travelling, but not in love

senior dancers and serial killers

2011-02-07T20:15:00.001+01:00

So you may recall it was recently my Mother’s seventieth birthday for which a big old family party was organised.

I say ‘you may recall’ in the hope that you read and remembered this fact from the farting in John Lewis part of the story.

Anyway, the party was on the Saturday evening and by the time I arrived from Paris all of the family was in chaos busily organising their individual part of the party project. Now, trying to organise my family is a bit like herding cats – nigh on impossible. However, it seems that on this occasion they managed to get their shit together and throw a decent event.

The evening was a lot of fun – despite the location. My brother had chosen a social club on the edge of town which left a lot to be desired. At least they turned most of the lights off so that the ugliness of the room was largely hidden.

With the mood lighting on and the buffet table laid the scene was set for the upcoming and rather surprising spectacle of ‘older’ drunk people.

Now I’m not a teenager myself, but the majority of these folks had a good twenty years on me. And I’m not passing judgement nor am I saying that being oldezr and drunk is wrong. I’m really not. But some of them…..

For example my mom’s ex-colleague. 62 years old, dancing with legs splayed to some awful reggae number (I do believe it was Eddie Grant’s “classic” Electric Avenue) going up and down like a good soul sister. My mother, God bless her, did eventually go over and ask her if she’d like a pole, such was the erotic nature of the dance.

Then there was an old family friend that I haven’t seen for at least fifteen years who refused to believe that I was me. On the basis that the last time she saw me there was no beard. Really? Yes, really.

But the highlight for me was my drunken Aunt. My mom’s sister, seventy three years old and a national treasure.

Halfway through the evening she spotted “Sheila” dancing along to a bit of Kylie wearing (and I kid ye not) gold lamé flares, a red shirt and a black crochet throw/wrap/scarf/debacle.

“What the fuck is Sheila wearing?” said my Aunt, making me choke on my pint of bitter.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” she continued.

“Of course you can” said I, my life being a fairly open book.

She beckoned me to a quiet corner.

“Tell me, do you think that Shrien Dewani is, you know…..a gay?”

“You mean the british bloke who killed his new bride on honeymoon in South Africa?”

“Yes…do you?”

“I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”

“Well, you know,” she slurred “I was wondering if you’d (at this point she winked comically) ‘heard’ anything”.

“Like on the gay network?” I asked.

“Well, yes” said my Aunt. “On your gaydar”.

Do you have this dress in 'raspberry'?

2011-01-31T18:50:00.004+01:00

My Mom, having fallen over just before her birthday thus damaging her leg to the point of not being very mobile was now officially in a panic.

Her birthday party was two days away and I'd promised to take her shopping for a new dress. I arrived in town on the friday morning and we'd have all of the afternoon to find something.

But it seems that it wasn't the time constraint that was worrying her - it was more that she didn't know how she'd get along in the fitting rooms. As I'm the only one who can go and help her - yep, just me - and I'm a boy and therefore not allowed in english women's fitting rooms (who makes these rules?) then she'd be on her own to get in and out of frocks. Impossible.

So, being a bright soul as well as a good son I came up with the solution. You knew I would, right?

I booked her an appointment with the personal shopper in the local big department store. This meant that someone else would trawl the rails whilst me and mother could sip champagne in the trying-on 'suite'.

And very fancy it was too. Big comfy sofa's, loads of room to help an old lady in and out of her clothes - and a big rack full of dresses that fitted the description that my Mom had given the personal shopper over the phone that morning.

The personal shopper - called Rosemary - was as you'd imagine. Fortysomething, very glamorous in a high fashion kind of way. Perfectly coiffed, nails a-painted and tip top maquillage to boot.

I did think to myself "maybe she's born with it?" but figured it had to be Maybelline.

Anyway, I drink champagne, Mom tries on dresses, Rosemary prepares the next outfit.

An hour into proceedings and Mother has successfully wriggled her way into a very tight Paul Smith number and is now struggling to get out of it.

In a very inelegant scene, she has the skirt of the dress over her head and I'm pulling to try and release her.

Obviously she starts to giggle.

Giggling becomes laughing and laughing soon turns to exhaustion.

She edges backwards, finds the dressing room stool and sits down, with the dress still over her head.

And as she sits, she farts.

Loud. Long. Farts.

As the tears stream down my cheeks, all I can see of my Mom is a floral mess in the corner shaking uncontrollably.

I can see Rosemary, perfectly fashionable and superbly stylish Rosemary, out of the corner of my eye.

What on earth must she think of us?

"Are you sure that frock's a Paul Smith?" said our personal shopper. "Only, it sounds to me like it could be a Windsmoor"

the bunny that bugs me

2011-01-29T11:46:00.002+01:00

Within the space of thirty minutes I'd been asked for a cigarette twice, for a light once, directions three times and one girl asked if she could use my mobile phone. Yep, this is what happens when you're standing on the street corner waiting in Paris.

I don't know what it is with the French but you know what? If you smoke, bring cigarettes. Bring a lighter. Be more organised. Like the scandinavians.

That said, I was waiting and waiting and waiting outside this damn metro station because my very organised and never late scandinavian princess friend - let's call her Miss Norway (everybody does) - was late. LATE! For the first time ever, Miss Norway was late.

She's never late.

But she had an excuse. She'd been performing ritual fellatio on her very lovely husband just before leaving the house and he'd ruined her hair. So a return trip to the bathroom was needed in order to return her do to the seventies disco joy that is her pride and joy.

So she turned up and we headed off to the birthday party of our friend, The Lapin. We call him The Lapin because of his obsession with small cuddly boys (which we call rabbits in French - don't ask me why). So he's obsessed with lapins, so we call him The Lapin. Jeez we're hilarious.

Anyway, the Lapin, despite his preference for the small and cuddly boys, has a thing for me. And it's kind of over the top and a bit embarrassing.

"So, you and your husband?" he asked me at the party. "You know, when it's over with him, me and you - we're let's go ding ding fuck fuck marry".

Yes, this is actually what he said. In a thick thick french accent. ye gods.

But the thing is, The Lapin is a new gay. At the tender age of 35 he's finally come out - to himself, to his family, to his friends, to the world. And now he's like a child in a sweetshop. Wants to touch everything, taste everything. It's exhausting.

I met him in a bar a while back and we've become good friends really. However, I have an issue with him and my friends. Problem is, he sees them as some kind of gay shooting range. Where he can work on his skills before heading out into the real world.

Thing is, he's handsome and he's sexy. And he goes for it. He's very seductive, charming and not afraid of the killer question. My friends love him. A bit too much.

In the last three months, I've introduced him to a dozen or so friends of mine - and he's slept with at least ten of them.

But every time he rings me afterwards and says "but it wasn't you, you know. Me and you - basta!" God help me.

Anyway, last night he left with a German friend of Miss Norway. Neither of them spoke the other one's language but Lapin had been admiring the German's biceps all night (I actually caught him licking the poor Frankfurter's arm at one point) and I think they'd worked out what each was after.

Seeing them leave last night, Miss Norway turned to me.

"Fucking fantastic" she said.

"What's that?"

"He's been through your lot like a dose of salts, now he's starting on my friends!"

There's only one thing for it. We need to find more friends.

As Miss Norway says - "It's like feeding a Rottweiler - you keep them full up so that they don't attack you...."

Barcelona by night

2011-01-21T00:23:00.001+01:00

I left my job on the day of my birthday, July 31. It was a big day that came with a big cheque. And quite rightly so too. I spent my birthday with friends in Paris then jumped on a plane to Barcelona. I wanted to blow away some cobwebs, change my surroundings for a while and to get some sunshine.

So, it was with images of Almodovar films in my head that I flew south to catch up with an old friend (an old flame who had since gone straight) in the Catalan capital.

We were to spend just a week enjoying the city, the beach, the tapas y canas. And we did just that. We spent our days admiring our fellow beach-bodies and the evenings drinking and eating and chatting about how we missed our significant others.

Leaving the city, we passed two lovely days sailing a friend's cruiser in and out of the coves between Figuèrès and the French border. We slept on board in a small cabin, like two puppies in a basket. But it was just friendship - old, unchallenged friendship.

On our final night in Barcelona we went out clubbing, and ended up - with it being sunday night and all - in the strangest of clubs, the only place we could find open at five am.

Like many european gay clubs, the place had a dark room. A place where anonymous encounters can be had for the brave, the curious and the foolhardy. Being all three - and not a little bit drunk - I went to have a look. Well you don't look as it's so dark - it's more like going to have a feel.

And feel is what happened.

I stood leaning my drunken body against the wall and felt, as is normal practice, a hand touch my crotch.

I reached out and found a pleasantly shaped body. The hand started to stroke my afore mentioned body area.

Before I knew it, there were zips unzipping and buttons unbuttoning and some serious drunken passion was unfolding. It seemed like an appropriate way to end an otherwise sexless vacation. Anonymous pleasure, finding your way around an unknown body in the dark. It was hot and it was sexy. Things took their natural course and soon passion was replaced by a more relaxed intimacy.

As I stoked the hairy, muscled chest in front of me, the body's head moved in towards my neck. Yes, like in a vampire movie. A gay vampire movie.

"Vous êtes d'ici?" the head asked me, in French - "are you from here?".

"No," I replied in French, "I'm english but visiting from Paris"

"Hmm" the head replied "you have a jolie accent."

A moment's silence.

"Do you know Michel et Carl?" Now, I've changed the names to protect the guilty, but this pairing of names only belongs to one couple - my good old parisian friends, the Fierce People. This person knew the Fiercies. Ye gods.

"Yes……." I said.

"So it IS you!" said the head, excitedly. "Mais, it is ME! Jérémy!!!!!"

And so it was. It was Jérémy. A guy that I knew quite well - and who's boyfriend I knew better. As a couple they were a fixture at the fiercies' parties and soirées. I also knew that they had just split up. Seems Jérémy had headed south to get himself some rebound action.

"So, how are you?" I said. Not sure what else to say.

"I am fine,", Jérémy replied, "I am here to shag that bastard out of my head".

Nice.

"Well you're in the right place to do that" I said. "But maybe you should start by taking your hand off my dick".

Yep, this whole time, he'd still been working the magic, and it had started to get a little bit uncomfortable.

"Oh, you are SO eeenglish!" he said. And, with one final squeeze, he was gone, vanished into the darkness.

The next day, with my friend already well on his way to the airport, I was stood in the hotel room with my bags packed, waiting for a bellboy to come carry them down for me.

I rang husband, le Fabuleux Parisien.

"I don't want to come home just yet. I'm enjoying Barcelona." I said. "The weather is so good, the beach is fabulous, the food……"

"I'll call you back," FP replied, "don't go anywhere".

Ten minutes later, he rang.

"I arrive at ten to nine tonight - can the hotel send someone to the airport to collect me?"

And that's how I ended up spending almost a month in Barcelona. We just kept on postponing our return to Paris. It was the best month, the best summer, the best holiday.

It was a sunny Friday evening when we eventually arrived back in Paris.

We deposited our bags at home and headed off to dinner chez the Fierce People. As we walked into their 'salon', I saw a familiar figure lounging on a sofa.

Jérémy.

He looked at me nervously, surprised to see me.

"I believe you know each other" said the American Fiercy.

"Oh yes", said I. "We came across each other in Barcelona…."

Bambi's best friend

2011-01-18T00:01:00.001+01:00

I rang my Mom from Sydney airport - with one flight behind me and two flights yet to go - to just let her know that I'd be out of contact for the next 30 hours.

"Oh don't worry about me" she said "The man next door can always wheel me over to the shops if I need anything".

