He walked past without even noticing me, clutching her hand as if it was the only thing that was enabling him to get up those stairs. Off they went to the end of year lunch so that everyone could say their goodbyes and wish them well. In my imagination, in my wildest hopes, someone told him to fuck off and die, but if it came from my imagination and my hopes it’s because the person who would have said it would have been me. That’s why I didn’t go. That’s really why I didn’t go. If I told people that it was because they are leaving and let them have their day, it’s because I wasn’t adding the ending. The bit where I smash a bottle and shove it in his neck or her face or... but if I didn’t add that bit, it’s because I didn’t know that I was still so fucking angry. I only realised that as I flipped them the finger.
Still one lunch, and a bit of alcohol later I’m laughing at myself. Somewhere in all this mess there’s still hope. I’m going to find a cute little bachelorette pad, I’m going to have a fucking fantastic holiday and maybe even write a fabulous story or two or three. And then... at some point in the future I’m going to have to let this anger go.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Life is Sweet
Reports are finished, England are through, flat is sold, holiday is booked, four more days to the end of term; life is sweet.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
Une Petite Annonce
Professional Woman seeks a deux piece in Paris. No smaller than 30m2 as it appears she has a lot of accumulated crap. Oh and just in case, if it can have a cave that would be really handy because then if she doesn’t get her act together and sell some of the furniture she’s not going to need she can store them.
She would really like to live in pretty much the same area, across the road, the building next door, anywhere around the Montmartre area, but obviously at the bottom of the hill because she can’t afford to live at the top of the hill. Alternatively she wouldn’t mind going back to the 14th as she already knows of a hairdresser there and wouldn’t have to go through that terrifying ordeal of bad haircuts again. Another alternative is somewhere near a really good Indian restaurant.
She doesn’t want to live in the 19th or 20th because it’s just too damn far away. She’s not really into the 12th either and if it’s the 13th it has to be before Place d’Italie. She doesn’t really like the 15th as most of it is too residential and boring and the 16th should be bombed out of existence along with all the fur coated, poodle bearing, white haired ladies who think that just because of their very existence they should be first for everything. The majority of the 17th, (where she doesn’t live) is a bit like that too but not quite as bad. So that leaves the 1st (ha ha like she's ever gonna find anything in her price range), 2nd (ditto), 3rd (ditto), 4th (ditto), 5th (ditto), 6th (ditto), 7th (ditto), 8th (pushing it), 9th (pushing it) 10th (mmm, would have to do some serious reconnaissance there before I could say for sure), 11th (ditto).
Right that should do it don't you think? I love flat hunting and just to make things really difficult I’m pissing off on holiday right in the middle of it all. Still inadvertently I have done the right thing as the city will be empty July 15th – August 15th whereas I would be here contemplating homelessness and not being able to contact anyone. Meanwhile I need to get my dossier ready, three of this and three of that and this and that and blurgh, blurgh, blurgh, blurgh...
She would really like to live in pretty much the same area, across the road, the building next door, anywhere around the Montmartre area, but obviously at the bottom of the hill because she can’t afford to live at the top of the hill. Alternatively she wouldn’t mind going back to the 14th as she already knows of a hairdresser there and wouldn’t have to go through that terrifying ordeal of bad haircuts again. Another alternative is somewhere near a really good Indian restaurant.
She doesn’t want to live in the 19th or 20th because it’s just too damn far away. She’s not really into the 12th either and if it’s the 13th it has to be before Place d’Italie. She doesn’t really like the 15th as most of it is too residential and boring and the 16th should be bombed out of existence along with all the fur coated, poodle bearing, white haired ladies who think that just because of their very existence they should be first for everything. The majority of the 17th, (where she doesn’t live) is a bit like that too but not quite as bad. So that leaves the 1st (ha ha like she's ever gonna find anything in her price range), 2nd (ditto), 3rd (ditto), 4th (ditto), 5th (ditto), 6th (ditto), 7th (ditto), 8th (pushing it), 9th (pushing it) 10th (mmm, would have to do some serious reconnaissance there before I could say for sure), 11th (ditto).
