Stormy weather

Martha Wainwright, Thursday night at the Paradiso in Amsterdam. She rocked.

Beautiful voice and great attitude. Amazing set with songs from both albums, plus some great french stuff thrown in as a bonus (Dis, quand reviendras tu? was a real moment).

Really, an amazing night.

And don;t even get me started on her version of 'Stormy Weather'....the recording of this is amazing enough, but for her to finish the evening with this? Just stunning.

Airport parking

Now, you may think "aha, holiday season is upon us - that crafty TBNIL is hoping that people looking to park their car at Stansted will happen upon his blog". Well maybe. But to be honest I'm not really after the kind of people who park their car at Stansted.

I've been thinking in the car (it was a long drive) about airport car parks.

When I lived in the UK and used to fly from Birmingham a lot, I had a system going with the long stay car park. If I was going to France I'd park in row F, to Holland in row H and so on. This worked, but only if I was there at the crack of sparrows. Any later than 8am and I'd have to park in P for Paris instead of F for France. It got to the point where some days I'd be so late that I was parking in V for Victory at Waterloo.

I hate how the short stay at Birmingham has become the 'drop off zone' - this is what the French call the 'depose minute'.

At Brussels airport, they call this the 'Kiss and Fly' lane - how very cool is that? And the Belgians thought that one up on their own too. Well done Brussels.

But less cute and more confusing, Brussels airport also has the 'Front Park' but no 'Back Park'. Odd.

At Lyon, I like to park in the Parking P.O. which always makes me think of Piss Off and brings a smile to my early morning cheeks.

Schiphol brings us the delights of the parking zones with pictures, rather than numbers. And the pictures are all of Dutch things - clogs, windmills, fresian cows, tulips. I always like to park in the 'dyke' section. Just to be controversial.

At East Midlands, the short stay used to be the same price as the long stay. Until Easy Jet arrived there and the prices for everything went up - just as the cost of flights went down.

At Charleroi airport, I crashed my car into the only other car in the car park (black ice, not my fault). I went to tell the car park manager and it turned out to be his car. Not a great conversation, that one.

And I once got a Ford Transit stuck - as in wedged between floors - in the car park at CDG. But that's a long story and painful to return to.

Anyway, I just got my car from the car park at Geneva Airport - another airport that likes to use pictures rather than numbers.

I was on the sixth floor below ground, between Pig and Bobble Hat.

Yes, I was parked in 'Pearl Necklace'.

How very Geneva.

The new Paris Hilton

Well, it's more of a Travelodge than a Hilton, but it's home!

And it seems all of the legal stuff is done and dusted.

I get the keys on Monday. Much excitement. Much panic. Much relief.

I guess I should start packing....

L'homme de sa vie

So, dinner with Train Stranger last night then.

I think it all started yesterday afternoon. The weather was foul - cold, wet, miserable spring weather - and I decided to get the duvet and lie on the sofa watching a movie. I wanted something french, something I already knew.

The choice was 'fauteuils d'orchestre' or 'l'homme de sa vie'. Now, fauteuils is a great Sunday afternoon movie. Possibly my favourite Sunday afternoon movie (after North by Northwest of course). But I just wasn't in the mood for Cecile de France and her perkiness.

So I went for 'l'homme de sa vie'.

It's beautifully filmed, well constructed and well written. Bernard Campan is gorgeous in it, and plays troubled husband so well.

I watch the film, cry (a lot) and wind up feeling as miserable as. I'd forgotten how melancholy-making this film could be.

A deep funk had indeed descended.

I shower, I even shower with special mood-enhancing shower gel. But the funk doesn't lift.

I get dressed and head out. Dinner is at my favourite Lyon restaurant. On the way I keep telling myself, be happy, cheer up.

At the restaurant, TS is waiting for me. He looks great and his smile makes me remember why I'm here.

We talk about our weekends and I tell him I watched this film.

"How can you watch that?" He said.

"Because it's a great movie"

"It is, but I saw it at the cinema and vowed never to watch it again. I don't think I've ever taken so long to get a film out of my head"

We ate great food. We had great conversation. He held my hand across the table and we had a funny looking-at-each-other moment. My melancholy still biting, refusing to give in to happiness.

Afterwards, we walked back towards town along the river and over the rickety-rackety bridge - the Pont Masaryk.

We get to mine and move in off the street, into the lobby of my building. We stand there, heads together, temples touching for a while. We kiss goodnight. There's no invitation from me, and he leaves, back to his own bed.