Did she say 'wheel me'? Really?

Seems that, what with all the snow and ice on the ground, my Mother had fallen over. Inside the house. Well, it was more of a sideways roll as she fell from a kneeling position whilst lacing her snow boots up. Anyway, it was enough to give her some serious deep tissue damage and put her in a wheelchair.

So I land back in Paris, kiss my husband, have a few drinks with friends and then hop on a small (and imperfectly formed) CityJet plane bound for chez ma mère - with a bag full of nursing supplies and a uniform to go with.

It was supposed to be a three day trip.

I ended up postponing my flight twice.

By the time I had delayed my return the second time I was actually getting cabin fever. I don't mind being woken up at 4 am because she's fallen on her way to the bathroom and can't get up again. I don't mind making three meals a day and endless cups of tea. But I just couldn't stand another evening of Bargain Hunt and Cash in the Attic on tv.

I needed me some fun.

So, I did what all thoroughly modern boys do these and cracked open the iphone. Now many of you will be familiar with the concept of Grindr or Scruff. For those who aren't, they're iphone apps that use GPS to it's best advantage - in order to tell you who is looking for a casual hook up and how many kilometres they are from you.

I know, it sounds seedy and often is, but it's a major breakthrough for the travelling gays. It got me some of the best sex I'd ever had last summer in Barcelona when, with husband sleeping off the previous nights excess, I managed to hook up with a very handsome man from the island of Madeira who happened to have the room directly above ours.

Anyway, I reached for Scruff - where the men are manlier - and took a flick through what was on offer.

Having made my selection, I told my Mom that I was heading out to "see a friend" and, snatching her car keys off the hook, made a run for the door.

The man in question was only 500 metres away, as promised. Literally, two streets away. And he was ready and waiting. He was as advertised - handsome, hairy of chest, strong of arm and not overly chatty. What he had omitted to say was that he was a thumper.

As I moved in for the kill, I grazed his nipple with my hand. Thump thump thump.

"What the fuck was that?"

"My leg".

Hmm.

I kissed him on the neck and there it went again. Thump thump thump.

Seems that whenever I touched a sensitive part of his body, he had an uncontrollable reaction - to thump the floor (if standing) or to shake his leg (if lying down). It was like fucking Thumper.

What can I say, Dear Reader? It was disconcerting. It was a reaction that I've never seen before in my life - and hope to never encounter again.

As he shuddered to his foot stomping, leg pumping, knee knocking climax I was relieved it was over.

I'm going back to Mom's again this week.

I'll be avoiding his part of the magic forest.

new year, new rules, new me, new directions

2011-01-17T15:32:00.002+01:00

So, like so many bloggers, I've chosen the month of January to re-connect with my former blogging self.

To be perfectly frank and honest, I'd kind of gotten bored of the blog. I was busy everywhere else in life and had gotten a bit blog-weary. But I have to admit it, I missed blogging. I missed the creative outlet, I missed the daily routine of it and most of all I missed the constant adulation by people who I've never met. Jeez, where else do you get that kind of ego boost?

Anyway, here I am and I'm planning to post regularly. Just, you know, don't hold me to anything. Let's take it a day at a time and see where we go from here.

First post will be tomorrow folks, come back and see it. It involves extra marital sex and thumper the rabbit. You have been warned.....

cut off in my prime

2010-07-13T02:39:00.002+02:00

I love technology.

I hate technology.

Depending on the day/hour/minute either or both of the both can apply.

Saturday I headed from Paris to Newark NJ on the big bird of Air France. The lovely people at Air France and CDG airport managed to get together and come up with a 90 minute delay as a leaving gift for me. Which was nice.

So landing in EWR already late, it was with much happiness and smiling that I welcomed the news that another aircraft was parked at our stand and wouldn't be moving for at least 30 minutes.

So much for my decision to bring cabin bags only. Like that saved me any time at all.

Anyway, technology. Upon landing (late) at EWR, I switched on my iphone. It found me AT&T and T Mobile. Quite the choice.

However, it refused to connect me to either.

I tried every trick in the book during the wait for the stand, the queue for immigration, during the line to collect my rental car. I carried on trying whilst sat in the queue for the Holland Tunnel. Whilst waiting to check in to my hotel.

By the time I got to my room, I was distraught. How to tell friends that I was in town? How to set up a date for the night? How to give out my number to hot guys. Oh yeah, and how to ring my husband to let him know I'd arrived safely.

There was nothing for it but to jump in a cab and head north. To the Apple store, driver, and don't spare the ponies....

Well, let's just say that my visit to the church of the holy pomme was less than a religious experience. I left the underground chapel of the apple with a phone that not only no longer worked, but that now had no photo's, no contacts, zero music and zero apps. Yep, they wiped the fucker.

Back at the hotel and with the world of technology and jetlag working against me, I attached the phone to my macbook and set it to restore before flopping on my bed.

I fell asleep hoping that things would sort themselves out.

I woke up with the sure fire knowledge that they had.

How did I know that my phone had reconnected to a network?

It would be the three am ringing, beeping and buzzing of the numerous 'where are you?' emails, texts, voicemails and facebook messages coming in from the ether.

Yep, I had reconnected.

Yep, I had woken up.

Nope, I didn't get back to sleep.

Yep, I hate technology.

The Canadians are coming

2010-07-09T10:10:00.002+02:00

So I'm sat at my desk at work yesterday and in a dull moment, I decide to log on to a chat site that I visit from time to time.

Now, one of the guys I chat with is from Toronto and (promise) I was initially attracted to the photo's he'd posted of his art. The fact that he's as handsome as a handsome thing didn't hurt either. Anyway, we're both happily married men and so we chat about fairly mundane things but enjoy each other's virtual company.

So yesterday when logging on I get a message from him:

"Husband is in Paris with work and is bored to bits. Can you call him and take him to a bar or two please? Here's his number....."

And, being a good virtual friend, that's exactly what I did.

That's how, at ten pm I found myself at the entrance to the BHV greeting a very handsome Canadian guy. Now we're talking handsome here. Really handsome. Kind of 'be still my beating heart' handsome.

He was blond, stocky, big arms and shoulders, and a hairy chest showing at the top of his t-shirt.

Knowing how in love this couple is, I didn't dare get too excited. But excited I was.

So anyway, we meet up with a couple of my friends - the fiercies - and we get some drinks inside us. We start with chatting at the Freedj - my bar du choix. We then head on over to the Raidd bar to watch the boys dancing naked in the showers. Classy, right?

Anyway, it's whilst at the Raidd bar that Canadian Boy receives an SMS, looks at it, giggles and then turns to me and says "do you and FP have an open relationship?"

I splutter my beer over him, recover and try to be cool when I tell him that we do - but that we have no secrets. If we sleep with someone else it's allowed as long as the other one gets told about it.

"Yeah, me and hubby have the same deal" he said. And he showed me the text message that he'd just received from his husband.

It read "If he's that hot then you should absolutely go for it. And send me the photo's"

Now, beyond that what can I tell you? You know where this is going, right?

I mean, I could tell you about how we ended up in a sexclub. How we grabbed ourselves a cubicle. How it was the most amazing, passionate, dirty, refreshing sex I've had in a long time.

I could go on at length about his arms, his chest, his ass.

I could turn the whole encounter into a work of literature of epic proportions.

I could do all this, but I won't. I'll spare all of our blushes.

I'll just say 'hot damn' and 'God bless Canada' and 'oh my oh my oh my' and leave the rest to your imaginations.

But as a word of warning - be careful who you ask to look after your husband when he's away from home. You never know where it could all end up....

oh my God, oh my God, oh my God

2010-03-08T11:29:00.005+01:00

"Is that? It is! It is! Oh my God!"

This is the sound I made, having seen one of my all-time idols in the flesh. In fact, on a chilly sunday afternoon, in the middle of the 13th arrondissement, I ended up seeingtwo people that I *almost* worship and one that scares me to death but who I would LOVE to be.

It happened like this.

"I have a surprise for you on Sunday afternoon". This is how le FP started my weekend.

"Tell me", I demanded. I hate surprises.

"Nope, you'll see" and he kept schtum from that moment on.

Four o'clock Sunday afternoon arrives and he tells me we're leaving in 30 minutes. He also tells me to dress 'fashion fashion fashion'. Shit, I hate it when he does this to me. What on earth to wear?

So I rustle up an outfit - Jacket by Francesco Smalto, sweater by Massimo Dutti, t-shirt from Armani, jeans by Levis and fabulous silver Nikes - and fix my ever growing hair.

We jump on the scooter and head off - in the opposite direction of anything that is fashion in Paris. I figured we'd be heading to the avenue Montaigne, to the Faubourg St. Honoré, to the Place Vendôme. Instead, we headed out of town and crossed the Seine on the pont de Bercy (still one of my favourites of all the Seine bridges).

He pulled up outside a dubious looking venue in the 13th. The venue was somewhat enhanced, however, by the presence of paparazzi and limousines. And a crowd of gawping public.

With a flourish, he produced an invitation - written on a pirate's treasure map, no less - and whisked me through the crowd and past the security.

"What the fuck...?!?" said I, still unsure of what was going on. It being Paris Fashion Week, I figured it was a show - but whose?

"It's John Galliano, baby" said le FP. Oh my. I love Galliano. This was going to be special.

We made our way into the venue and were stood chatting with a friend who we'd bumped into when it happened.

Now, this never happens to me. I see famous people and I'm rarely impressed - I think it's funny, exciting, but never does my heart stop. But this time it did.

"Excuse me" I heard a gruff voice say, and a security guard tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to see that he was making way so that they could pass.

Who are they, I hear you ask.

Well, I turned and there she was. My heroine. My idol. The grande dame herself.

Grace. Coddington.

Mon dieu. My God. Mon gode.

And walking ahead of her was her nemesis. The Ice Queen extraordinaire.

Anna. Wintour.

Oh. My. Wet. Pants.

I grabbed le FP's hand and squeezed. He looked at me and we knew that both of us had just had one of those moments that you never forget.

I didn't know what to say. This was like the September Issue but for real. Oh my goodness.

"Our life is amazing" said le FP. He's not wrong.

We took our seats (third row, alas) and waited.

Then the chaos descended.

Lindsay Lohan was ushered into the front row directly ahead of us and the paparazzi descended.

It was craziness. Push, shove, Lindsay! Lindsay! Over here Lindsay! push, shove. Madness.

And then they stopped and turned.

I stopped. I turned. I nearly fucking fainted.

And there she was, walking in like the Queen of Fucking Everything. Beautiful, too beautiful.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you....Beth Ditto.

And that was the moment where I started to breathe again and thought to myself, "How is this my life. How is this what I do on a sunday afternoon?"

Reader, I don't know the answer, but I do know that I'm a very happy boy.

And a very lucky one at that.

curious questions #2

2010-02-08T14:04:00.002+01:00

So, I was on the métro heading home the other evening. The train was full, rammed, blindé.

I hate it when the train is full - I'm always thinking that I'll get my wallet stolen, so I tread a fine line between keeping my hand on my pocket and holding on to a 'grippe-A'-infested handrail.

At Hôtel de Ville, a guy got on and came to stand next to me.

Well, I say he came to stand next to me - he actually had little choice, it was the only space available. And he didn't stand next to me, so much as stand against me.

I looked up to see who had suddenly squashed up against me. It turned out to be a well built, hairy, well-dressed bear of a man. As I looked at him, he chose the same moment to look at me and there was an uncomfortable moment when eye-contact was briefly made.

Well, it was uncomfortable for me - it's just not the done thing - but for him it seemed to be the opposite.

"Bonsoir" he said, cracking me quite the grin.

