Friday the 13th beckons

So, I got back to Paris yesterday evening - tired, full of flu yet happy, having spent a few days with my Lovely Paris Friend at his new residence in the south west of France, in Castres.

He moved to Castres for work - a really good opportunity, but I have to admit I was sad to see him go.  I've missed having a friend to call on for drinks at the last minute, or someone to come see obscure films with me.  Having an opportunity to catch up has been great.  And a legitimate reason too - I had to travel down to the south west for work.

So, as you'd expect, we caught up over some bottles of good (no, great) wine and worked our way through a few bottles of champagne too.  We got drunk and went and stood in his garden, looking at stars and naming constellations.  I'm pretty certain that part of this flu that I'm feeling must be a hangover!  

We giggled like schoolgirls over ridiculous things and talked about the great times we'll share in the future - when I 'settle down' and he, finally, is living in the same country as his lovely boyfriend.  

We had some very welcome sunshine too, and did some touristy things.  All in all, it was really special.

Spending time with LPF made the email I came home to even more, erm, crappy.  Crappy isn't really the word.  I'm not sure what the word is.

See, the thing is, the email confirmed that the event which I've been really hoping wouldn't happen is actually taking place - recession or no recession.

Yes folks, it's the company 'christmas' party.  

Officially it's not a christmas party, being in March and all - but it really is instead of a christmas party...thus it's known as the christmas party.  Anyway, it's on March 13th.

Why, I hear you ask, am I so bothered about the company party?  

Well, it's like this.  The company party is a 'with partners' event.  Everybody brings their husbands, wives, boyfriends, girlfriends and significant others.  

Every single year - even during the crazy boyfriend years - I've been to this event alone.  On my own.  Single.  Without partner.  Unattached.  Strange.

I'm not sure I can do that again.

Anyone got any smart ideas?

World's end

There's a reason why Finistère is known as the end of the world. Really. If you head due west, the next time you touch solid ground will be in Newfoundland, Canada. Heading east, you won't hit either sea or ocean until you get to the Siberian coast, due east of Khabarovsk (no, you can't see Sarah Palin's house from there).

Anyway, I'm here for work, in the city that was ugly before the RAF bombed it (something to do with not trusting the French navy) but that is now the ugliest place on earth in a fabulously beautiful setting - Brest. Surprising how the 1950's concrete can detract from the scenery.

So, I digress. This isn't meant to be a geography lesson. You remember the customer who wanted to get me sacked? Well, I've been paying him a visit with one of the big bosses from work. It's been classy.

I got up at five o'clock this morning, travelled four and a half hours on a train and didn't even get offered a cup of coffee. Instead, I got shouted at for 30 minutes. I remained calm, diplomatic and stopped myself from dragging his sorry ass over the table and beating him to a fine french pulp. But only just.

"He's got quite a temper, hasn't he?" said my colleague, in a useful-after-the-fact kind of way.

"Oh yes" said I. "Is he like this with everyone?"

"No", said colleague. "He told me before you arrived that he just doesn't like you. It's completely personal. Don't worry".

"Great".

Anyway, the truly great thing about today was that I've pissed him off to the point where he is selling his business and quitting for good. Thank. The. Lord. One less thing to worry about.

Although, as my lovely colleague pointed out, "There'll always be someone who doesn't like you - you're that kind of personailty"....

Hmm. Seems everyone in my German class likes me though. Last night was Deutschkurs, and I'm still unsure about why I'm taking three hours of language lessons on a monday after work. It truly is too hard.

Last night the badly-dressed-even-for-a-German teacher was telling the class how you have to be careful when introducing your friends. If you say someone is 'my friend' as opposed to 'a friend' then you are claiming boyfriend/girlfriend status for that person. So, she pointed out, to the incredibly cute, but ridiculously posh French boy that he may want to remember this when introducing his male friends to his family.

He said that he had already introduced his 'friend' to his family and that they loved him like the son-in-law that he is. Kudos. And one in the eye for the German teacher's amazing lack of tact.

But it doesn't surprise me that she thought he was straight. There's something about the building that we have courses in that screws with your gaydar. It's like it has a blocking signal on it or something.

