Do you NEVER shut up?

With brother here, the entertainment options are somewhat limited. Sitting at home and watching television is out, for language reasons. Watching DVDs would be fine, but my collection and his tastes are poles apart. So we're left with going out and finding entertainment 'on the town'.

This means either sitting opposite each other à la Smith and Jones whilst speed drinking beers and finding things to talk about, or going to the cinema and not having to talk to each other too much...well, you can guess which option we went for last night.

We went to see Gran Torino, the Clint Eastwood film. It took me a leap of faith to agree to see it - I'm not usually a big fan of Clint. I'm glad I did though. Truly an amazing film. Ironic, humourous and sad, sad, sad. Go see it.

Anyway, I'm not here to give two thumbs up. I'm here to bitch about the girl stood behind us in the queue for the movie.

Because this was the opening night for the film, plus it being a Thursday (big cinema night) the place was jammed. They'd set up a temporary 'zig zag queue' for the entry to the movie and we were herded in to the queuing pen like sheep - then left waiting for fifteen minutes.

Whilst we were waiting, I became increasingly aware of a girl stood behind us.

"...and anyway, they said don't bring chocolates, but I thought, well, everyone brings chocolates, and what's a party without chocolates, and so I took chocolates, and you know what, turns out he's allergic to chocolates, and so I spent the whole evening sat eating the chocolates, the ones that I had brought with me, and they were good, they were Leonidas, have you ever had Leonidas? they're good, they're, like, really expensive but they're really good..."

And so it went on. A monologue. A one-woman show straight from hell.

"...and it was terrible finding somewhere to leave my bike, have you ever had to leave your bike near Les Halles? there's always someone waiting to steal it, it's not like it's a good bike, my dad bought it for me, it's, like, twenty years old or something, but maybe that's why they want to steal it, maybe it's, like, an antique, do you think it's an antique? it could be worth hundreds, maybe I should get it valued, but maybe it's just, like, junk..."

Shocking. And on it went.

I was about to ask her to speak quieter when her friend took the situation into her own hands.

"You never shut up do you?", said Chatty Cathy's friend. "You wonder why we only ever come to the cinema? It's because it's the only way to keep you quiet".

"But....", started Chatty Cathy. But it was too late, the queue was moving and her friend told her to shush.

And I realised that me and friend both had one thing in common. We'd both chosen the cinema to avoid sitting in a bar with our companions.

I thanked my lucky stars that my brother is the silent type.

I do worry that I'm the Chatty Cathy though...

Brotherly love

My brother arrives tomorrow.  Alone.

Usually he comes with an entourage of wife and kids.  Not this time.  Usually the kids fill awkward silences.  Not this time.  Usually the sister in law provides a buffer for his opinions and odd ideas of how life should be lived (by other people).  Not this time.

Yep, just me and my bro, hanging like homies.

So, what to do?  Luckily, he's already spotted a couple of exhibitions he wants to see, and there's always the fall back position of the cinema.  

Eating out is a bit problematic because a) he has a limited palate and b) I refuse to pander to it.  We'll see how that one works out, eh?

In a 'greater-love-hath-no-man' moment I went above and beyond the call of brotherly duty and bought tickets for the football on Sunday.  Brother loves a bit of footie and so he's absolutely made up with this 'gift' as he keeps calling it (I was thinking he'd pay for his own ticket, but apparently not).

The football match is between Paris Saint Germain and Nancy.

Brother has already informed me that he's going to buy me a 'Nancy' supporters scarf.  Apparently he thinks this is hilarious.  He seems to have told everyone, so funny it is.

My Mother called me earlier to say 'have a lovely time with your brother' and 'don't fall out with each other'.  Then she said:

"...enjoy the football match.  Your brother tells me he's going to buy you a scarf".

"So he told you too, then?"

"Yes.  He said it's a scarf with 'Nancy Boy' written on it"

Nancy Boy.

Really.  

I don't stand a chance.

Glad tidings

Lord Rufus of Wainwright is coming to Paris.

I have a ticket.

I may be sick, that's how excited I am.

Cirque de soleil

I've been away for a couple of days, working.  It's been a lot of driving and a lot of miles, with a cunning little flight thrown in for good measure, but it hasn't been so bad.

I'd been dreading the return trip to Brest for ages, ever since the last trip out here.  We all know how well that went.

Luckily, after a marathon seven-hour drive, I was greeted by a friendly face (the employee of the vile-guy-who-wants-me-sacked) and a message to 'just get on with it, because the boss won't be coming'.  Class.  I don't know if I scare him or he just hates me - either way, the meeting went so much better without him.