"Bonsoir", I replied, looking away.

Two stops later, the train pulled out of Bastille station. We both looked up at the same time, again.

"Where are you getting off at?" He asked.

"Quoi?" said I. "What?"

"Which station are you getting off at?"

"Gare de Lyon", I replied. The next stop.

"That's a shame" said the bear. "I'm staying on until Vincennes".

And with that, the train pulled in to my station. I stepped out and gave a backwards glance at the guy.

He once again cracked that big smile and winked. Yes, he winked at me.

Nice to know the old magic is still there, but I have one question - how did he know I'd be interested in what he was offering?

Hmm. Could it be because when he purposefully pushed his crotch into my wallet-protecting hand after saying bonsoir, I didn't pull away? I may even have pushed back a little.

Yeah, thinking about it, that might be what gave the game away...

curious questions #1

2010-02-03T13:14:00.003+01:00

A couple of days ago, I left le FP on the sofa and headed out in search of a taxi to take me to meet friends for a drink in the Marais.

It was nearly one a.m. and I asked the taxi driver to drop me on the corner of rue du Temple and rue Ste Croix de la Bretonnerie. This is an intersection where you'll find at least five gay bars within twenty metres. It's kind of poofy like that.

"You smell like basil" said the taxi driver as I settled into his cab.

"Really?" said I, a little taken aback.

"Yeah, like a bowl of pasta" he replied.

"Good enough to eat?" I ventured, jokingly.

"Well, erm, maybe" he replied, definitely uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken.

"le Marais is full of queers you know" said the taxi driver.

"Really?" I said. "You do surprise me."

"Are you gay?" he asked.

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, you don't look gay but you're going to the Marais at this time of night".

"Well," I said, "I'm not gay, but my boyfriend is." I nearly pissed myself laughing at how funny I found this.

"I don't understand" said the taxi driver.

"Never mind" said I. "Probably best if you just concentrate on driving".

New friends, flat packs and fisting

2010-01-28T16:01:00.008+01:00

I hate Ikea.

I don't object to their furniture. I don't object to their meatballs. I don't object to their stupid names for things.

I just detest the whole experience.

Traipsing out to an industrial wasteland on the edge of town.

Feeling depressed by the people running out of the store clutching 2 euro vases that they think hold the secret to happiness.

Trying to find an 'assistant' to 'assist'.

The fact that you can't get in and out in fifteen minutes.

So, it was with a heavy heart that I accepted le FP's request to go to Ikea last night. We've needed new wardrobes for, like, ever and last night a friend was offering to take us out there in his car. We couldn't really say no.

The friend is a guy who le FP knows vaguely and I know even less well. I have a feeling he's after a threesome. He keeps on doing us both favours and turning up at the house with gifts for us. Anyway, I digress.

We don't know him that well, but last time I saw him, he was in a bar wearing 'military' gear (i.e. a camouflage jacket, a khaki string vest and green make up on his cheeks) and heading off to a 'specialist' evening in a salle de fêtes in the suburbs.

He spent the entire journey recounting his evening at the 'Soirée Cuir, Latex, Uniforme'. Now, these kind of salles de fêtes cater to marriages, funerals and barmitzvahs - you know the kind of establishment.

What they'll have thought of this fetish evening, God only knows.

Apparently, there was pubic shaving, various swings and glory holes and - la pièce de résistance - a 'fisting podium'. But again, I digress.

We arrive at Ikea and I'm hungry. Three 50 cent hot dogs (that's how much they cost, they're not designed by the rapper) later and I'm still starving, but more willing to take on the behemoth of a store.

Actually it turns out that this Ikea is no behemoth. In fact, it's positively rikiki, the smallest Ikea on earth, quite possibly.

Nonetheless, we still manage to lose three hours within those hellish yellow and blue walls.

The friend has turned up wearing some god awful outfit that includes a badge that reads 'be happy'. I'm not sure if this is a reminder to himself or what, but he's just lost his job so I can only think it's some kind of motivational device. Anyway, he's so badly dressed that le FP and I are very happy when we manage to give him the slip somewhere behind the Billy bookcases.

He finds us again as we are busy choosing our wardrobes. He listens to us rant and wail about how the house is full of shit and how we have to stop buying things. He hears our tales of woe as we recount to the poor assistant how we have no storage space in our apartment.

He then disappears. Again.

Next time we see him we're at the checkout. He's paid and is waiting for us to be reborn into the real world - the world where tables don't have names.

He has a trolley full of shit.

When we get to the car, he presents us with a gift each.

He gives us each a 2 metre long cuddly shark. One each. I kid you not.

"Thank you" says le FP, graciously.

"Where the fuck do you expect me to put these" say I, somewhat less graciously, but worn down by the whole experience.

"I thought we could use them in the bedroom" said the friend, with a menacing look on his face.

We journeyed home in uncomfortable silence. He dropped us at the front door and we took our shopping from the boot (the wardrobes being delivered at a later date), thanked him and sent him on his way.

As we waved him off, le FP turned to me.

"Don't those sharks look lovely in his back window" he said.

He's méchant, that boy.

I guess that's why I like him....

The opposite of cool

2010-01-26T15:01:00.009+01:00

Le FP got given a handful of Nintendo DSi's a while ago (don't ask).

Naturally, one found it's way into my workbag and was soon loaded up with les Lapins Crétins. If any of you have a big commute, I can truthfully say that slingshotting virtual rabbits into the air at virtual targets is a fine way to pass the time.

So it was a bit of a worry when I realised late one night that my workbag had suddenly gone missing. I'd had it that evening when I left for dinner with my boss. But then I couldn't recall seeing it afterwards and decided that it was in Debbie's car.

I didn't really worry too much - I was certain that it was in Debbie's boot - and so went to bed with an easy mind.

At 1am the telephone rang. It was the manager of the Café Beaubourg.

Now I know I'd been there for a drink earlier in the evening, and that they obviously appreciated my patronage - however, I did think it was a bit much to be ringing me at such an hour to thank me for my visit. Turns out that that wasn't the purpose of the call.

Apparently they had found my bag. Apparently I'd left it there in a moment of giddiness.

Well, luckily it's an honest establishment, given how the bag contained a full life support system of passport, wallet, keys, DSi, Blackberry charger and a small insignificant thing called my work laptop.

On top of all that is the bag itself - a lovely Lancel number. It's worth a pretty penny and was a gift from le FP in our early days. Yikes. Well done them for being honest.

The next day, I went to collect my bag. I took the opportunity to meet up with an old flame that many of you will remember - Skaterboy. He works in the neighbourhood so meeting up for a boisson seemed like a good idea.

When he arrived, I looked at him and started to wonder what I'd seen in him all that time ago. He's cute enough, but, to be honest, he's not my type. He's thin - and I really don't like thin. And he's nerdy. Although I quite like that. Plus he looked like he needed a good wash. I really don't like that.

He sat down next to me.

"So you got your bag back then?" he said.

"Yeah, thank goodness" I replied. "le FP was about to kill me for losing one of the first gifts he ever bought me".

"I got the best ever gift from my boyfriend this Christmas" Skater boy said.

I never knew there was a boyfriend, but hey, it's not like I'm bothered (nor would I have been had he been mentioned at the time of our 'thing').

And then he started to tell me what his boyfriend had bought him.

A gun.

A rifle, to be exact.

A real one, from the German army. Decommissioned.

"Is it a modern gun?" I asked him.

"No," he replied, "It's from World War two".

"So it's a Nazi gun?"

"Yeah, a real classic".

"Right. A used Nazi rifle. And what exactly are you going to do with it?" At this point I was getting a bit worried.

Rightly so, it turned out.

"Oh, I'll be taking it out with me when I wear the uniform he bought me for my birthday" he said, cheerily.

"Let me get this right" I said. "You have a Nazi uniform that you wear outside the house and now you have a real-life-used-by-Nazis-nazi-rifle that you plan to wear with the Nazi uniform?"

"Yeah" he replied, enthusiastically "Cool, isn't it?"

I couldn't even begin to explain to him how this was so far from cool that it was off the scale.

I got the bill. I paid. I left.

I deleted his number.

Some things are best left to others to deal with, right?

Did someone order a threesome for two?

2010-01-12T10:02:00.003+01:00

So. The new blog.

I kind of thought it was a good idea, but it didn't feel right. I felt like I was cheating on TBNIL. The goal was to find motivation to post, but it went the other way. I felt less motivated to post there than I did here.

So, fin bref, I'm back.

Back chez TBNIL and back in Paris after a huge trip to the states and Canada with le FP. And I'm back with tales to tell, you'll be happy to note.

Let's start with a wee tale of Los Angeles and how not to have a threesome with your boyfriend.

You see it all started really innocently. As do most things in my life (yeah, right).

Me and le FP had just arrived in LA and, as is our habit, we got online and started surfing the 'boyz' sites to try and find someone who could tell us where the best bars, clubs, etc in town are to be found. This is how we found Serge.

Serge was an American guy, born to French parents and desperate to communicate with someone (anyone) in French. He lived and worked in LA (in the movies, bien sûr) and we chatted for a while. He told us about some great bars (really great bars) and before signing off he invited us to go eat sushi with him.

Now me and le FP are both sushi freaks and we'd been craving some good maki rolls for a while. The offer was to good to turn down (plus Serge was cute...).

We ate sushi together, we drank drinks together and we flirted with each other - me with Serge, Serge with le FP, le FP with me, and so on....

Anyway, by the end of the evening, me and le FP had decided that he was a great guy, but that he wasn't going to be getting the ménage à trois that he was so obviously looking for.

So how he ended up using the bathroom in our hotel room is beyond me. Suffice to say I'd had a few drinks too many by this point.

As Serge slipped into the bathroom, le FP muttered something about having to make a phone call and he quickly disappeared off to the hotel lobby with a grin on his face.

He'd left me in the bedroom with Serge in the bathroom - and, trust me, he knew what was about to happen.

I, on the other hand, was pretty clueless and unsuspecting.

When Serge exited the bathroom completely naked I was somewhat taken aback.

When he got down on his knees and undid my jeans I was somewhat startled.

And then I was just kind of shocked.

I grabbed my phone and texted le FP...

"COME BACK TO THE ROOM. NOW!"

He did come back to the room. But only once I'd managed to extract my nethers from Serge's grip and sent him packing. Only then did le FP appear at the door, laughing hysterically.

He'd left me in the lurch with a lovestruck, horny, desperate American boy.

He'd skeedaddled when he knew that Serge would be making a move and that I was too drunk to be able to resist.

He thought this was the funniest thing ever.

I wasn't too sure that it was funny. But it certainly stuck in my mind for a couple of days afterwards....

Kennel Club

2009-11-17T08:31:00.002+01:00

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

2009-11-12T14:59:00.002+01:00

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

2009-11-03T10:35:00.002+01:00

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.

2009-11-02T08:52:00.003+01:00

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..."

Space invaders

2009-10-30T10:24:00.003+01:00

Somedays I like to just come home, put my feet up, sit on the sofa with the boy and slowly fall asleep in front of a badly-dubbed episode of CSI.

I know, it's hardly rock and roll, but hey, even Joan Jett needed a rest from time to time, right?

Last night was one of those nights. I've been out every evening for 11 days now, and have a full weekend of visitors from the UK ahead of me. I'm struggling with my extended commute and thus my extended day, and I needed a rest.

When I got home, le FP was sat on the sofa with our lovely Dainty Friend - a truly beautiful, petite, gorgeous French girl who is an old friend of le FP. She's easygoing, funny and fun and the three of us ate bowls of pasta and then cuddled up in an ugly old pile of arms and legs to watch TV.