I'll see him again, maybe. But next time, I'll stay off the movies.

Strangers on a train

So I took the TGV home again from Paris on Monday evening. The train was crowded. I always ask for a single seat so I'm not bothered by having someone sit next to me (how very sociable, I hear you say). Anyway, this was a last minute decision to take this earlier train and I ended up in a block of four seats - my least favourite position.

Wondering what nuisance people SNCF would seat next to me, I got out my laptop, book and i-pod. All things to keep me busy and stop me being talked to by my table-sharers.

"Is this seat 95? I'm never sure if I'm aisle or window".

"It says on your ticket - aisle or window" I said without looking up. Rude, I know.

"Ok thanks. I'm aisle, next to you".

I look at the French man about to install himself next to me. A handsome, chunky Frenchman of the classical variety - dark hair, stubble, good suit.

"Bonsoir" he said. "I'll try not to disturb you too much, you look busy".

"No problem" said I, "I'm just catching up on emails". See, I can be sociable if I want to be.

"You're English?"

"Yeah, you picked up on my little accent I see".

"It's a great accent" he said, and gave me a big smile.

Thirty minutes into the journey, "Can I get you coffee or something - I'm going to the bar" he asked, "Maybe a cup of tea with milk?". French people think this is hilarious.

"Sure" I said. "In fact, I'll come with you. I've been sat down all day ". I hadn't.

We walk to the bar-car, which is quite classy on the TGV - a little man serving sandwiches, drinks, beers, and plenty of space to stand, chat, look out of the window.

He bought us both a beer each. We stood and looked out at the scenery flying past.

He asked me why I was visiting Lyon. I told him it's where I live. He asked me how long I'd been there. We chatted some more. He was funny and interesting, charming and disarming in that way that French men do so well.

He asked me to come for dinner with him at the weekend.

We returned to our seats. He leaned in and told me that he was pleased he'd changed his ticket and taken this train.

At the station, we swapped mobile phone numbers, shook hands and parted.

I've starting packing up my house this weekend. Preparing to leave Lyon.

I guess I'll tell him that when I see him tonight...

And the winner is....

So, this week I hot-tailed it to fancy London for a big awards ceremony.

It's all a bit dull, but trust me when I say that in the industry I work in these awards are the thing. It's kind of a s good as it gets, and winning is seen as a big deal.

I jump on a plane in the morning from Lyon to the glorious Heathrow Terminal 5. After years of being embarrassed by Heathrow and its lacklustre, shabby, grotty terminals - is this how we want the world to first experience the UK? - I am finally thrilled to arrive at a modern, well-designed, spacious, airy terminal.

Who cares if people don't get their bags, I was hand-luggage only and admiring the architecture.

Anyway, I rock up to the fancy schmancy hotel in Mayfair where the awards are being held. It's all a bit over the top in the way that Mayfair 5 star hotels do so well. I had a £6 cup (sorry, pot - much better value) of tea in the salon, and waited for my colleagues to show.

We work our way through the champagne reception, through the glad-handing and air kissing. We munch away at the the lovely rack of lamb and petits fours. We sit and watch as the winners in the 'junior' categories go and get their prizes.

Now, I've never been a big fan of these events, but this year it seemed that I was nervous. I'd written a great entry and presented it well to the 'dragon's den' of judges. But still, we were up against some big names with very big budgets. Companies that can throw a million at this type of event just to make sure they win.

Nonetheless, as the dinner went on and the time for my category came, I got my lovely colleagues to practice 'Oscar faces' with me. You know, the ones that Hollywood stars pull when they don't win but need to look like it doesn't matter? I wasn't very good at this.

They read through the nominees and there I was.

Jesus wept, I started to feel sick. No, it was more than sick. It felt like I was having a stroke or fainting, or maybe just a minor cardiac incident.

Third prize and second prize were read out. As they opened the envelope for the winner, I truly thought I was going to pass out.

And the winner is....

Yes, it was me. I'd won.

Stunned and short of words I accepted the prize, had my photo taken and amazingly, I didn't collapse.

I sat on the plane home that night, with my certificate in a frame, business cards from well-wishers in my pocket and a commitment to updating my CV in my head.

I've never really won anything like it before, never had my hard work recognised in such a public way before. It was bizarre, unnerving, fabulous and all a bit of a shock.

Finally, I know why Gwyneth Paltrow cried.

Breakfast with BGF

I can't tell you how much this scene reminds me of having breakfast with my best girlfriend.



Unfortunately, I'm more Linda La Hughes than she is (although it's pretty debatable...).