Kennel Club

Some things are just too good not to post about, right?

Yesterday was as jet set as my life gets...I got up early, sped across to London on the Eurostar (they do such a nice breakfast in first class, I find) had a day of meetings before heading back.

As the train emerged from the tunnel and back into France, my telephone beeped with several messages. Le FP had been trying to contact me, and had ultimately caved in and left me a message. Suffice to say that he doesn't 'do' voicemail. He believes that other people are there to take messages for him, so why should he do so himself. God help me.

Anyway, the message went along the lines of...

"Hello mon amour, I forgot to tell you that we are invited to the Gala de la Truffe this evening....call me when you get my message...."

Great. I had no idea what the Gala de la Truffe was, or why my presence was necessary, but hey - what's Monday night without a gala to attend?

I get home and le FP is sat on the sofa waiting for me. He has a big dumb smile on his face and in his lap is something particularly spectacular. A beautiful French Bulldog. Gorgeous.

"What the.....?" said I. After the addition of two fish and two cats recently, a dog is a step too far, even for me.

"We've borrowed her for the Gala this evening"

Seems the Gala is at Lancel, the fancy bag manufacturer, at their flagship store on the Champs Elysées, and it's all about stars and their dogs...ye gods.

I get changed into something suitably 'fashion' and we head off.

We rock up at the store and there's a red carpet, paparazzi and a legion of uniformed bellboys, each with a little dog on a lead, welcoming us to the craziness.

Inside is even crazier - Dachshunds, Bulldogs, Pugs and Jack Russels. Chihuahuas, Poodles, Afghans and Dalmatians. Labradors, Beagles, King Charles' and Pomeranians. All sniffing each others perfectly groomed asses, apparently unfazed by their Dolce and Gabbana outfits and Gaultier leads.

The owners are equally well groomed, equally 'fashion'. The champagne is flowing, the free gifts are flying off the shelves and everyone is beautiful, having a lovely time, darling.

The highlight of the evening for me?

Was it watching the photographers from 'Studio Harcourt' at work, taking their timeless and celebrated black and white shots? Was it watching the dog masseuses carrying on their dubious trade? Was it seeing the bold and the beautiful with their puppies-de-luxe?

No. It was none of these.

It was watching a small pug take a huge crap next to a display of thousand-euro handbags, and then seeing a very tall, very blonde, very glamourous lady (no stranger to the surgeon's knife, this one) step in it, slip and squeal before landing flat on her ass.

Free Champagne? Excellent.

Watching pretty dogs? Fabulous.

Seeing the mighty fall? Priceless.

I'll be right back

Hey there lovely readers....

It's with a heavy heart that I say that I'm struggling to keep up with blogging at the moment.

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.

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.

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?"

TBNIL x

Paris by night

Yesterday 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).

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.

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.

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.

I put my hands in FP's pockets, stroked his tummy and thought to myself "does it get any better than this?"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

We whipped on home and rolled into bed.

"He was quite cute, that last trucker we saw," said le FP.

I had to agree. But hey.

Having sex with truckers....now that's an period of my life that I don't need to re-visit.

You'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.

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.

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....

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.

This morning, inspired by all of this elegance, I got dressed and headed out to the office.

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.

Until I got to the office.

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.

"You may live in Paris," she said "but you are not FROM Paris".

"What's wrong today?" I asked, startled by her reaction.

"Hmm. It's the hair" she replied, "I think..."