I was enjoying the love-in when the doorbell rang.

It was a crazy French-Canadienne friend, turning up to show us her latest purchases - a pair of rubber trousers and some Louboutin-esque red, sparkly heels. My evening immediately descended into chaos as she stripped off and threw on the rubber pants before giving us her best ANTM runway moves.

The champagne got opened and I figured my cosy evening was over.

The doorbell rang again.

It was the other le FP, le FP Light we'll call him. FPL had brought his boyfriend round to show us his broken hand - he'd fought off some muggers in the cité where they live two days ago and was visibly hurting.

So, amidst screams and whelps and cries of delight - this group hasn't been in the same room as each other for some time it would seem, and they had lots to catch up on - I headed off to the drinks cabinet. Well, it's actually a white leather trunk stocked to the hilt but I like to call it the drinks cabinet.

I opened the 12 year old Japanese whisky and retired, gracefully to my bedroom.

I popped open my freebie webbook (thanks Sony) and did a bit of surfing whilst sipping at the single malt.

Within minutes, I wasn't alone.

Le FP arrived and lay down on the bed next to me.

"Sorry" he said, looking sheepish.

We were in the middle of a tender moment when the door to the room opened to a chorus of screams and a round of camera flashes. Le FP got everyone out of the room eventually and, feeling like a party-pooper, I went and joined them in le salon.

As I got steadily more drunk, I relaxed and started to appreciate the company of these crazy people a bit more - either that, or I started to care less....

At 2am, they all headed off home - except for the one that had decided to stay overnight - and me and le FP went to bed.

I got up with my alarm at 6am this morning, leaving le FP in bed - he had at least two hours of sleep ahead of him before he needed to leave for work - a day's fashion shoot at a fancy design hotel. He didn't even wake up when I rolled him over to kiss him goodbye.

Now I desperately need a night off.

I need for no-one to turn up unexpectedly.

It's going to be Sunday evening. Lights out, no-one at home.

I'm hanging out the do not disturb sign.

Heaven help anyone who comes a-knocking...

She stoops to, erm, conquer?

2009-10-29T14:32:00.003+01:00

Me and le FP had been out for dinner the other night with a friend who is back in town from L.A.

He's a photographer friend who, amongst other things, publishes 'arty' books of photo's of handsome men, scantily clad. He did the Dieux du Stade calendar once too - naturally I'm very jealous of this and wish I'd known him at the time - I might have worked my way onto the set for that one....

Anyway, we'd been for dinner at the Gai Moulin - a lovely restaurant but for the fact that the owner sings. He sets up his little electronic keyboard in the corner and belts out showtunes and home-grown material. It's not a little tragic, but always fun, always funny.

Dinner had been full of anecdotes of semi naked rugby players, shoots in Mauritius with boys from Sex and the City, and curiously, tales of Brazilian transexuals. Safe to say we laughed a lot and were sad to say goodbye at the end of the evening.

Le FP and I decided we'd walk home. We do this every night, but usually end up hailing a cab, but this particular evening we did indeed walk home.

We headed through the Marais, across place de la Bastille and down my street. We'd been playing the fool all the way home, giggling like schoolgirls and laughing at nonsense.

As we approached my block le FP suddenly stopped. He looked horrified.

He pointed.

And then I saw what he was pointing at.

Next to a tree was a 'lady' crouching down. Squatting.

It was evident that she was taking a shit.

And not just a small, rabbit-dropping-style one either. This girl was laying cable.

We started to laugh. We were far enough away for her not to hear us, but I'd be surprised if she didn't notice the two grown men, bent double with laughter, tears rolling down their cheeks.

When she'd finished her 'business', she just pulled up her trousers and walked off. No wiping, you'll note.

Me and le FP pulled ourselves together and headed home. To get home, however, we had to walk past the scene of the crime. It was horrific.

Goodness knows what she'd been eating. But by the looks of what she'd 'delivered' my best guess was that she'd made a lovely meal out of a length of rope.

Yet again, I felt lost for words.

Le FP looked at me and uttered the immortal line "Erm, oui, mais, erm...comme on dis....Welcome to Paris" and once again collapsed into a fit of giggles.

God help me. God help this country.

Sous le ciel de Paris

2009-10-27T09:21:00.003+01:00

"Sous le ciel de Paris s'envole une chanson
Elle est née d'aujourd'hui dans le coeur d'un garçon.
Sous le ciel de Paris marchent des amoureux
Leur bonheur se construit sur un air fait pour eux."

I love Paris, but you already know that.

This morning, on my hellish commute, I was thinking about how fabulous life in the city of lights is. Or, more specifically, how fabulous my life in the city of lights is.

Yes, it's expensive. Yes, it's polluted. Yes, it can be frustrating. But I love it.

I hate my commute, but every single evening the view from the C train as it crosses the Seine and heads to the Rive Gauche makes me happy. I look up from my book as the train leaves the station at Avenue Kennedy and the Seine opens up before me - the view is straight down the river and the Eiffel Tower fills the frame. My heart sings a little and I know that I'm almost home.

When I head out of an evening to meet friends in the Marais I always go on foot. 200 metres from the house and I'm at Bastille - the grande place with the striking Colonne de Juillet at the centre. The traffic is crazy, there are motards everywhere, the cafés are buzzing and the city is alive. Again, my heart sings a little and I thank my lucky stars.

Sunday morning and I slip out of bed. I throw on a pair of joggers and some kind of jumper and head to the boulangerie Bazin. I wait in line (there's always a line at the best bakers in town) and take in the sights and the smells. I buy my chouquettes, my pains au chocolat and a baguette. I head home, undress and slip into bed next to my boy. We sleep a while longer knowing that when we wake up the best breakfast ever is waiting for us.

I stand at the bar at my favourite nightspot - the Freedj - and I chat to my friends. We speak a mixture of English and French together, depending on who's in town. We laugh - boy do we laugh - we share our ridiculous weeks and we down a few drinks. We leave the bar and head off for cheap chinese food.

Crossing rue Beauborg, we pass the Centre Georges Pompidou - beautifully lit at night and causing controversy even when closed, even so many years after it was opened.

the Pompidou centre reminds me of myself in so many ways. It is so clearly not born of the city in which it has been planted. It has a style that is different to the local style. It expresses itself using a different language. But despite this, it has been welcomed into the hearts of Parisians....even if they didn't like it particularly at first.

I love Colette, Monoprix and Galeries Lafayette.

I love donning my sunglasses and strolling 'les Champs' on a crisp, sunny Sunday afternoon.

I love taking taxis (alarmingly inexpensive) and riding the last métro home. I love ordering a noisette and a tartine for breakfast, vite-fais. I love a Salade de Chêvre for lunch and a carafe of rosé. I love walking 'la Coulée Verte'.

I love Paris, but you know what? What it is that I love most of all?

I love being in love in Paris.

But I think that's a different post altogether.

Beats so big I'm steppin' on leprechauns

2009-10-21T09:43:00.004+02:00

I'm determined to get my posting back on track but I don't want to post any old crap.

The two subjects I could easily post about are a) run-ins with the law, but that's over and done now and b) soppy, doe-eyed posts about le FP. Which, let's face it, no-one needs right now.

Luckily, my family are alive and crazy and provide never-ending blog fodder.

Take my Aunt for example. No, really, take her. As far away as possible. Ha ha.

She's the older sister to my Mother, and trust me when I say that Aunty definitely got the crazy gene. uh-huh. She got it.

Problem is, she drinks a lot and she's accident prone. Things that don't go together very well. Last time she visited me in Paris she ended up in hospital having dislocated her arm. She did this when she tripped in the middle of the road in front of the Eiffel Tower. When I asked why she wasn't watching where she was going she said simply that she hadn't seen anything quite so phallic in a long time and was just 'admiring its beauty'....

Equally, let's not forget that this is the same woman who - when pretending to be blind - fell down the stairs, having mistaken the door to the stairway for the door to her bedroom. That ended with a broken wrist.

At the moment, my Mother is living with this sister, my Aunt. Mom sold her house recently and has bought a new place, but it's being 'brought up to standard' as she likes to say to her friends. So while the works are being carried out, she's shacking up with her big sis.

The first day that they are room-mates, I get a call from my Mom.

"Your Aunt is in hospital", she said wearily. "She's broken some ribs"

"How on earth...." said I.

"She was stretching to trim her clematis when the rabbit she was standing on gave way. She fell backwards, hit her head on a tortoise and broke her ribs on a little girl with a puppy."

I kid ye not. This was my Mother's explanation of events.

"Did you explain this to the doctor?" I asked.

"Yes" she said. "He didn't seem impressed. But then I don't think they have garden ornaments in India, or wherever it is he's from."

You see, my Aunt's garden has for a long time been a health hazard.

On many occasions I've nearly twisted my ankle on a concrete frog, or bruised my shin on a donkey with baskets. It's like an awful, babes-in-the-wood-meets-tim-burton nightmare of a garden. Wherever you turn there are dull concrete eyes staring at you, lifeless, desperate to be turned back into their living, breathing forms.

"The thing that has upset her most" said my Mom, "is that she broke her 'I wuv you' when she fell".

"What?"

"The little girl with the puppy. She's always called it her 'I wuv you' - that's what she thinks the little girl is saying to the puppy".

"Please stop"

"No, really, she fell on her 'I wuv you' and she broke the girls head off. She's planning to get it fixed though, once she's up and about again."

The next day, my Mom called me again.

My Aunt had returned home from hospital the day before and gone straight to bed feeling queasy and shakey.

The next morning she had woken up blind. Yes, blind. Couldn't see a thing. She couldn't open her eyes and when she did so manually she couldn't see anything.

"Doctor says it's the shock" said my Mother.

"Just tell her to stay out of the garden" I replied. "And away from the staircase".

Choose your friends wisely

2009-10-20T09:10:00.004+02:00

He walked into the flat and we held each other.

Each told the other that he loved him.

That moment lasted forever. I never wanted to let him go and, by the way he was holding me, it was evident that the feeling was mutual.

I looked down at the big manila envelope in his hand.

"What's that?" I noticed that it was marked with the logo of Hopitaux de Paris.

"It's some x-rays that I had taken at the hospital" he said.

While 'in custody' he'd had some kind of panic/anxiety attack that, at the time, looked like a heart attack. The police had taken him to hospital where he'd been hooked up to monitors, poked, prodded and x-rayed.

All this was happening, yet whenever I called the commissariat they didn't say a word. I can't believe that they would send him to hospital, that he appears to be dying and that they would contact nobody to let them know. Well, I can believe it - it's the police.

Anyway, turns out all was ok, and it was an anxiety attack. Goodness knows the situation was stressful enough to enduce one.

Having finally let go of each other, we lie down on the bed and he tells me what has happened.

Two girls that he knows - good friends with whom we've spent many a great evening - have, it seems, been running a scam on their banks. They've been using each others credit cards overseas and then claiming the cards to be stolen.

It's a good scam - after all, if I'm using my debit card in Paris, how can I also be using my credit card in Montréal at the same time? That's the line they used with the banks.

Seems the banks are wise to this though, and refused to refund the purchases. Faced with a huge bill, the girls implicated the person who had been - innocently - on one of the shopping trips with them....my lovely FP. He'd paid for one of the girls to go to Montréal with him in the summer and this was how she was repaying him.

They told the police that he'd stolen their cards, that he'd been shopping with their credit and that he'd refused to repay them when they confronted him.

Luckily, much like the banks, the police aren't stupid. They see this kind of thing everyday.

As le FP was released, he'd seen the two girls being led into the commissariat. They've been charged and they're awaiting trial is all the police will tell us.