The older guy who I'm convinced has been smiling at me more since my outing, and who regularly checks out the younger male students, spent the whole of breaktime telling me about his wife. The married guy sat next to me seems to have made a new year's resolution to be as camp as possible and to flirt with men and the aforementioned posh boy has a previously undisclosed and totally surprising boyfriend. And it's all too confusing for me.

At least the Korean guy is the same as ever. Last night he had to tell me what he likes to eat - information that I then had to present to the whole group. I wasn't even close to understanding what he was trying to tell me. So I just said 'kimchi and rice'.

I hope that doesn't make me a racist....

Revolving doors

No sooner had I got rid of the date from Saturday night - nice guy, funny, interesting, lives on my street, not potential husband material - than the Homer Simpson Socks guy called.

Well, I say 'no sooner' but in reality there was at least four hours sleep between one leaving and the other calling. Needless to say, I wasn't particularly chirpy, nor was I thinking straight when he called.

"What are you up to?" said HSS.

"Sleeping" said I, "just sleeping".

"You want company?"

"Huh? You want to come over for a sleep?" said I. "Why would you do that?"

"No." Said HSS, "I wasn't planning on sleeping. I'll be there in ten minutes". And with that he hung up. It seemed the decision had been taken out of my hands.

That afternoon, after HSS had left, I went for a stroll on the Ile St. Louis. It's a good place for a Sunday afternoon 'blow the cobwebs away' kind of walk.

The Ile St. Louis was the place where the rich lived in ye olde Paris. Where the advisors to the king, his money-counters and architects lived and where they built their 'hôtels particuliers' - mini mansions that are today inhabited by lawyers, bankers and local celebrities. Plus ça change, eh?

I stopped for a beer at a local hostelry and took stock.

My goal of finding me a husband and settling down isn't happening. I don't know why. I'm working on the basis that it's a numbers game - the more dates I go on, the more likely I am to hit the jackpot. But I currently feel like I'm whoring my ass round town and getting lots of fun, but no happiness from the process. Maybe I have the wrong approach. Maybe I should be more selective.

This 'one-out-one-in' approach has its benefits but is it helping me to achieve my goal? I look at my coupled friends and I'm jealous. I see happy twosomes walking down the street and I get envious. Paris is so full of romantic couples that it's not a great place to be single.

But maybe I'm expecting too much. Maybe I just need to relax and recognise that things take time. And just enjoy myself in the meantime.

Who knows. Either way, it looks like HSS is planning on becoming a regular bedroom fixture so at least I won't die of desperation...

It's normally such a quiet street...

This isn't the view you want to see when you casually cast a 'coup d'oeuil' out of the window, mid housework, is it?

I think the best way to describe it is a 'considerable' police presence, creating a road block at the end of my street.  Now I know that sometimes I play my music loud, but is this really necessary?

Anyway, it turns out that my moaning neighbour hadn't made her complaint official - as she keeps anonymously threatening - the police were just setting up shop, preparing for a protest march.  

In one of those 'it's amazing what you can get used to' moments, I figured I'd best get out of the house and do my grocery shopping....after all, the police blocking the street isn't a sign that getting in and out is going to be easier as the day progresses.  And I've been here before.  Seems my street is on the traditional 'manifestation' route.

So I go do some shopping and come back to the house.  Alas, getting to my house is a pipe dream.  The police presence has been multiplied and the protest is in full swing.  

The protest is for a worthy enough cause - Palestine for Palestinians, stop bombing Gaza, etc.  Anyone who has read my blog for a while will know of my treatment at the hands of the Israelis - so it won't surprise you that I'm kind of with the Palestinians on the Gaza thing.  Anyway, the problem du jour is that I can see my house, but can't cross the street to get to it.

Luckily I had my camera, so here's a shot of the mob in front of TBNIL Towers.  Classy, non?

So I stood and watched, but didn't join in with the singing.  The mix of people was surprising - all ages, colours and walks of life were there.  Seems there's nothing like a good cause to bring out the solidarity; the spirit of '68 and all that.  

Finally I got home, but as I type this, the protest continues.  It's been three hours now and doesn't look like it's coming to an end. They've even set up a prayer station outside the HSBC.