Right that should do it don't you think? I love flat hunting and just to make things really difficult I’m pissing off on holiday right in the middle of it all. Still inadvertently I have done the right thing as the city will be empty July 15th – August 15th whereas I would be here contemplating homelessness and not being able to contact anyone. Meanwhile I need to get my dossier ready, three of this and three of that and this and that and blurgh, blurgh, blurgh, blurgh...
Thursday, June 22, 2006
The Longest Day of the Year
I know I should be writing reports, but I’m on that kind of adrenalin up/down whatever and I just can’t think about whether Joey has been a communicator or risk-taker right now. So I’ll get this out and then maybe I’ll settle down.
When I began this blog (isn’t that two posts I’ve started like this now!) all I wanted was to book my summer holiday. A combination of extreme weather, natural disasters, terrorist threats and indecision meant that nothing ever got booked. That was until yesterday, the longest day of the year and Fete de la Musique all over France and that is really what I should be writing about except… Well I’ll cut to the chase.
Up until about 1.37 pm yesterday I was doing fine, I was connected to the music, I was in front of my screen with relevant bits of paper on a roll writing reports, water and phone at the ready. No, no the phone thing had already happened by then, but I’m digressing.
OK the phone thing is that a certain unnamed phone company cold called me and told me that I had been selected to get a brand new spanking beautiful phone which did everything except copulate with you and I got a bit excited. Still before getting completely carried away with myself I did haggle them down to the ‘forfait’ (I can’t remember or maybe I never knew the word in English) I wanted, 120 text messages, international calls option, 2 hours, blah de blah de blah and all less than my current forfait. Fantastic! My arse… when the fabulous beauty arrived I wasn’t even allowed to get a sniff of it, first I had to be talked through the forfait options again and that’s when there was a catch. The 120 text messages had shrunk to a mere 20 and I had to pay 10€ extra to get my beloved thumb exercising communication method back. The salesman tried to convince me that he knew of no better forfait and that I couldn’t possibly pay cheaper elsewhere, but I sent him packing cradling my poor physically challenged (the 5 key is very temperamental) cheapo Nokia. Perhaps that should have been a sign that I shouldn’t be doing anything too challenging apart from listening to the music and writing reports.
Except Kimberly arrived telling me that there were NO FLIGHTS WHATSOEVER TO BALI. Strictly speaking that wasn’t true, there were some, they were expensive and they were being booked quick. After texting, phoning and generally causing Estrella to have a stress attack we got her card details off her and trekked off to my pad to do the booking. It was a very complicated affair, I was on the phone to Estrella, Estrella was in her purple spangly belly dancing outfit and Kimberly was doing the booking. She had three web pages opened at the same time and she graciously typed in all the details and everything while Estrella jingled down the phone to me. And then Kimberly pressed Go, go, go. Estrella and I began prematurely singing down the phone: “We’re going to Bali, we’re going to Bali” and meanwhile everything was very quiet from the front room.
“This is a bit weird.” Kimberly said “This has never happened before.”
“What?”
Kimberly laughed, she actually laughed when she told me this. “Well Estrella’s ticket is booked, but on your credit card.”
“WHAT!” That’s the tame version. There was lots of actual real swearing involved and it never stopped, so feel free to insert ‘FUCK’ randomly into the text from now on.
After lots of frantic checking it became apparent that one ticket was booked but on my credit card. So after the last mess up we booked the remaining two tickets ONE AT A TIME. Firstly booking my ticket on Estrella’s credit card; “That’s funny, that flight is cheaper than the last one.” Kimberly said. Then booking Kimberly’s ticket; “Oh, that’s the same price as the second flight. And then we checked all three confirmations and realised that Estrella was going on the 25th and we were going on the 26th. Now would be a good time to insert a FUCK.
We did try calling the airline straight away but of course everyone goes home for tea at FIVE O’CLOCK in the UK. So it was Fete de la Musique after all. We traipsed up the hill, veering from hysterical laughter to glum faces to streams of swearing that would put a trooper to shame. We wandered past the jazz band outside the Mauritian restaurant. We wandered past another jazz band outside another bar. “Oh great,” I grumbled as we came up to the bar where we were meeting Colleen and Siobhan. “We get the shitty percussion band that can’t even play in time.” And I sat down and then it began to rain.