I hope that's the end of it for me and le FP. It certainly isn't the end for the two evil, nasty, hateful women behind the scam.

I look forward to hearing that they are behind bars, fined up to their eyeballs and left to live ruined lives with criminal records that haunt them forever. Really. I do.

Forgiveness isn't coming easy at the moment.

Helpless

2009-10-19T08:44:00.003+02:00

I left the apartment and walked to the Commissariat de Police. Luckily the Commissariat du 12ème is just 100 metres down the street from my apartment. FP had been taken there in a police car and was well inside by the time I arrived.

I asked at the 'welcome' desk for information and the 'helpful' policelady told me to go home. I insisted and refused to leave until I'd spoken with one of the arresting officers.

In time, one came to see me. He took my name, my address, my proof of identity. Everything short of fingerprints. Nice to know that I'm officially on their system now, at least.

He said "let's discuss this outside" and walked me out to the street.

Once we were on the street outside the Commissariat he said "there's nothing I can tell you. We're keeping him here overnight, at least, and the only thing you can do is go home".

And that's what I did.

The first night that we'd spent apart in five weeks and he was in a police cell.

I barely slept. When they were at the house, the police had alluded to the fact that it was something to do with a credit card scam and so, left alone with my thoughts I started to panic. I checked all of my accounts online - nothing unusual - and immediately felt bad for doing so.

I woke up the next day, as usual, at six a.m. I immediately felt sick and ran to the bathroom to vomit.

I called the commissariat.

"How old is this person?" they asked. I told them.

"Well, he's an adult. We cannot give you any information".

I went to work feeling sick, feeling helpless and useless. Confused and uncertain.

I wanted to believe him innocent. I needed to know he was ok. I was worried, scared and totally disconnected with everything around me.

The morning was spent on auto-pilot. I sailed through an interview and then, feigning sickness, I went home.

Back at the house I called the Commissariat again. Telling them that they had held my 'husband' (I figured that might help me get some info) for nearly 18 hours, I demanded some information.

"He is here, he is feeling better and we can keep him for up to 48 hours". This was all they would tell me. The line 'he is feeling better' scared me.

I paced the house and called a couple of friends. Both helped me - by offering advice, by not judging and by distracting me with long phone calls.

At around nine pm I finally cracked. I was in the kitchen, thinking about cooking something. I stood in front of the fridge, looking at all of the good stuff he'd bought only the day before and I started to cry. I was verging on hysterical. It was awful. Never have I felt so helpless.

I didn't cook anything. I walked back to the lounge, curled up on the sofa and tried to sleep.

At ten pm the doorbell rang.

I opened the door and he was there. Le Fabulous Pairisien. Looking dishevelled, tired, drawn, exhausted.

He walked into the apartment and we literally fell into each others' arms.

"Je t'aime" he whispered into my ear. "Je t'aime, je t'aime, je t'aime".

"I love you too", I whispered back.

All charges had been dropped and he was a free man.

Arrested development

2009-10-16T08:38:00.003+02:00

I'm sat with le FP watching TV on tuesday at midnight when there's a knock at the door.

This is at the front door of my apartment - so the person who is knocking has already got through the door on the street (with a code) and then through the interior door to the apartments (with a key).

Having experienced the stalker, I'm cautious these days and so I looked through the 'spyhole' before opening. I'm especially wary of anyone knocking at midnight.

To say I was unnerved is not an understatement.

Stood outside were two handsome guys, both holding badges in the air.

"Police National", the one said "open up please".

I opened the door and immediately asked to examine the badges. I asked for names of the officers - they wouldn't give them to me.

"You are Monsieur TBNIL*?" he asked me.

"Oui, c'est vrai" I replied.

At this point le FP appeared behind me in the doorway.

"You must be Monsieur le FP* then?" he asked le FP.

"Yes, I am" replied le FP, as visibly stunned as I by the whole thing.

"Will you come with us please." It was a command, not a question.

He looked stunned, shocked, amazed and like he was about to cry. Neither of us seemed to know what was going on. He got dressed and two minutes later, he was gone with the police officers.

He'd been arrested.

I stood in my hallway in shock.

What on earth had just happened?

*they used our real names, honest.

Sex and the City

2009-10-14T09:00:00.000+02:00

In Barcelona, in a taxi to a nightclub.

"You're such a Carrie" I said to le FP. He was going on about the pair of Louboutin shoes he wants - to put on a shelf and admire from afar, such is their beauty.

"Yeah, well if I'm Carrie Bradshaw, then who are you?" he asked me.

"Honey, I'm most definitely Samantha" I said.

"Mon Cher", he said, turning towards me with a big silly grin on his face. "You're not Samantha".

"Well I'm not Miranda" I said, huffily.

"Chéri, if I am Carrie", he continued, "then you are my Mister Big".

Be.

Still.

My.

Beating.

Heart.

They call me Ellen, they call me Rosie, they call me KD, that's not my name.

2009-10-13T09:58:00.005+02:00

So, it's all been a bit whirlwind-ish around TBNIL Towers recently.

I feel like I need to share.

Le Fabulous Parisien blew into my life 5 weeks ago. Since then, we've not spent a night apart. We've not spent an evening apart, not a weekend, not a day. Except when we're working of course. Even then we speak two or three times a day.

I'm starting to think that I may be a lesbian - you know, the whole 'moving in together immediately', 'talking about whether there's room in our lives for a couple of cats', 'shopping for scented candles together' thing.

When I found myself sat on the sofa with him last night in what can only be described as a 'scissor fuck' position, I decided enough was enough.

I turned off the TV (we were watching Arrested Development on DVD and appreciating Portia de Rossi - I kid ye not) and demanded we go do something butch, manly, macho.

We went for a cocktail. I know, it's not very butch, but I was reassured...if we truly had turned into lesbians then we'd have gone for a pint of guinness and an arm wrestle, so all's well on that front. I shan't be drinking from the hairy cup for the near future.

Anyway, me and FP. What's it all about?

Well, it's kind of weird.

He's been back from Montréal for a few months and has been sharing with a friend. His stuff is still all chez the friend (which leads to many huffy 'where's my shirt' moments) but he is chez moi.

Above all he desperately needs to find his own place. Neither living with me, nor sharing with his friend is ideal. He's looking but the Paris real estate market is difficult, to say the least. To get my apartment, the company had to pay a year's rent in advance - that was the only way to get straight to the top of the list.

That said, he has two viewings today so hopefully one of those will work out.

It's not that I don't love having him at my house - I truly do.

Because he doesn't work every day like me there are advantages to him being around...he cooks my dinner most evenings, the house is the cleanest and tidiest that it's ever been and there's always food in the fridge.

I love knowing that he'll be waiting on the sofa when I walk through the door. And I know that he'll always have something ridiculous, hilarious or stupid to tell me. Seeing his dopey face when I walk through the door makes my day.

But he still needs to move into his own place.

We both agree that if this is going to stand any chance of lasting, then we both need some space.

Having no time to myself leaves me exhausted, tired, overwraught and fatigued. I'm sure it's the same for him too.

I'm not a natural sharer. I could be, but I need time. Let's hope he gets his own place soon.

Meanwhile, I'll put up with his tidiness, his great cooking and his bedroom demands.

I mean really, it would be churlish not too...

What's it all about? (they scream and they shout)

2009-10-07T10:37:00.005+02:00

So, firstly, I've not been blogging as much recently...there are a few reasons. It's not that I have nothing to say - quite the opposite in fact.

You know how life is split into three - worklife, lovelife and social life, but maybe not in that order? Well, the theory is that all three should be in harmony, in loving equilibrium with each other. When one of the three demands too much time, effort, energy, then the other two suffer.

My problem is that all three are demanding too much time, effort and energy at the moment. I'm exhausted. Literally, falling down tired, sleeping as soon as I sit down somewhere even remotely comfortable. I'm wiped out.

And the thing is, I'm not sure which one of these areas can give. Which one I can draw back from to try and sort this whole she-bang out.

Work is madness, but it's the season for that. This is always my busiest time of year and it's made worse by the fact that my campaign budget has doubled, thus the work has doubled and the new staff member I recruited started and then quit not 48 hours later.

I'm currently travelling almost every day, leaving early and getting back late. Crazy.

Social life - and I include blogging in this area - is as demanding as ever. I've always worked hard to maintain a good network of friends. Living in a foreign city, this is more important than ever. My friends - on and off line - are really important to me. Alas, with work, I'm finding it difficult to see them as much as I want. I'm struggling to get online and visit friend's blogs and I can't tell you the last time I was picking up the phone to chat the evening away.

None of this is made any easier by my current 'in love' status.

Yeah, you heard that right. In. Love.

Well, at least I think so, but maybe not. Aaargh! I don't even have the time to think this one through properly either.

I've been seeing le FP for four weeks now - and we haven't spent a night apart in that time. I appreciate that this is far from healthy, normal or sustainable. But when have I ever been any of those things when it comes to relationships.

The time I spend with him is fabulous, I love having him round the house and I really look forward to seeing him at the end of the day.

He's generous, kind, loving and sexy.

But that doesn't stop the sick feeling I get in the bottom of my stomach when I think about where this is heading.

Why can I only see this ending in heartbreak for me? Am I really that damaged? That screwed up? That insecure? Why can I not sit back and think that this guy is with me because he really likes me? - goodness knows, he tells me often enough.

Anyway, maybe I have good reason. He told me this morning that he thinks he has to return to Montréal some time in the next couple of weeks. He started with "I'll be gone for a week" and this mutated into "maybe I'll stay there until Christmas - but you can come over for weekends..."

I hate maybes. I hate having no time. I hate feeling insecure.

But most of all I hate sitting here in Calais waiting for a meeting to start with someone who doesn't have the decency to call and say he's going to be late .

Doesn't he realise? It's not like I have time to spare.

The mood I'm in, God help him when he does arrive.

If you liked it then you should have put a ring on it

2009-10-01T17:38:00.004+02:00

Marrakech is one of those places where a rub and tug is almost obligatory. If you haven't been scrubbed and lathered and sweated and twisted in a hammam, then you haven't really been to Morocco.

This trip I visited two - the luxury Hammam at the fancy hotel (thanks Céline) and a 'public' hammam in the medina. Both were very different to each other. Although the routine is pretty much the same in both - sweat in the steam room, scrub down with black soap, lather up, rinse, rinse, rinse, massage, inappropriate touching, rinse, leave.

Yes, I did say inappropriate touching.

For those of you who are a little sensitive of nature, I suggest you stop reading now and wait until I post something a little less, erm, intimate.

Right, so you're all still with me, then?

In the luxury hammam at the hotel, all was going swimmingly. The gommage - black soap thing - was amazing, the lather and rinse was wonderful and revitalising. As I lay down to get massaged, I started to truly relax.

Now, let's just set the scene here. I've undergone all of the above procedure naked, and now I'm lying on my back, on a slab of hot marble, à poils, being rubbed down with oils by a handsome, nearly naked, hairy Moroccan.

His massage starts well. He pays attention to my trouble spots (shoulders, neck, lower back) and I'm starting to drift off. He then moves to my lower body.

He works his way up both legs, rubbing as he goes. He massages my inner thighs. It's unbelievably good.

He opens my legs as wide as they'll go and sits between them, one leg one each shoulder.

I sense trouble.

Before I know what has happened, my prostate is being massaged - from within - and I'm lay there with my eyes closed, a smile on my face and, yes, a big old erection. It all took me so by surprise that I didn't really have time to think about kittens, poor people or anything else that makes my ardour die off. I had no choice. I was flying the flag for England in this poor man's face.