On a lighter note - I'm pretty certain that Debbie is sleeping with her German counterpart.  More on this as the tale progresses, but suffice to say that being in the office with them last week was painful.  Ah, young love...

Has it come to this?

So, the lovely Debbie said to me today that she has a new year's resolution.

I guessed it would be to sleep around a little less (pot, kettle, black, I know) or maybe to eat food that smells less at lunchtime in our small and poorly ventilated office. Maybe it would be to wear something other than black. Alas it is none of these.

She wants to learn to dance the Madison.

Ye Gods. In France, they insist on dancing this, even in the coolest of cool nightclubs. I guess that this is why Debbie wants to learn how to do it. Comes in handy for the occasional friday night at les Bains Douches, I guess.

It always makes me think of holidays on French campsites. You know the big campsites - the ones with dodgy disco's where they'd play cheesy pop classics and where you'd be certain to get your sixteen-year-old arse pinched by a rogue bartender? Hmm. I always liked those places.

Which is probably why one of my favourite nights out in Paris is a nightclub that recreates this atmosphere perfectly.

Le Tango (aka la Boîte à Frissons, rather cheesily) offers a good night out to anyone willing to arrive after midnight. Prior to that it's a tea dance popular with lesbians. I have nothing against lesbians - even though I do wish they'd work on their shoes a little - but I don't need to see a great crowd of them dry humping their butch selves on the dancefloor to "love is in the air". I mean, really.

The bar bills itself as thus : "On se voit, on s'entend, on se sourit. Y'a des filles, des garçons, des travs, des trans, des folles, des butchs, des jeunes, des vieux, des beaux, des moches. Machos, hétéros-flics, sexistes, trop-beaux-pour-être-aimable, VIP s'abstenir."

Not sure where I fit into that list, but I'm sure you can see how this makes for a funny, fun night out. Dancing to Dalida, Spice Girls, Mylène and Bananarama - and they always play American Boy.

If you want to see a spectacular Madison (and it is truly spectacular - largely because all the boyz know all the moves and the über-competitive lesbians try to keep up) then they have one every Friday at half past midnight.

So I started this post with a "why does she want to do something like that?" and appear to be ending it thinking that this is something I should be learning myself.

Is there any hope for me at all?

One can sometimes be a little too integrated, non?

Don't make me laugh

You are lucky enough to end up in a bedroom-clinch-type-situation.

The other person involved, for reasons best kept to himself, has decided to accept your presence in his 'chamber', despite your strange hair and lack of conversational ability. In fact, the other person is 'putting up' with you purely because you have a 'bod to die for'.

Now, if you should ever find yourself in this situation, you may decide that keeping your socks on while we 'do the dirty' is a good idea.

If you do, can I please ask that you don't wear Homer Simpson socks. They really put me off my stroke.

Well, they did last night anyway...

...almost.

First class f*ckwits

On the Thalys north to Amsterdam there was an almighty panic. The train was no longer going to be stopping at Den Haag, nor would it stop at Schipol Airport. The announcement telling us this was made in French, Dutch, German and English. I understood it in all four languages, such was the clarity of the message.

Apparently, I was the only one.

Immediately there was panic amongst my fellow passengers. Especially the French.

"Is the train no longer going to Amsterdam?"

"But I am being met at Schiphol!"

"Did he say the train will terminate in The Hague?"

God help me. A more hapless bunch of travellers I’ve never met. Even my Mother would have worked out what was going on. But, as usually happens in such circumstances, people who would normally ignore their fellow travellers started to talk to each other.

The Australian girl behind me was chatting with the French woman across the aisle from me about how they would get to their respective friends/families if the train was going no further. Neither of them spoke each other’s language, yet despite this, they still managed to give each other completely incorrect information that the other one then believed.

"Anglaise?" said the old French lady to the Australian.

"No", she said. "Australia".

The old girl looked confused.

The Aussie girl picked up on this (remarkably) and jumped up out of her seat. Quick as a flash she was hopping down the aisle doing a kangaroo impression and shouting "Australia, Australia".

"Ah", said the old French lady. "Skeeepy".

"Yes", screamed the Australian, "Like Skippy, exactly!!!" And they both fell about, crying with laughter.

Sometimes I think it would be better if they didn’t give out free alcoholic drinks on the train.