We wandered into the bar and sat at the back and scanned the photos. I kept telling Kimberly that she would see things like that purple flower, that blue God, that huge wood carving in Bali and she could tell me what it was like when she got back. And then I looked and they were all photos of Bali, was this as much as I was doomed to see?
Estrella called after her belly dancing concert and little by little the whole extent of the fuck up slipped out as I wandered past a woman singing the blues on a squealing microphone, a horn band tuning up and finally arrived back at the jazz band who weren’t trusting the brief respite in the rain and were hiding in the Mauritian restaurant instruments firmly packed away.
So Kimberly and I called the airline this morning and within two minutes of trying to explain what had happened the (god damn what do you call a conseilleur in English?) was confused. “Not as confused as we are.” I mumbled.
But the long and the short of it is: WE’RE GOING TO BALI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yeah!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yipee!!!!!!!!!! Hip Hip Hurrah.
We’re still going on different days, but we’re going.
When I began this blog (isn’t that two posts I’ve started like this now!) all I wanted was to book my summer holiday. A combination of extreme weather, natural disasters, terrorist threats and indecision meant that nothing ever got booked. That was until yesterday, the longest day of the year and Fete de la Musique all over France and that is really what I should be writing about except… Well I’ll cut to the chase.
Up until about 1.37 pm yesterday I was doing fine, I was connected to the music, I was in front of my screen with relevant bits of paper on a roll writing reports, water and phone at the ready. No, no the phone thing had already happened by then, but I’m digressing.
OK the phone thing is that a certain unnamed phone company cold called me and told me that I had been selected to get a brand new spanking beautiful phone which did everything except copulate with you and I got a bit excited. Still before getting completely carried away with myself I did haggle them down to the ‘forfait’ (I can’t remember or maybe I never knew the word in English) I wanted, 120 text messages, international calls option, 2 hours, blah de blah de blah and all less than my current forfait. Fantastic! My arse… when the fabulous beauty arrived I wasn’t even allowed to get a sniff of it, first I had to be talked through the forfait options again and that’s when there was a catch. The 120 text messages had shrunk to a mere 20 and I had to pay 10€ extra to get my beloved thumb exercising communication method back. The salesman tried to convince me that he knew of no better forfait and that I couldn’t possibly pay cheaper elsewhere, but I sent him packing cradling my poor physically challenged (the 5 key is very temperamental) cheapo Nokia. Perhaps that should have been a sign that I shouldn’t be doing anything too challenging apart from listening to the music and writing reports.
Except Kimberly arrived telling me that there were NO FLIGHTS WHATSOEVER TO BALI. Strictly speaking that wasn’t true, there were some, they were expensive and they were being booked quick. After texting, phoning and generally causing Estrella to have a stress attack we got her card details off her and trekked off to my pad to do the booking. It was a very complicated affair, I was on the phone to Estrella, Estrella was in her purple spangly belly dancing outfit and Kimberly was doing the booking. She had three web pages opened at the same time and she graciously typed in all the details and everything while Estrella jingled down the phone to me. And then Kimberly pressed Go, go, go. Estrella and I began prematurely singing down the phone: “We’re going to Bali, we’re going to Bali” and meanwhile everything was very quiet from the front room.
“This is a bit weird.” Kimberly said “This has never happened before.”
“What?”
Kimberly laughed, she actually laughed when she told me this. “Well Estrella’s ticket is booked, but on your credit card.”
“WHAT!” That’s the tame version. There was lots of actual real swearing involved and it never stopped, so feel free to insert ‘FUCK’ randomly into the text from now on.
After lots of frantic checking it became apparent that one ticket was booked but on my credit card. So after the last mess up we booked the remaining two tickets ONE AT A TIME. Firstly booking my ticket on Estrella’s credit card; “That’s funny, that flight is cheaper than the last one.” Kimberly said. Then booking Kimberly’s ticket; “Oh, that’s the same price as the second flight. And then we checked all three confirmations and realised that Estrella was going on the 25th and we were going on the 26th. Now would be a good time to insert a FUCK.
