Ooh la la! Un poulet! And other useless French.

I've spent the last six weeks in a quandary. A travel-related quandary.

It started well. A much-missed friend from New York (Barry, who I have seen once in the last four years) got in touch to say he was planning a trip to Paris, and another beloved friend from university (Sarah) moved to Paris, and the planets seemed to align and I thought, "Woo! Weekend in France!"

I had a seductive mental image of myself sitting glamorously on the Eurostar, sipping champagne, wearing big sunglasses and reading poetry. I thought "I'll be an independent gal about town. I'll go to galleries. I'll eat brie for lunch. I'll sit outside cafes and drink espresso, even though I hate it. I'll hire a poodle." I fell a bit in love with this fantasy. I told everyone I was going. And then, from nowhere... I found myself not booking it.

I not-booked it for a month and a half.

At first I avoided thinking about it. Then as the weeks started to fold into each other and Le Grand Weekend was fast approaching, I started to worry. My French is sketchy at best (or should I say, "Mon francais est... er..."). My knowledge of Paris is very minimal. And I'm just a bit of a chicken ("C'est vrai, je suis un poulet").

It's been quite odd. Doing things I find a bit scary gives me a thrill, so for the last six weeks I've been frightened and excited to the point of paralysis.

Finally yesterday it reached a point where I really couldn't stall any more. I wasn't going to be able to book anywhere if I waited any longer. Like pushing myself into the deep end of the pool, I abruptly booked my trains. There was no going back. And today I reserved a room at what looks like a really lovely (and cheap) little hotel.

So that's it. I'm actually going to Paris on my own. Bon. And merde.





Note to self: things I must not do in Paris:

1. Start smoking again.
2. Get lost and burst into tears.
3. Kiss a French boy. (They will only break your heart.)
4. Ask the gendarmerie for directions. (They are police, but they are not 'friendly bobbies'.)
5. Cause a political fracas.
6. Use the word 'hiyaaaaa'.
7. Pretend to have read Le Deuxieme Sexe, even though I do have a French copy of it that I pretentiously bought at a market on the Seine when I was 20.
8. Allow myself to be guilt-tripped into posing for a hideous street portrait. Again.
9. Kiss a French boy.
10. Start smoking again.

Your blog is better than my blog

Oh no... You can always tell when I'm having a busy month because the blog turns into a combination of apologies about the lack of posts and items borrowed from other people's blogs.

And since we're on that subject... here's another one. My First Dictionary is a daily blog of illustrations apparently designed to teach children new words. Except they're all very disturbing. Here's one of my favourites:


...*shudder*. And here's another:

They're not only funny - they're also weirdly moving. Well done someone called Ross Horsley, who is apparently responsible. And sorry for stealing your content for my own currently rather paltry-looking blog. And sorry to my readers for that too.

So on this occasion, I managed to combine the blog theft stuff with an apology. I'm getting good at being bad at blogging.

What a beautiful ornament!

More 'great tips' like this on the hilarious Hero of Switzerland blog (click on 'Top Tips'). Unbelievable.

Something quite special

The good thing about a crap bank holiday weekend is that it's only four days until you get your next weekend to make up for it. And thus we find ourselves on Thursday night already. Hurrah!

The weather is shitty in London. Grey and drizzly - the sort of weather that makes it impossible for me to keep my hair straight, which is a daily source of frustration. But then again, the cherry blossoms have bloomed on my street, and for about 15 seconds when I walk under the trees on my way to or from work, I feel light and blissful.

So here's something else lovely - something that also cheers me up on my way to and from work. A few weeks ago a musician friend in America sent me a song - Met You On A Saturday by Bo Diddley. I've never listened to Bo Diddley before and I had no idea what to expect, but what I got was something beautiful and romantic, which I play every day and which never fails to put a smile on my face (so a big thank you to that friend).

I wanted to direct you to iTunes or Spotify to get hold of this yourself, but it's not available anywhere. I was apprehensive about putting it up on the blog, but my friend tells me that it's such a rare and unknown song that I would be doing Bo Diddley a favour. With that in mind, I present it to you now. I hope you enjoy it as much as I always do.

