Baby steps

So, last night with le Parisien was great.  Real great.

We met after his evening college class (some kind of advanced math slash programming thing, yep, he's clever) and went for a drink at the Freedj. 

The Freedj is a funny bar, busy every night of the week, and with a nice mix of customers.  It also has a quiet seating area right round the back that no-one seems to use - dark, moodily lit, comfortable seats....what more does a second date need?

So we chatted and chatted.  We like the same films, the same cheesy TV series, the same books.  We chatted about our friends, our families.  He told me all about his bad back (not a high point, but hey, it's worth noting).

And then we came back to mine.  Sorry to disappoint those of you who said 'wait', but hey, there was action.  Serious action.

And it was all great.  

Be.  Still.  My.  Beating.  Heart.  

You know what I mean?

So, he's just gone off to work and I'm packing to go to the UK for a few days.  We made plans to see each other 'when I get back'.  Lord knows, I don't want to go.

Anyway, maybe it's a big thing, maybe it's a pleasant interlude.  I refuse to worry about my potential future broken heart.  Well, maybe just a little, eh?  I'm only human.

For the moment, I'm enjoying it.  

But how to proceed?  With caution, I guess.

Reader, I'm taking baby steps.

Travelling, but, erm....?

I met someone.

And the thing is, I really like him.

I'm going on that difficult second date with him tonight and I'm so nervous I could be sick.

How do I NOT fuck this up?

F.R.O.

I had my haircut today.  

As you know, I hate doing this.  Today was no exception.  I was hungover and sleepy, but I knew that I needed to avoid queueing if this was going to be anywhere near painless.  So I jumped out of bed, ran through the shower and arrived at the coiffeurs bright and early.  At, ahem, 11am.

Apart from the guy with downs syndrome who wanted to practice his limited English on me, there was no-one else waiting.  But it's surprising how long ten minutes can be when you keep getting asked "do you have any brothers and sisters" over and over again.  He's a lovely guy, but next time I'm in the queue with him, I'm going to pretend to be French.

Anyway, it's my turn to step up to the big chair.  The barber is chirpy, as per fecking usual, and wants to chat.  I don't.

"How old are you then?" he asks.  I tell him.

"No way!" he exclaims.  "I thought you were at least five years younger than that".

I thank him for the compliment.

"But you know," he says, "it's harder to see the wrinkles on fat people."

For fuck's sake.  

Even for a Frenchman that's just plain rude.  

Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right

I'd been looking forward to a big Paris night out for ages.  Seems the last few weekends, I've either been away or, if I've been here, then it's been with my brother visiting.  None of which makes for an ideal big night out in Gay Paree.

So last night, I hit the town.  

To prepare, I had a couple of pre-night out gin and tonics in the house, I took a long soak in the tub and I even tidied the house - just in case.

I'd gotten all dressed up (well, I'd got dressed) and headed out to the usual haunts.

Now, I really do appreciate that I'm not the answer to every young man's dreams, but Lord, I'd hope for better than was being offered last night.  For some reason, I had turned into some kind of freak magnet.  And it wasn't good.

Within minutes of arriving at the bar, I was standing, beer in hand looking at the guys throwing clumsy shapes on the dancefloor. Trust me, the gay gene doesn't necessarily come with rhythm included.

Anyway, there I'm standing, minding my own business and I feel it happening.  It's the pincer movement.

To my left, a strange, staring-and-not-in-a-good-way North African guy.  To my right, a burly old fella, with a bleached goatee and a leather waistcoat and trousers combo.

Neither of them would be my cup of Lapsang Souchong, but they were moving in.  Both of them.

As they reached me I slipped away, pretending that I'd just seen someone on the other side of the bar.  And so the games began.  To be fair, the old guy gave up pretty easily, but the Algerian?  No way.  He was persistent.  And a fucking nuisance.  

No matter where I stood, he was there next to me, staring.  He leant in with the customary 'ça va?'.  I ignored him.  He carried on talking to me.  Well, to my back anyway, as I'd turned away from him.  I walked away.  He followed.

"Why are you being aggressive with me?" he asked, having cornered me at the bottom of the stairs.

"Because you're following me, staring at me and generally freaking me out".  I replied.

"You don't like me?"

"erm, that'd be a big old NO".

"I don't believe you.  I know you want me," and he leaned in to kiss me.

A swift 'fuck off asshole' later and he'd got the message, leaving me to dance the rest of the night away.  

I had a great time afterwards, but it seemed he'd set a trend and the only guys I ended up speaking to seemed weird.  I'm not sure if it's me - whether I'm just more selective/cautious after the stalker business, or if it was just one of those nights.  

Either way, I ended up having a good old dance and chatting to some friends, so all was not lost.

But I'm kind of hoping tonight will be better....

Bienvenue chez les Ch'tis

Twenty six hours. That's how much driving I did between Monday and Thursday of this week. No matter how you look at it, that's a long time behind the wheel.

Now, admittedly, Debbie did share the driving but, nonetheless, that's a lot of car time.

All that, plus meetings in St Etienne, Avignon, Lyon, Paris, le Havre, Valenciennes. Yes, a ridiculous week.

But anyway, I'll stop moaning now.

Actually much of the week was pretty funny and we rocked along in the car, discovering that although, musically speaking, me and Debs don't have much in common, we do share a love of trashy pop. Girls Aloud got us singing, as did Britney and the inevitable Katy Perry.

But the real stars of the show were the Ting Tings. On Monday morning, as Debbie sang "eemajeen all ze gurls, ba ba ba ba, ba ba ba ba", I knew the journey would be ok.