I figured he'd seen it all before though, so just relaxed and hoped it'd fade away of its own volition.

Unfortunately, his choice of 'next place to massage' didn't help it die away. Well, it did finally subside - but not in a way that left me with any dignity or self respect.

As the masseur rinsed his hands (oversharing, I know - sorry) he told me that I should think about giving him a big tip. I thought that's what I'd just given him to be honest.

The public Hammam was a different experience, but again it all kicked off during the massage.

This time the masseur was a stocky, well-built Moroccan guy who could have played for the national rugby team had there ever been such a thing.

As he rubbed away at my lower back, he made sure to place my hand in such a way that I had 'something to play with' whilst he got on with his job. I never had toys like that as a boy, trust me. Gosh.

Again, he finished the job with a winning smile and took me off to the showers to rinse off the oil.

I took off my loincloth - for such is obligatory in the public hammam - and headed under the tepid stream of water.

So did he.

Yes, he joined me in the shower.

As he soaped me down, I'm afraid that my loins got the better of me again - but then, as luck would have it, so did his. And he had no problem with asking me to get him into a lather.

A big tip later, I left the public hammam unsure of what to do on the last day of the trip. We'd committed to a hammam a day and there was still sunday to go.

Le FP wanted to return to the public hammam. I wanted to go to the hotel spa again. We both went our separate ways with a promise to meet up back at the hotel.

And boy did we meet up at the hotel. After our hammam experiences, we both seemed to be in the mood for a spot of pre-flight delight. I'm sure I can stop the tale there....

Dancing on the Céline

2009-09-28T12:26:00.003+02:00

After a moment of craziness that I won't go into (but which left me with five minutes to pack...) the limousine arrived.

We bundled our sorry asses into the Merc and headed to le Bourget. Halfway there and the Fabulous Parisien's phone rings at exactly the same moment as the driver's does. The driver pulls off the autoroute and back on the other side - we're now heading south, not north.

"There's been a problem with the jet", said le FP. Apparently it was Ghislaine on the phone - sister of La Dion. "Robbie Williams has brought his vist to Paris forward a day and the jet has gone to Stansted to collect him".

"So, we're not going?" I said, stunned at the turn of events.

"No, Chéri, we're going. But we have to get to Orly in the next hour - Céline's people have got us business class tickets on the late flight tonight."

Well, it's no private jet, but hey, I'll cope with business class, right?

A 2 hour 45 minute flight later and we're in another limo heading to the hotel.

Marrakech is dark, warm and smells foreign. The roadside stalls selling grilled snacks are surrounded by people dressed like Obi Wan Kenobi. The world is in motion all around us. En route for the hotel we ask the driver to stop for a few minutes at the Djemaa el Fna - the great square that is the centre of the Marrakchi world.

Snake-charmers, story-tellers, water-sellers and fire-eaters are all around us. We hold hands and walk through the human soup. Every class is represented here - the Dior-clad Eurotrash and the street urchins, the Casablanca urbanites and the blue men from the desert, the rent-boys and the veiled ladies.

It's a long way from Paris. It most definitely isn't Kansas.

Back in the car for ten minutes and we arrive at the hotel. I say hotel, I mean palace.

The large wooden doors open to reveal an amazing, surreal, beautiful palace, straight from the 1001 Nights. A palace with all mod-cons, naturally.

We are taken to our room - a traditional 'caravanserai' style tent in the gardens - complete with our own private terrace and a bathroom to die for. The host lets us into the tent and it's like entering a dream.

The log fire is lit, the champagne is on ice. The room is twice the size of my apartment and is lined in beautiful moroccan silk, with furnishings in chocolate leather and dark wood. Too beautiful.

An hour later and I'm curled up on the immense sofa, in front of the log fire with le FP. We have champagne and from under our fur blanket (I kid ye not) we're watching a movie on the enormous television.

Le FP turns to me.

"I never want to leave," he said. "This is as happy as I've been in ages."

What could I say? How to answer?

I leaned in and kissed him. It was the best answer I could find.

Near, far, wherever you are

2009-09-25T12:22:00.002+02:00

Salaam alaikum. Greetings from Marrakech.

"Marra-fucking-kech?" I hear you cry. Well, me too. That was my reaction.

It was Wednesday when I got a call from le Fabulous Parisien.

"Can you get friday off work?" he asked.

"Well, I can always work from home the morning....what do you have in mind?"

"A friend wants to give me a weekend away for my birthday - can you come with me?" he said, mysteriously.

"Sure - but why isn't the friend coming with you instead?"

"She's busy. Very busy. I'll make the arrangements and call you back".

And call me back he did.

"The jet will be waiting for us at le Bourget on Thursday evening. A limo is coming to get us at 7pm. Is that ok?" He presented all of this in a very matter of fact way. "We're going to Marrakech, by the way".

"Hold on!" said I. "Whose is the effing jet? Who is this friend?"

"It's Céline's"

"You're taking me to Marrakech in Céline Dion's Jet?" I said, astounded.

"Oh yeah baby," he replied. "But you don't know the half of it..."

See you later, boy.

2009-09-22T15:55:00.002+02:00

Yes, he was a skater boy. Yes, I said "see you later boy". He wasn't good enough for me. Or whatever it is the song lyrics say.

The awkward moment of the weekend really does go to Skater Boy and his arrival chez TBNIL on friday evening with his overnight bag.

See, everybody there knew that it was le Fabulous Parisien who was staying over. Everybody except Skater Boy, it seems. I mean really, I don't know why he didn't work that out for himself. It's not like I hadn't hinted and suggested that that would be the case - several times.

Does a boy need to be clear, honest and open these days or what? Since when was a heavy hint not enough?

Yeah ok, it's my fault. I'm guilty as charged - guilty of not telling him that his invitation was in the capacity of friend only. But I had said to him to bring some of our mutual friends along because "I don't want you to have nobody to talk to". It's not my fault he arrived alone.

Lord help me. I'm now officially ruining peoples' lives. Well, that's how it felt when I saw his little face, clearly unsure of the situation that he had walked into.

Anyway, he soon recovered and threw himself into the spirit of things. He chatted to me, to my other friends. He danced and he had a laugh with the rest of us.

Malheureusement, he was also drinking. And the more he drank, it seemed the hornier he became. The more, erm, demanding of my attention he became.

As he bumped and grinded in front of me, busting his best moves and using me as his pole for a bit of a pole dance, it became obvious that this was his mating dance. I stepped back. He followed. I stepped aside. He followed. I squirmed. He upped his ante.

By now, his arms were flailing, he was doing that bollywood neck thing and he was giving me the old Shakira hip shake. Really, it was intense, embarassing and without an end in sight.

Such was my shame, that there was only one thing for it. I walked away and went to the bathroom.

He followed me. Of course.

I got out of there quickly and went outside. Got me some air.

After ten minutes breathing time, I went back in.

"I've been looking for you" he said, as soon as I hit the area where my friends were.

"Sure. Of course" I said, unforgivingly.

"I just wanted to let you know that I'm heading home. I'll collect my things from your house sometime in the week."

And with that, he was gone. He looked more drunk than upset; yet more upset than happy.

I felt pretty bad about the whole thing. But then I thought about it.

I'd never said "you're not sleeping at mine", but equally I'd never said that he was either. I've always been clear with him that we're not heading for a relationship. And he has a boyfriend already anyway. I'm kind of feeling that a guy who has a boyfriend can't really give me a hard time for not wanting to sleep with him.

But equally, I know that I acted badly and it could all have been prevented.

You live and learn, right?

Well, you'd think that I would, wouldn't you. It seems that I don't.

Let's paint the town and shut it down

2009-09-21T09:18:00.007+02:00

I'm in a taxi heading home at four thirty on Saturday morning, and I'm happy. It's been a funny night. It's been a ridiculous night.

It all started well with drinks chez TBNIL - there were cocktails, canapés and gifts that included a cabbage and a rubber duck (best you don't ask about either, really).

When it came time to leave the house, we headed for the Marais and for the fabulousness that is Gay Paris. We worked our way around a couple of bars - and it was at the second bar that we lost le Fabulous Parisien.

Apparently, he had met up with a couple of old friends and stayed out with them all night. I don't know if this is true or not, but I'm not really too worried - the fact that he showed up the next morning with a dozen croissants, a sheepish look and a determination to keep me in the bedroom kind of told me that there was another story somewhere....

After losing le FP, we headed for a big old dance at the Tango - the ropiest club in Paris which plays the best music. It's actually great fun there - with music ranging from the Gossip to Cyndi Lauper; from Madonna to Dalida and French pop from Yelle to Claude François. We danced and danced. And then we danced some more.

At one point, my Lovely Irish Bookish Friend found his way up to the stage at the front of the dancefloor. Accompanied by his Certain Someone they showed Paris how it's done in Waterford. And boy did they. It was all going swimmingly until Certain Someone realised he'd been shaking his booty with his flies undone. Pure class. Especially when a young French hottie pointed this out...

The Fierce People were also with us - and the American half was very very drunk. God bless him, he was like a sex-crazed chihuahua, humping everyone's legs and generally driving people crazy. Very funny, and good fun - if you like an undersized American gyrating himself up and down your extremities. Personally, I don't.

And Skater Boy was there too. But that's a whole other post. I'll just say 'tears before bedtime' for now. I do like to keep you in suspense.

After the Tango, after we'd danced ourselves damp and silly, we decided that enough wasn't enough.

At three thirty Saturday morning we headed to the Dépôt. The nasty, dirty, yukky, sexy, filthy Dépôt. I've posted about this place and its labyrinthine sex-club basement before. Needless to say, it was a fitting end to a funny night.

It was with our boundaries pushed and our horizons further widened that we left Sodom and Gomorrah behind and headed home.

Leaving the club, none of dared look back at what we'd left behind. After all, let's not forget what happened to Lot's wife.

At that time of day, and with the debauchery that we had just left behind, the likelihood of somebody turning into a pillar of salt seemed only too real...

How to make a birthday last two months

2009-09-17T10:21:00.005+02:00

So, this weekend is the final party in the TBNIL 40th birthday party season.

The first was the friends and family affair, back in the UK. That's the one that saw me wearing pink rabbit ears and a 'Birthday Princess' badge, dancing at a gay club with my bosses and generally being a very hot and messy hot mess. Hilarious. At the time, it was, anyway.

The second was the family only party, laid on by my lovely Mother. This was at her house and involved the TBNIL UK family sitting round, eating lovely food and telling tales that became more and more ridiculous, disgraceful, hilarious as the wine disappeared.

Both were great fun.

This weekend is the big party with the friends who couldn't make it over to the UK. Friends from Paris, from Holland and from Ireland. Friends for whom a weekend of festivites in Paris seemed like a better offer than an evening in Birmingham. Yes, these are the wise ones, ha ha.

Firstly, I need to sort out the sleeping arrangements. All was going well until I realised that I wouldn't be sleeping alone - yep, le FP is going to be around this weekend too, so he needs adding in to the 'where to sleep' question. Debbie, god bless her, is taking me off at lunchtime to buy a self-inflating double mattress. Greater love hath no assistante, he he.

See how I just casually slipped in that mention of le Fabulous Parisien?

Anyway, we'll be starting tonight with the first arrivals - my Lovely Irish Dutch Friend and his beau - but we'll be trying to avoid having too big a night out because tomorrow, my Lovely Irish Bookish Friend and his Certain Someone arrive and we've promised them that we won't be hungover.

Yeah, right.