Such was the happy atmosphere of the meeting that we over-ran and I had to mince very quickly indeed in order to get my plane to Marseille.

And that's when my job became worth it.

I woke up this morning, opened the shutters onto the balcony (oh yes, even cheap hotels can be cool sometimes) and stepped out into mediterranean sunshine and blue sky.  I had a view over the old port of Marseille and could see the fort in the distance, resplendent in the early morning sun. 

Dodging the free 'breakfast' on offer at the hotel, I skipped out of the hotel and down to the port.

I sat, at seven thirty this morning, on a terrasse, drinking a café crème, an orange juice (pressé, bien sûr) and tucking into a tartine and pain au choc.  As the sun warmed me through I wondered if life gets any better.  Really, it's the choice between this and a job at Birmingham HQ?  I know which I'll take, thanks.

After breakfast, I jumped in the car for a drive down the coast before my mid morning meeting.  I stood on the beach, I watched the surfers and I breathed sea air.

Meeting over, I headed to Lyon in the car for meeting number two.  Driving through Lyon made me think about my days there, but I didn't get all nostalgic.  How did I manage to live somewhere for two years and not get attached to the place?  Maybe I wasn't really 'living' there...deep, eh?

Once I'd finished in Lyon, I hit the autoroute back to Paris.

Did I mention that Debbie was with me all the way?  She'd turned out to be good company and a pleasure to have along.  For so long I've done this travelling on my own that I'd forgotten how nice it can be to have someone else there.  Especially someone who had never really left the Île de France before.

Debbie drove much of the way back to Paris from Lyon, and I learnt one thing about her.  She drives fast.  Real fast.

I closed my eyes as the clock went past 180 kmh (110 mph-ish).  I feigned sleep when she overtook trucks at this speed.  I very nearly passed out when she raced the Maserati that had been 'annoying' her for the last few kilometres.

The radio started to play Britney 'Circus' as we rolled down the last hill and onto the Peripherique.  Debbie started to sing along...

"There's only two types of people in the world

The ones that entertain and the ones that observe.

Well baby I'm a put-on-a-show kinda girl

Don't like the backseat, gotta be first..."

She's not wrong.

We have so much in common.....

A chacun son disco...

I'm back from Cork, and just about to run out of the house and get a head start on the five hour drive to Britanny.  If I can get out of the RP (Région Parisienne) tonight, then it'll save me a lot of grumpiness tomorrow morning on the road, ha ha.

Anyway, I had a great weekend in Cork, with two lovely friends and I got to finally meet up with the beautiful Hangar Queen - although there was so much going on that we didn't really get more than a quick lunchtime drink and a quick hello in the evening.  I had so much to ask her and to catch up about that I'd have loved for us to have sat all night in the bar gossiping.  One day, eh HQ?

As I'm literally running out of the door, I'm just going to give you some of the highlights and happenings. 

• Spending time, both sober and not, with lovely friends.  Always the best basis for any weekend away.
• The lovely souvenirs that we came away with - the 'tiki' glass that my Lovely Irish Friend made me steal (yes, steal) and my lovely Dutch-Irish Friend's questionable calendar.  Luckily, I found the hotel crockery, cushions and general detritus that had been hidden in my luggage whilst my back was turned.  Thanks for that boys.
• Your Disco Needs You.  A Kylie classic that I haven't heard in a club for years.  Literally.  A great end of the night tune.
• Body popping.  Or at least, my Lovely Irish Friend's version of body popping.  A certain someone would be very proud....
• Having to remind myself that the Irish pub wasn't a gay bar.  So STOP SMILING AT THAT GUY.  He's likely to come over and hit you.
• The crane.  Oh boy.
• The Cork accent.  What one earth is that all about?  Surely no-one takes it seriously?
• My Lovely Irish-Dutch Friend holding a fairly decent football conversation with the cab driver who mistook us for 'boys in town for the match'....he he.  I never knew he had it in him.
• Hangar Queen.  What more need I say?
• Free drinks at the Blog Awards.  Helped lubricate the process.  They know what people are after, I'll give em that.
• Finally, the lovely, fey Italian boy on the bus who was exasperated (in a very camp way) that none of his friends were taking his forthcoming wedding to a homely Irish girl seriously.  I can't imagine why they wouldn't.