Last night was our final gig on the tour and we had a late afternoon meeting at a customer's house near Valenciennes, deep into the Ch'ti heartland.

The client welcomed us and with a display of true Northern hospitality, offered neither a drink nor a seat. As we stood talking in his dining room, a woman of a certain age appeared.

"Ah, you must be Madame (enter surname here)", I said, offering my hand. "How lovely to meet you".

"This is my daughter, Michelle", said the client. "She's sixteen tomorrow".

Well, all I can say is that this was one kid who'd had a hard life. Maybe growing up between France's largest coalmine (now closed), the Peugeot factory and the North's biggest abbatoir does that to your skin. I can only imagine. Truly, dearest reader, she looked forty.

As you can no doubt guess, the meeting went downhill from there. But at least it led me to think 'what the hell' and I sat down (uninvited, the shame) and asked if a cup of coffee was possible. Sometimes when you're in a hole, you just have to keep digging.

After the meeting, we stood at the dining room window 'admiring' the 'landscaping' that the client had recently finished in his back 'garden'. He'd basically tarmacced the lot and added a bird table.

"I love standing here and looking at the birds," he said. "But this one here," he said pointing at what was obviously a goldfinch "it eludes me. I don't know what it is".

"That's easy." said Debbie. My heart sank.

"Oh?".

"Yes." She said. "It's a canary."

The customer looked at her in amazement. He obviously knew the same thing that I knew. Canaries come from Africa, not from near the Belgian border.

He pulled the most sarcastic of faces.

"Are you REALLY that stupid?" he said, incredulously.

Debbie started to answer, but I decided enough was enough.

Time to get our coats and head back to Paris.

Ah Paris. Where there are few bird tables, no wild canaries and certainly no 40-year-old teenagers.

Slow down, you move too fast

So, maybe it's me. Maybe I'm, like, the fastest person on the planet. Built for speed. Racing snake. Speedy Gonzales. But I doubt it.

No matter where I went with brother at the weekend, it was always at half speed. Half speed and accompanied by constant cries of 'slow down, for fuck's sake'. Nice.

I was almost constantly ten feet ahead of him, then stopping, waiting for him to catch up, then immediately ten feet ahead again. He told me to stop running at one stage.

And I'd tried really hard. Not only had I walked really slowly, but I'd also caught the métro when I'd normally walk, and I'd thought about where we were going and planned things near to métro stations. We'd changed trains at the smaller métro stations to avoid long walks between trains and I'd even offered a taxi at one point.

I always sought out the station exits with escalators rather than stairs and I made sure that, once in the Louvre, we took the shortest route possible to the Mona Lisa.

There were regular coffee stops, and plenty of cake shops along the route. I made sure blood sugar levels remained constant, and that toilet breaks were possible.

I was a good host.

I was in the kitchen and could hear my brother in the guest bedroom. He was talking on the phone to his wife.

"You might not recognise me when I get home", he said to her. "He's walked me so far that I've lost five kilos and I'm four inches shorter than when I left. I'm sure he's just doing it to show me how unfit I am".

If only.

Next time, we'll do it at my pace.

We'll soon see how that goes down.

Is that a gun in your pocket?

"You sound like you have your head down the toilet", said Lovely Paris Friend, calling from his southern idyll in Castres on Friday evening.

"I do", said I. "I'm changing the seat."

"Good God."

"I know. They call me Homo-Brico".

And so began the weekend of manly activities.

Within hours of arriving, my super-sized brother had broken the toilet seat, leading me to a late, last-minute dash to buy another and get it fitted before we went out 'on the town'.

Out on the town largely involved a beer or two before returning home to a dvd and an early night. In fact, every night this last weekend saw me in bed before midnight. I would lie there thinking 'surely this isn't Saturday night' and imagining what my friends were all up to.

To be honest, I started to worry that I'd turn straight, what with all the early nights, Clint Eastwood movies, DIY escapades and manly chatter. That was until the football match on Sunday.

Now, I agree, football matches aren't the puffiest of activities, but this weekend I had to take what I could get. Seek out the gayness. Look for the sparkle in the dullest of environments.

The match was Paris Saint Germain versus Nancy, and I'd planned to cheer 'Nancy' all the way. However, this wasn't a good idea. PSG have a reputation for being the roughest team in the league, with the Boulogne Boys being their extreme right-wing supporters. Naturally I had managed to buy a pair of seats just by their 'enclave' in the Boulogne stand.

My brother loved this though, and kept saying how he wished his home team (for whom he has a season ticket) had such animated fans. The filthy dirty chants were funny. The flag waving and drum beating was rather cool. But when they started throwing flares (the fireworks, not the jeans) into other parts of the stand I started to worry.

Anyway, it seems this behaviour is all pretty much part of the show and the police dealt with it all effectively and swiftly. Which leads me to the reason I was happy to find myself at the football on a Sunday afternoon.

Just in front of our stand were a group of policemen, who were apparently employed to watch the crowd and keep an eye out for anything untoward. As it was a sporting event they were wearing their standard issue police tracksuits. Royal blue, and tight, tight, tight. I'm sure you can see where this is going.

In a bid to keep warm, the policemen would jog up and down in front of the stand. They must have been drinking Pepsi, because they certainly had 'more bounce to the ounce'. It was a sight to behold and certainly held my interest.

The thing is, I know that Paris cops carry guns, but boy were these guys packing. And they looked like they were ready to fire at any moment.

As the crowd jumped up to cheer the first of the four PSG goals, I found myself looking the other way, away from the goal to where the policemen stood. My brother looked at me and raised his eyebrows.

"See something you like down there?" He asked.

How to tell him that finally, I'd found a sporting activity that I could enjoy?