As you'd expect, the weekend promises fabulous cocktails and lots of beers. Drinks at the 'local' followed by an almost obligatory visit to the bar where the boys dance in the showers - IBF loves to get his hands on the dancers. Even if it's not strictly allowed. At least he never got thrown out of there...unlike me.

As well as fabulous cocktails, or maybe because of them, I'm sure there'll be plenty of laughs and much blog fodder.

Any of you who are in Paris over the next few days are welcome to join us - just drop me a line for details ;-)

The rest of you? Well, have a great weekend - and be sure to watch out for updates from the birthday weekend mayhem....

All I want is a room somewhere...

2009-09-15T16:49:00.002+02:00

I'm sleepy. Falling asleep at my desk.

I fell asleep on the RER this morning, waking just in time to not miss my stop.

At lunch, I could feel myself heading down into the pizza, face first.

I'm exhausted.

Thing is, I had Florida Boy over for ten days - which meant ten days of running all over Europe, with late nights and early starts. Then, the day he left I ended up with le Fabulous Parisien on an overnight visit.

I left le FP behind and flew to the UK for a weekend of moving house - heavy stuff - late nights with my cousin and breakfast chats with my Mother. Exhausting.

I got back late sunday night - nearly midnight - then was up again for work at 6am monday. Monday evening saw le FP come round - not an early night - and he's back again tonight.

Tomorrow I have a long-standing date with a really lovely guy who's back in town having recently moved to Switzerland. That's gonna be a late one too, I'm sure.

Thursday, My Lovely Irish Dutch Friend arrives with his beau in tow and the party weekend begins.

I'm not sure when I get to sleep, when I get to re-charge my batteries.

I just know that I'm already exhausted and it's going to get worse before it gets better. And I absolutely refuse to have my Final Fortieth Birthday Party Weekend (yes, I know my actual birthday was back in July) ruined by my being too tired to enjoy myself.

What's a boy to do?

I have the feeling that I'll be working from home one day this week....

One of these things is not like the other one

2009-09-14T10:20:00.005+02:00

I flew to the UK on friday evening to spend two days with my Mom, helping her finish off the packing.

She's moving house today and so I went on a last-minute mercy mission to help her go through the 30 years of accumulated junk, mayhem and memories. You can imagine how it went.

As always when clearing a house we found a cache of old photo's.

I looked at a photo of my Dad and his sister and something wasn't right.

"My aunt looks like she's got some black blood in her" I said to my Mom. Really, this girl looks nothing like the rest of the family in the photographs.

"Yeah, she was always dark skinned. And she never did look like your grandfather".

And so, we carried on working our way through the photo's.

"Who's this in the photograph with Nan and Granddad?" I asked. The photograph showed my Nan aged about 21, looking very elegant - beautiful, even. And she was with my Granddad, who was equally dashing. They were with a very handsome gentleman, and someone had written on the picture 'the boozers'.

"That's Mr. Frank. We always heard tales of him as Mr. Frank," said Mom. Seems he was a close family friend when my grandparents were kids, when they had just started dating. And it seems he was a permanent fixture in their lives until my Aunt was born.

Now, looking at the photograph and those that were in the same wallet, two things were crystal clear.

Firstly, Mr. Frank and my Nan were very close friends. There was no questioning the body language in some of those shots.

Secondly, Mr. Frank was a very handsome, very dashing, well-dressed, well-built gentleman of colour.

"Do you think...." I started.

"No" said my Mom. "No. It's not possible. Although. Oh. Oh! Do you think?"

She looked like someone had opened her eyes for the first time.

She stood up and started to giggle. "Oh my. Oh my oh my."

We laughed and laughed.

My Nan had made my Mom's life hell for a long time - nothing was ever good enough for her, and my Mother was certainly not good enough to marry her blessed son. She'd run the family like a power-crazed despot, whose only rule of law was that she was always right. She spun tales about her sisters, about her neighbours and was always there, ready to judge, ready to point out someone else's failings - especially my Mom's.

My Nan had been such a moral crusader, judgemental about the slightest thing, yet it seemed highly possible that her daughter was not her husband's offspring.

It's a shame that there's no-one around on that side of the family anymore. It's a secret that has truly gone to the grave.

If only we could get Jerry to give us a DNA test.

Alas, we're left to draw our own conclusions...and boy are we enjoying that.

C'est SO Paris, baby

2009-09-11T10:58:00.008+02:00

"I know we said we'd do next wednesday," said le Fabulous Parisien, "but how about tonight? I've been invited to a party. You want to join me?"

"Sure," said I. "That'd be great".

"OK, well I'll call you later to arrange where we'll meet" he said. "Oh, by the way, it's the party for Vogue - you know, the magazine?"

And at that point I started to panic. What's a boy to wear to a party being thrown by Vogue in the fashion capital of the world? Damn. Why did I agree without finding out more?

Later that evening, dressed in a black shirt (open three buttons), black velvet jacket, dark jeans and the yellow sneakers, I found myself on the fabulous Avenue Montaigne in the company of the bold and the beautiful of Paris. I was only slightly uncomfortable. The champagne soon took care of that.

We started at the Diane von Furstenburg party, at her Paris flagship store. The champagne was cold, the DJ's were hot and the queens were screaming. The place was full of people considerably richer and skinnier than both me and my date, but I like to think we pulled it off.

From Diane, we went to the private parties being held at Dolce and Gabbana (fabulous Martini cocktails), at Nina Ricci (champagne), at Dior (champagne), Versace (champagne and nibbly bits) and Ferragamo (champagne).

It was chez Chanel (champagne) where we ended up in the company of true Paris royalty - none other than the fashion god himself, Monsieur (Herr?) Karl Lagerfeld. Looking fabulous in his trademark sunglasses and black and white, hair tied back in true fabulous style, Karl was werqing that joint.

At one point, a classy looking lady approached him.

"Karl darling, can I take your photograph" she asked, with obvious trepidation.

"Madame", he replied in his German-accented French, "You may do exactly what you wish with your 'camera-thing'. I, however, will do absolutely nothing."

It was all I could do not to clap like an idiot.

From Chanel we headed off to the Plaza Athenée for the real party. Guests were ferried from the other parties in a fleet of Vogue logo-encrusted soft-top Mini's. Others arrived in long black cars and short black dresses.

By the end of the evening, the cocktails and fabulousness had started to take their toll. I was tired and needed to get home.

I jumped a cab with le FP and we headed back to the 12th arrondissement - to my hood, to where real people live, back to planet earth.

As we lay there, dropping off to sleep, he turned to me.

"Have you ever had a more 'Paris' evening in your life?" he said.

What could I say. I'd had the kind of evening that the Sex and the City girls would kill for. It had been ridiculous, fabulous and outrageous. I'd air-kissed more people in one evening than I'd done all month (and let's not forget that I'm gay, therefore I air-kiss a LOT). I'd seen the shoes that I'd sell my mother for (at Zadig and Voltaire, curiously enough - a pair of pewter leather ankle boots) and I'd had enough free champagne to refloat the Titanic.

And on top of all that, I'd had great company in the form of le FP*.

How could I not have had a great time?

*I'm seeing him again on Monday, btw, just in case you're interested...

Death in the darkroom

2009-09-09T09:19:00.004+02:00

As a concept, the darkroom is a very, VERY gay thing. I'm guessing it only exists in a very specialised type of straight club, way removed from the mainstream.

In the gay world, at least over here in sunny Europe, the darkroom is pretty much a bar/club staple.

For the uninitiated, a dark room is pretty much what you'd expect - a room with no lights or windows - thus dark - where you go to get felt up anonymously, by strangers whose faces you can't see. Or it's the place that you take the hot guy you just met in the bar, before you take him home (or instead of).

Anyway, this all makes it sound very seedy, which, of course, it is.

Paris bars do have their fair share of darkrooms, and it has to be said they are usually full of American tourists who are appreciating this 'European' novelty.

When Florida Boy and me were faced with a dark room at a bar in Rome last weekend we decided we'd give it a whirl. Neither of us was looking for 'action' but we figured it'd be kind of fun to go in there together....you can imagine.

Anyway, whilst in there there's a bit of a commotion and I feel something come whizzing past my leg.

There's a massive bang, like someone has dropped a massive bag of potatoes on the floor.

Someone screams and the mobile phones are pulled out so that the screens can shed some light on the situation.

"è Morto!" someone screams.

I look down and there on the floor, face down, arms at his sides, is a silver-haired guy. To all appearances he is, indeed, dead. Very dead.

More screaming (what is it with the screaming boys? Come on lads, let's butch up a bit) and the darkroom empties.

The barman runs into the room with a first aid kit and within a couple of minutes the silver-haired guy is being helped to the toilets. Seems he's not dead.

He has blood all over his face - from where he hit the floor, I'm guessing - and he's visibly shaken.

Me and FB get a couple of drinks and down them fast. We try not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation and order some more beers.

As we prepare to leave 30 minutes later, I notice a guy stood against the wall of the bar.

"Isn't that him?" I say.

And, true enough, it is the passing out guy, stood with a bloody handkerchief in one hand and clutching his groin 'provocatively' with the other. Obviously he's not going to let a little blackout come between him and a good time.

As we walk home past the colisseum, I can't help but wondering if such things happened in ancient Rome. I'm fairly certain they did.

At least, I hope so.

Those Gladiators had to do something with their evenings, right?

My friend and me

2009-09-08T08:22:00.004+02:00

So, I just got back to Paris. I left Florida Boy in bed at an ungodly hour and came to work. And this is where I'm sat, at my desk, au bureau. Joy, eh?

Well, I do have reason to be happy. The whole Florida Boy thing is sorted. Sorted in my mind. Sorted in my heart. Sorted between us.

This trip was always going to be about getting to know each other better. Deciding if we really like each other and seeing if there's anything of a future for us.

This trip was about falling in love, or not falling in love.

It was about saying 'this is who I am, this is what I want' to each other.

He lives on the other side of the world to me. Physically, emotionally and mentally, we do not live in the same place.

What I need isn't him.

He is a great guy, a wonderful friend, a truly fantastic Florida Boy. But he's not the man of my dreams.

If he lived in Paris, then maybe we'd stay together for a while until our differences got the better of us. We'd fall in and out of love until we didn't like each other that much anymore. And that would be sad, and a shame.

So, we talked.

I told him how I didn't want to commit to anything more than friendship, but that he has friendship from me in spades, forever.

Transatlantic love affairs need a whole load of energy, emotion, time and commitment. We both agreed that if it's going to be a long distance relationship then it has to be with the person that you really want to spend the rest of your days with.

And neither of us is that person to the other one.

Am I sad that it didn't turn out to be true love? Do I regret that there are no bells ringing, heartstrings twanging, cherubs singing? Do I wish that he had been the love of my life?

Sure. Of course. Without a doubt.

Am I thrilled to have a great new friend in my life? One that I will share great times with over the coming years?

Absolutely, yes.....especially when that friend comes with privileges, ha ha.

Day four...

2009-09-04T18:08:00.000+02:00

...and I'm really not sure.

Tomorrow, tomorrow.....

2009-08-30T20:59:00.002+02:00

The sun'll come out, tomorrow, apparently.

Whether it does or not, it kind of doesn't matter. A little bit of Florida sunshine is currently winging it's way to Atlanta to connect with his plane to Paris and then straight to yours truly....yes folks, Florida Boy will be here in the morning.

Gosh

Jeepers.

Crikey.

Shit.

Fucking hell.

Everybody shout panic!

Why I don't heart falling in love

2009-08-27T09:00:00.003+02:00

You know the feeling.

You meet someone that you really like, you swap numbers and you wait for them to call.

You get excited when the phone rings - ecstatic when it's them, woeful when it's not.

