><br />I looked down at the big manila envelope in his hand.<br /><br />"What's that?" I noticed that it was marked with the logo of Hopitaux de Paris.<br /><br />"It's some x-rays that I had taken at the hospital" he said.<br /><br />While 'in custody' he'd had some kind of panic/anxiety attack that, at the time, looked like a heart attack. The police had taken him to hospital where he'd been hooked up to monitors, poked, prodded and x-rayed. <br /><br />All this was happening, yet whenever I called the commissariat they didn't say a word. I can't believe that they would send him to hospital, that he appears to be dying and that they would contact nobody to let them know. Well, I can believe it - it's the police.<br /><br />Anyway, turns out all was ok, and it was an anxiety attack. Goodness knows the situation was stressful enough to enduce one.<br /><br />Having finally let go of each other, we lie down on the bed and he tells me what has happened.<br /><br />Two girls that he knows - good friends with whom we've spent many a great evening - have, it seems, been running a scam on their banks. They've been using each others credit cards overseas and then claiming the cards to be stolen. <br /><br />It's a good scam - after all, if I'm using my debit card in Paris, how can I also be using my credit card in Montréal at the same time? That's the line they used with the banks.<br /><br />Seems the banks are wise to this though, and refused to refund the purchases. Faced with a huge bill, the girls implicated the person who had been - innocently - on one of the shopping trips with them....my lovely FP. He'd paid for one of the girls to go to Montréal with him in the summer and this was how she was repaying him.<br /><br />They told the police that he'd stolen their cards, that he'd been shopping with their credit and that he'd refused to repay them when they confronted him.<br /><br />Luckily, much like the banks, the police aren't stupid. They see this kind of thing everyday.<br /><br />As le FP was released, he'd seen the two girls being led into the commissariat. They've been charged and they're awaiting trial is all the police will tell us.<br /><br />I hope that's the end of it for me and le FP. It certainly isn't the end for the two evil, nasty, hateful women behind the scam.<br /><br />I look forward to hearing that they are behind bars, fined up to their eyeballs and left to live ruined lives with criminal records that haunt them forever. Really. I do.<br /><br />Forgiveness isn't coming easy at the moment.travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-36384388564085071912009-10-19T08:44:00.003+02:002009-10-19T09:03:26.275+02:00HelplessI left the apartment and walked to the Commissariat de Police. Luckily the Commissariat du 12ème is just 100 metres down the street from my apartment. FP had been taken there in a police car and was well inside by the time I arrived.<br /><br />I asked at the 'welcome' desk for information and the 'helpful' policelady told me to go home. I insisted and refused to leave until I'd spoken with one of the arresting officers.<br /><br />In time, one came to see me. He took my name, my address, my proof of identity. Everything short of fingerprints. Nice to know that I'm officially on their system now, at least.<br /><br />He said "let's discuss this outside" and walked me out to the street.<br /><br />Once we were on the street outside the Commissariat he said "there's nothing I can tell you. We're keeping him here overnight, at least, and the only thing you can do is go home".<br /><br />And that's what I did.<br /><br />The first night that we'd spent apart in five weeks and he was in a police cell.<br /><br />I barely slept. When they were at the house, the police had alluded to the fact that it was something to do with a credit card scam and so, left alone with my thoughts I started to panic. I checked all of my accounts online - nothing unusual - and immediately felt bad for doing so.<br /><br />I woke up the next day, as usual, at six a.m. I immediately felt sick and ran to the bathroom to vomit.<br /><br />I called the commissariat.<br /><br />"How old is this person?" they asked. I told them.<br /><br />"Well, he's an adult. We cannot give you any information".<br /><br />I went to work feeling sick, feeling helpless and useless. Confused and uncertain.<br /><br />I wanted to believe him innocent. I needed to know he was ok. I was worried, scared and totally disconnected with everything around me.<br /><br />The morning was spent on auto-pilot. I sailed through an interview and then, feigning sickness, I went home. <br /><br />Back at the house I called the Commissariat again. Telling them that they had held my 'husband' (I figured that might help me get some info) for nearly 18 hours, I demanded some information.<br /><br />"He is here, he is feeling better and we can keep him for up to 48 hours". This was all they would tell me. The line 'he is feeling better' scared me.<br /><br />I paced the house and called a couple of friends. Both helped me - by offering advice, by not judging and by distracting me with long phone calls.<br /><br />At around nine pm I finally cracked. I was in the kitchen, thinking about cooking something. I stood in front of the fridge, looking at all of the good stuff he'd bought only the day before and I started to cry. I was verging on hysterical. It was awful. Never have I felt so helpless.<br /><br />I didn't cook anything. I walked back to the lounge, curled up on the sofa and tried to sleep.<br /><br />At ten pm the doorbell rang.<br /><br />I opened the door and he was there. Le Fabulous Pairisien. Looking dishevelled, tired, drawn, exhausted.<br /><br />He walked into the apartment and we literally fell into each others' arms.<br /><br />"Je t'aime" he whispered into my ear. "Je t'aime, je t'aime, je t'aime".<br /><br />"I love you too", I whispered back.<br /><br />All charges had been dropped and he was a free man.travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6036713826639353991.post-28697552679639055602009-10-16T08:38:00.003+02:002009-10-16T08:51:57.597+02:00Arrested developmentI'm sat with le FP watching TV on tuesday at midnight when there's a knock at the door.<br /><br />This is at the front door of my apartment - so the person who is knocking has already got through the door on the street (with a code) and then through the interior door to the apartments (with a key). <br /><br />Having experienced the stalker, I'm cautious these days and so I looked through the 'spyhole' before opening. I'm especially wary of anyone knocking at midnight.<br /><br />To say I was unnerved is not an understatement.<br /><br />Stood outside were two handsome guys, both holding badges in the air.<br /><br />"Police National", the one said "open up please".<br /><br />I opened the door and immediately asked to examine the badges. I asked for names of the officers - they wouldn't give them to me.<br /><br />"You are Monsieur TBNIL*?" he asked me.<br /><br />"Oui, c'est vrai" I replied.<br /><br />At this point le FP appeared behind me in the doorway.<br /><br />"You must be Monsieur le FP* then?" he asked le FP.<br /><br />"Yes, I am" replied le FP, as visibly stunned as I by the whole thing.<br /><br />"Will you come with us please." It was a command, not a question.<br /><br />He looked stunned, shocked, amazed and like he was about to cry. Neither of us seemed to know what was going on. He got dressed and two minutes later, he was gone with the police officers. <br /><br />He'd been arrested.<br /><br />I stood in my hallway in shock.<br /><br />What on earth had just happened?<br /><br /><br /><br /><em>*they used our real names, honest.</em>travelling, but not in lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01063643541653145954noreply@blogger.com13