We did try calling the airline straight away but of course everyone goes home for tea at FIVE O’CLOCK in the UK. So it was Fete de la Musique after all. We traipsed up the hill, veering from hysterical laughter to glum faces to streams of swearing that would put a trooper to shame. We wandered past the jazz band outside the Mauritian restaurant. We wandered past another jazz band outside another bar. “Oh great,” I grumbled as we came up to the bar where we were meeting Colleen and Siobhan. “We get the shitty percussion band that can’t even play in time.” And I sat down and then it began to rain.
We wandered into the bar and sat at the back and scanned the photos. I kept telling Kimberly that she would see things like that purple flower, that blue God, that huge wood carving in Bali and she could tell me what it was like when she got back. And then I looked and they were all photos of Bali, was this as much as I was doomed to see?
Estrella called after her belly dancing concert and little by little the whole extent of the fuck up slipped out as I wandered past a woman singing the blues on a squealing microphone, a horn band tuning up and finally arrived back at the jazz band who weren’t trusting the brief respite in the rain and were hiding in the Mauritian restaurant instruments firmly packed away.
So Kimberly and I called the airline this morning and within two minutes of trying to explain what had happened the (god damn what do you call a conseilleur in English?) was confused. “Not as confused as we are.” I mumbled.
But the long and the short of it is: WE’RE GOING TO BALI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yeah!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yipee!!!!!!!!!! Hip Hip Hurrah.
We’re still going on different days, but we’re going.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Alternative Entertainment
This week Shakespeare and Company have been running their second literary festival entitled: Travel in Words. It started on Thursday, but as I had to go and watch the football I didn’t make it then and last night was the Flamenco Evening organised by Anne, so I didn’t make it yesterday either, but today I got there. You could say that all in all it’s been quite a cultural few days!
Anyway, Claire and I went to see Tim Parks talk about Travelling and Settling, Different Visions of the Same Country. I chose his talk as I felt it was an issue that I have been wrestling with for a while, but then after I read his little blurb in the programme I realised I had actually read one of his novels: Europa. He raised quite a few issues about travel writers and the difference with those who settle in one place. He didn’t answer any questions that I have been asking myself, rather posed more questions, but I would certainly like to read more of his stuff and that’s partly why I won’t tell you anymore about his talk, go read it yourself. He’ll tell you a good few tales and obviously can do it better than me.
So I’m not really a person who has the attention span for lectures, so I spent a lot of the time staring out at the Park Rene Viviani planning pictures I would like to take afterwards and gazing at Notre Dame until the SDF (Sans domicile fixe) arrived announcing he had a drink.
There’s something about Shakespeare and Company talks and readings that attract the SDF. A few years ago on a humid summer evening, in conjunction with Ambit a few Writer’s came over to Paris to read their work. During one particularly bad reading, a lanky dreadlocked bearded drunk ambled over to see what we were all sitting intently looking at. I have to admit at this stage I was looking intently at the drunk and his hilarious method of rolling about from side to side looking as if he was about to topple over before miraculously righting himself. The twee middle-class accent droned on and on about this lurid scene in a Laundrette and little by little I realised that the new hush that had descended over the audience was due to the drunk’s antics in the background. His next trick involved cupping his hand under the drinking fountain so that the water sprayed over the authors waiting to read. A wave of repressed smiles spread over the audience who could see this and those who had their back to the drunk looked up bemused at this sudden downpour. But still the voice droned on. Eventually after a few minutes of spraying the organiser spotted the drunk and hurriedly marched off to deal with him. The drunk realising that he was caught did a slapstick jump and scuttled off to the little park, but not for long. Next he came back with his rucksack; perhaps he was interested in the story. He dumped it by the fountain and did a few comedy leans where he missed the fountain, catching himself before he fell over. By now the organiser was practically apoplectic that he was getting more attention than the writer. The drunk scuttled away again and this time came back with a can of beer. He did a rather debonair two footed leap over the chains linking two bollards but this time his timing was askew, one foot caught on the chain and he came lurching forward his beer hand stopping him from crashing to the floor. A gasp emanated from the crowd. Unfortunately his can had not come off so well and a stream of beer shot up into the air drenching the reading writer. This time we couldn’t suppress the giggles and no amount of waving from the organiser could rid us of the drunk, he was desperately trying to catch the stream of beer before it all gushed away.