And that's my weekend in Cork.  I reckon if you were to describe it in liquid terms it'd be something like - a dozen bottles of Heineken, a dozen or so pints of same; a large handful of JD cokes and a slightly smaller handful of gin tonics; a full fat coke to pick me up; two lattes and a couple of lunchtime 'fancy colas'.  

The weekend would be far easier to sum up in musical terms.  Super easy in fact.  

I give you two words.  Lady GaGa.  

Really.  It's little wonder that I feel like hell, is it?

Terminal stupidity

I'm stood in the queue for security at CDG, on my way to Cork, Ireland.

The woman behind me is a big girl. A big, Irish girl travelling with three kids, two elderly parents and an arse the size of County Kildare. She had a voice and a half on her, and everyone in the line was party to her musings.

"Why is it always the fuzzy-wuzzies who do the security?", she said, to no-one in particular.

Her father grunted and nodded in agreement.

"I bet they put drugs into people's luggage".

Luckily, I was next through the scanner and managed to escape the woman's nasty racism and obvious lack of class.

Getting through security, I find a waiting area that is crowded. really crowded.

There are four flights - Dublin, Cork, Yerevan and Jeddah. The Saudi bunch are keeping themselves to themselves and the Armenians are busy re-packing their hand luggage. Over at the Armenian flight desk there's a guy arguing with the airline rep who says his bag can't go in the cabin.

"Why not?", he said in pigeon French. "I use this bag every day".

"But not to go on aeroplanes, Sir", the representative replied.

"I use it to do my shopping", he said. "It's a perfectly good bag".

He has a point. It is a perfectly good bag for supermarket shopping. But likewise, I can understand why the airline wouldn't want people bringing shopping caddies - for that is what it was - on the plane.

The 'bag' stood four feet high and included a handle that was fixed upright and four wheels, each a good six inches in diameter. The wheels were so big that they had tyres on them.

How he'd managed to get this far with it would be my question, but hey, maybe he'd hidden it from the check-in agents. Maybe they'd just given up trying. Maybe they realised that sometimes it's best to 'pick your battles'.

As I sit and ponder the stupidness of the situation, my reverie is broken. The big Irish girl had arrived and, with her entourage, taken the remaining seats in the area.

"Have you seen all the fucking Paki's here", she announced, again to no-one in particular. "Place smells of fucking curry".

And with one swell foop she'd convinced anyone who still needed convincing that some people should never, ever leave their trailer parks.

Shut up and let me go

I know that I'm going to sound like an old man with this post. But I kind of don't care. The thing is, I'm kind of sick of all the fecking noise everywhere I go.

These last couple of weeks I've spent a fair amount of time on trains and planes and every trip has been, well, noisy.

I took the train to Lyon, and the guy across from me was shouting - things that I imagine he wouldn't want his competitors to know about his business - into his mobile phone. Not at all sotto voce. Not at all subtile. Just loud. Until I asked him to stop, that is.

On the train back from Strasbourg, the men at the table across from mine were heading to Paris to take their TGV driver exams. They were excitable, to say the least. The volume increased and they got steadily louder. Until I asked them to be quiet, that is.

And on the métro into work this morning, the young girl sat next to me had her ipod so loud that I could hear the words of the songs - Sheryfa Luna, not my favourite...she sings a bit flat if you ask me. It was loud, tinny, someone-else's-headphones music...until I asked her to turn it down, that is.

Luckily, everytime I ask someone to turn it down they look incredibly embarassed and shocked that they were disturbing me. Every time, they have reduced their volume and got on with it. I appreciate that this could easily go the other way.

Equally, everytime I ask someone to turn it down, there are other passengers who look at me and smile, or who mouth 'merci' to me. Jeez folks, glad to be of service, but how about you ask next time?

As much as I'd like someone else to get involved once in a while, I'm quite happy to be the one doing the asking - it can work wonders sometimes. Back in the Lyon days, I once asked the guy sat next to me if he'd mind taking his phone call to the special area that SNCF have put on the trains (complete with sofa style seating) for such purposes.

When he came back, he apologised and we got talking. The conversation had been about a posting to the UK and we chatted a lot about how that might go - about the differences between English and French working styles and living conditions. By the end of the journey he had my number and we had a plan to meet the following night for a drink.

I'm not saying that a beautiful romance started when I asked him to shut up, but it certainly turned out to be, erm, interesting.

And I'm not saying that asking someone to be quiet on public transport will always get you laid - it's equally as likely to get you punched I guess.

But what I am saying is this...

"keep the noise down you bunch of freaks, there's people trying to sleep here!"