How am I supposed to get skin cancer under these conditions?

Aren't bank holidays weird? I haven't been a proper part of one for ages, because last May I was more or less unemployed and for the rest of the summer I was doing weird and irregular shifts working on the Big Brother website. In both cases I didn't really have a clue when the weekends were, so all bank holidays meant was that all my friends with normal jobs would bugger off and abandon me for three days.

For those who don't live in the UK, a bank holiday is a day when offices across the country (and banks) shut down and most of us get a day off. They usually fall on a Monday, so you get a long bank holiday weekend. This time, it being Easter, we have Friday and Monday off. In true British tradition, we have been provided with the kind of dreary, useless grey weather that makes you want to go to work.

What a waste. If it were sunny we'd all be out in the park, eating icecreams and burning our noses. That's a proper bank holiday. Sitting indoors squinting at my laptop is not what I had in mind.


I'm supposed to be going out tonight to celebrate this joyous annual occasion of having four days off in a row. I don't even feel like it. It's drizzling. Drizzling. To drink margaritas and wander giggling through Soho would feel wrong under these conditions. I feel I should be snuggling in front of a fire with a large man named Frank. Actually that sounds rather nice, but I don't even know a Frank.

In summary, I didn't know what the big deal was with bank holidays, and now I've truly experienced one, I know that they're bullshit. So thanks, Britain. Thanks.

In other news: yesterday I was standing in my parents' living room holding Milo, who is aged one and has thus far not been very interested in speaking English. As I hovered there with him perched on my hip, the cat moseyed past and Milo pointed at her and said casually, "Pussycat."

The only other person who witnessed this was Jenni, and although she says she heard it too, I think she might be humouring me. My sister doesn't believe me. So I'm recording it here because I know that you, dear readers, will believe me. My nephew is a genius.


*The photos are by Martin Parr. I borrowed them because I think he's wonderful.

And hilarity ensued

Today has been the funniest day I can remember in a long time. Here's why.

1. At lunchtime I discovered this blog, which celebrates the terrible disasters of professional cake-making, and in particular the occasions when bakers misunderstand what the customer is asking for. I laughed so hard I wept. For my birthday I'd like a cake that says something like 'Happy birthday Hattie - can you use low-fat margarine as she's getting a bit chubby' in icing on the top.
2. My delightful colleague Kirsty and I spent much of the day 'jackarsing about'. That's a new phrase she coined - feel free to use it yourself next time you are hiding biscuits from someone, making double entendres and giggling like a teenager.
3. This afternoon Claire accidentally sent an email intended for me to the sales director at her company. He asked her a work question and she responded, "I think I might have a beauty evening this evening. Nails, fake tan etc. xxxx". This tickled me so much that I was snorting like a wild boar for a good 30 minutes afterwards. What did the sales director think she meant by that?! Did he think it was some sort of bizarre attempt at flirting? I love it. I absolutely love it.

I have to go now as my friend is waiting for me at the pub. Just wanted to share the joy with you all. Check out those cakes.

Unnatural acts

I'm trying to eat less. It's not going well. I just followed a lovely healthy salad lunch with crisps and a packet of Minstrels. Bah.

The reason for my new 'eating less' regime (let's not call it a diet) is that I have to walk down the aisle behind Claire in two months, and I don't want my pretty bridesmaid frock to loudly burst open at the seams during the wedding dinner. Or worse, the speeches.

I'm supposed to be starting some exercise soon too (hang on... sorry, I was just a bit sick in my mouth). I'm not really an exercise kind of gal. This morning I bought my first ever sports bra, because two black eyes might ruin the wedding look too (most of you don't know what I look like, but let's just say my body... wasn't built for speed). I'm going to pilates and salsa classes, not that I've actually started either yet. Apparently you're not allowed to drink during pilates, so we'll have to go to the pub after.

Urgh, exercise. Designed to make you feel inadequate and like a poor specimen of humanity. Urgh.