This year’s heckler didn’t get so much audience time. Well not until Parks was trying to explain the rivalry between Verona and Vincentia (hope the spelling is right) football clubs and let forth a stream of Italian obscenities which spread far and wide over the little garden. This was too much for the heckler; he stalked back with his bottle in hand and chastised Parks and his foul mouth very loudly from the back of the tent.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Paranoia
Do you ever get that slightly paranoid feeling that people take one look at you and think you are completely bonkers?
Today was one of those rare moments when I felt like ignoring my usual casual sloppy look and dressing up. The white and black flowery Zara skirt came out the wardrobe, I put on a necklace and bracelet and then to finish it off I shunned the clod hopper DM sandals and went for my extremely impractical high heel wedges. I bought them last year in a fit of madness; I discovered that while they were great for getting me up the hill for those late evening summer drinks getting back down the hill was hugely problematic. I had to do it barefoot once (dodging all the dog poo – niiice) and there after I shoved my flip flops in my bag for the journey home. But I can never quite finish it off, I couldn’t be bothered to wash my hair so I braided them into a pair of pig tails and off I tottered extremely slowly.
After coming back from lunch –safe in the knowledge that I had now learned to walk in these damn shoes – I discovered that as promised Derek had brought in a Basil plant for me. I took it upstairs terrified that I might drop it and deposited it safely on my desk then e mailed Derek to ask for specific notes on how to care for the thing. He had grown it from a seed so I don’t want to kill it straight away do I?
As I left work I fully intended to look for a plastic bag to put the plant in, but I got distracted by Colleen who was looking through photos of last week’s trip and then Derek turned up and began repeating the care tips for the plant and before I knew it I was tottering away with the plant carefully cradled in my hand.
Then as I was changing lines there was a bit of a wait so I sat on a bench still lovingly cradling the plant and out of the corner of my eye I saw an elderly gentleman surveying me with a bemused look on his face. He was trying to hide it, but he was looking very carefully; from the tree tattoo on my ankle to the flowery skirt, the flowery handbag and then the plant clutched in my hand. All of a sudden the image of that woman who walked around cradling her log in Twin Peaks flashed into my mind. Am I being paranoid?
Today was one of those rare moments when I felt like ignoring my usual casual sloppy look and dressing up. The white and black flowery Zara skirt came out the wardrobe, I put on a necklace and bracelet and then to finish it off I shunned the clod hopper DM sandals and went for my extremely impractical high heel wedges. I bought them last year in a fit of madness; I discovered that while they were great for getting me up the hill for those late evening summer drinks getting back down the hill was hugely problematic. I had to do it barefoot once (dodging all the dog poo – niiice) and there after I shoved my flip flops in my bag for the journey home. But I can never quite finish it off, I couldn’t be bothered to wash my hair so I braided them into a pair of pig tails and off I tottered extremely slowly.
After coming back from lunch –safe in the knowledge that I had now learned to walk in these damn shoes – I discovered that as promised Derek had brought in a Basil plant for me. I took it upstairs terrified that I might drop it and deposited it safely on my desk then e mailed Derek to ask for specific notes on how to care for the thing. He had grown it from a seed so I don’t want to kill it straight away do I?
As I left work I fully intended to look for a plastic bag to put the plant in, but I got distracted by Colleen who was looking through photos of last week’s trip and then Derek turned up and began repeating the care tips for the plant and before I knew it I was tottering away with the plant carefully cradled in my hand.
Then as I was changing lines there was a bit of a wait so I sat on a bench still lovingly cradling the plant and out of the corner of my eye I saw an elderly gentleman surveying me with a bemused look on his face. He was trying to hide it, but he was looking very carefully; from the tree tattoo on my ankle to the flowery skirt, the flowery handbag and then the plant clutched in my hand. All of a sudden the image of that woman who walked around cradling her log in Twin Peaks flashed into my mind. Am I being paranoid?
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