Your life becomes a rollercoaster as you swing from date to date, wondering where this is going, whether this is the one.

I hate that shit.

All of it.

I hate the lack of control, the inability to judge where I stand, the feeling of vulnerability.

I hate the other person for having such an effect on my emotions.

I resent how the whole process takes me - completely involuntarily - out of my comfort zone.

My body betrays me, my mind drives me to distraction and I am no longer myself.

The guy sends me flowers and I turn into a giggling wench.

He doesn't return my call and I'm Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.

He returns it too soon and I turn into the queen of keeping-my-distance.

My life turns upside down at the drop of a hat and I detest it.

I hate how being in love makes me feel, but most of all I hate it for being missing from my life.

Florida Boy arrives in four days time.

Can you tell?

Do you take this man....?

2009-08-25T09:00:00.000+02:00

The thing with weddings is that everyone is looking pretty good and, usually, any singletons in the camp are looking for a bit of a wedding hook-up. Well, this is how I see it, anyway.

Alas, for the gayers amongst us, there's often very little chance of such wedding night bliss, unless you're willing to go for one of the cater-waiters or the guy who delivered the flowers. Occasionally there'll be another random 'mo in the room, but he's never what you'd hoped for.

And this wedding was no exception. Zero potential action for yours truly.

Well, that's a lie. There was a long lost cousin who had 'never had a girlfriend' but was yet to confirm which bus he was on. Having met him, I think he didn't need to confirm anything - he just needed his family to open their eyes a little. But hey, as gay as he was, he was no looker - not someone to make one's heart flutter. Not even a little.

There was also a very nice man in charge of the waiting staff - earlier in the day he said he'd 'show me his catering equipment' if I stuck around late enough (no lie, those were his words). Alas, I didn't see him at the end of the night - maybe he'd already left with Cousin It.

But just as I thought that all was without hope, lady luck shone her torch brightly in my face and woke me up again.

You see, one of the other guests was a guy that has always made me laugh. We've gotten on well the few times that we've seen each other - and although he's never said anything about being gay, I've definitely never seen him with a girl.

During the day, as the photo's and garden chitchat went on, he came to find me to gossip. I thought he was just bored, being on his own and without plus-one, just like me. When we sat together for dinner, he spent the meal giving me his full attention and even laughed at my crappy jokes.

When we went on the mini-train tour of the wedding venue (yes, it was big) he made sure that he sat next to me.

We drank buckets of champagne together during the evening, avoiding the dancefloor as much as possible. And then, as the night drew to an end, he came over to chat to me. He put his hand on my shoulder and leaned in.

"Great day eh?" he said.

"Yeah, really good" said I.

"I've really enjoyed myself, " he said and winked at me.

"Me too," I said. "It's been fun."

Then he grabbed my ass, kissed my cheek.

"I'll be coming to see you in Paris soon..." He said - and then he skipped off to get on the bus back to his hotel.

I know, it's not a lot to get excited about.

But hey, it made my day.

The most dangerous wedding guest ever?

2009-08-24T09:12:00.003+02:00

Saturday saw the wedding of the year - with me as 'Best Man'. Can you imagine anyone less well equipped for the role? Me either.

Anyway, it all went pretty smoothly - despite the major panic that seemed to set in for the bridegroom as the event approached.

At the dinner table I was seated next to the groom's father - a lovely old Ulsterman with a questionable past. He was explaining to me - at length - about how he had been a 'bad lad' when he was growing up.

"You know I had to leave Belfast when I was 14?" he told me. "I'd held up a local factory with a shotgun and stolen their wagepackets, so it was time to leave."

"Gosh," said I. "That's, erm, great"

He then alluded to having something to do with the Birmingham pub bombings - which I presume was a drunken 'boast' - but by this point the musical 'entertainer' had arrived. As the music guy got into his set the Groom's father turned to me again...

"This guy is terrible" he said.

I agreed.

"Someone needs to shoot him" he continued, in his thick Ulster brogue.

I've never felt so sorry for a wedding singer.

I hope he made it home without being jumped by men in balaclavas.....

Miss Snippy

2009-08-21T11:21:00.004+02:00

I've been in the Uk for two days now and yet again I find myself being 'told off' by my boss.

Thing is, she's been reading some management twaddle about effective communication and, it seems, I'm not up to scratch.

Apparently, I am:

- snippy
- sarcastic
- insensitive

and I make people feel uncomfortable with my over-use of innuendo.

Well, to be honest, she does have a point. I can't argue with much of that.

Apparently, instead of the above, I'm supposed to be:

- collaborative
- supportive
- empathic

Equally, I think she does have a point - all of these are good things to be. As we discussed this, I pulled out a few examples of her behaviour to illustrate her points.

Example 1

The time she said "Well, I wouldn't want him to think you're a queer" when explaining why she'd told a customer that I still hadn't found the right girl.

Example 2

The time she left an advert for diet pills on my desk with a note saying "saw this and thought of you".

Example 3

How she'd said to me, this very morning, that my fitness regime seemed to have been overtaken by an "eating regime".

Example 4

The occasion where she'd seen fit to remark on how I looked young, but how "it's so diffcult to tell how old a fat person is, their skin is pulled so tightly".

You can imagine, that after we'd had our 'chat' she was looking desperately for an olive branch and regretting having started the whole conversation in the first place.

I know I'm not an ideal employee. I'm rude, obnoxious and sarcastic. I'm garish, loud and I talk dirty. But equally, I'm thoughtful, friendly and welcoming - and I'll go out of my way to include people and make them feel at home.

Now, I don't want to get all religious on her ass, but hey, sometimes the good book speaks sense...

"Yo Hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother's eye..."

I added the 'yo' myself to make it a bit more ghetto.

You get my point.

Yes, I'm the best man for the job

2009-08-20T14:33:00.004+02:00

Thursday, and the nerves have started to kick in. Well, not the nerves so much as the despair. And the anger. And the pissy-ness. And the general feeling of 'why me?'.

I'm the best man at a friend's wedding on Saturday and I'd be underselling the situation if I said I was not happy.

Firstly, I'm not sure how I got the gig in the first place - this is a friend that I see once a year (if I really work hard to coordinate our diaries), that I didn't speak to for ten years (a falling out that involved broken noses, smashed teeth and a bottle or three), and who has an ex-wife and two fairly old kids that I have never met.

Secondly, the cost of the whole thing is now starting to annoy me. Here goes:

€500 - travel to Amsterdam, accommodation and spends for Stag Weekend
€400 - new suit for wedding
€250 - accommodation for the night of the wedding, renting a car to get to wedding, etc
€180 - shirt and shoes for wedding
€150 - wedding gift

So, it's cost me well over €1,000 euros to go to this wedding and be the Best Man. In what world is that right?

And to make matters worse, they had the cheek to say "don't buy us a wedding gift, we're asking people to make a cash donation to the honeymoon". If you can't afford your honeymoon, sweetheart, don't go on one....or so I'd suggest.

The final nail in the coffin happened yesterday evening.

My Crackberry pinged to tell me an email had arrived...

"Hi everyone, the friday night pre-wedding dinner has been booked and we're really looking forward to seeing you all there" it said.

"The restaurant is lovely, the food isgreat and I'm sure we'll all have a great time - see the menu attached".

I clicked on the link.

Starters - £18 to £24
Main courses - £30 to £40
Desserts - £15 to £20

I closed the link and sat there stunned. On top of everything else, I have to spend a hundred quid on dinner the night before the wedding?

How do I get out of this one?

Anyone?

I guess I should have said no when I had a chance, right?

Les liaisons dangereuses

2009-08-17T20:21:00.002+02:00

Last week, I was in the bar with the Fierce People having a lovely beer or three. The aircon was cranked up, as was the music (Vanessa Paradis, if you will) and the French half of the Fierce People was off to the toilet.

"Hey, I have something to tell you," whispered the American half of the FP combo, conspiratorially.

"Do tell..." said I, intrigued.

"Well, you know how we had our German friend staying over the weekend?" he said. "Well, while the husband was out at work on Monday, I had a little indiscretion".

He smiled at me with a very large twinkle in his eye.

"You mean that you and Herman the German did the dirty?" I asked.

He nodded, winked and smiled.

"I take it husband doesn't know about this?"

He nodded again. I gave him a good old gay high five and we giggled like schoolgirls. Husband soon joined us, fresh from the bathroom and we dropped that subject and started to chat about other things that have been happening in our uneventful and quiet lives.

A couple of friends came and joined us, told us about how their cocktail party had been curtailed by one of the female guests dropping her cumbersome breasts into a bowl of crème anglaise that was destined for the mille feuilles.

They left and were replaced by a lovely boy with whom I had a thing a while ago. He pushes the snack trolley on the TGV to Marseille and so was, naturally, never real boyfriend material.

When he left us, so the American half of the FP headed off for a cigarette on the bar terrace.

"I have something to tell you," said the French boy. "But you must promise to keep it as our secret..."

"Okaaaaay....." I said.

"Well, while my Hubbie was out walking the dog on Sunday, I let our German friend do terrible things to me." He said this with one eyebrow raised and a very large smirk.

"Wow" said I. "You are a disgrace"

And, with that, we too high-fived and giggled like schoolgirls.

"What's to laugh about?" said the American returning from his cigarette.

"Oh, nothing really" said I. "I'm just so glad I met you two. You make me feel so less cheap than I normally would."

They exchanged confused glances and I headed off to buy drinks.

See. It's not just me.

Everybody's doing it.

Must be the summer.

Sticky fingers

2009-08-16T22:58:00.002+02:00

I'm stood in the Marais. I have a beer waiting for me at a table, but it's getting warm while I speak on the phone to Florida Boy. God bless him, he's trying to pretend that our conversation last week never happened. Full marks for effort.

As I stand there next to the café, a woman and her daughter approach me.

The mother is around 70 years of age, a big lady but well dressed. The daughter - around 35 years old. She's wearing a lovely white dress with a purple floral print. She has a purple short cardigan and the most amazing lilac silk platform pumps on her feet.

The pair of them are accompanied by a standard poodle. White/blonde, the poodle is an elegant dog. Not clipped or trimmed, but au naturel. Nonetheless very elegant.

As they get close to me, the dog drops to its haunches and takes a dump.

I appreciate that this has to happen so, in itself, the act of the dog shitting doesn't really offend me.

However what happened after DID offend me.

The daughter bent down and picked up the dog shit. She picked up all four/five pieces and took them over to, and dropped them into the nearest bin.

She did this totally bare-handed. I mean really. No glove, no bag, no nothing.

She then took out of her pocket a tissue. She wiped the shit off her fingers onto the tissue and returned it to her pocket.

The mother turned to her. She was clearly as amazed by this behaviour as the rest of the people in the street.

"You may have had a good education," she said in French to her daughter, " but you are a fucking idiot".

And with that, the daughter slapped her (with her shitty fingers) and walked off.

The dog, torn between the two of them, didn't know which way to go.

As the mother stood there crying, I ended my phone call and returned to my beer.

Really, some things you just couldn't make up.

Nasty, nasty, nasty.

If I knew where I stood, I'd be standing there

2009-08-13T19:50:00.003+02:00

So, Wednesday.

It was never going to be a good day. I had to travel to and from UK head office in the same day, in order to be back here for a meeting the next day. Before I went to bed on Tuesday night I knew that Wednesday would start early and finish late.

Unfortunately, it started late as I hit the snooze button on my alarm clock one too many times and fell asleep. Running through the shower and jumping into clothes, I heard the crackberry ping - an email. But I truly didn't have time to look at it.

I got my shit together and walked - very quickly - to the Gare de Lyon to get the train out to the airport. It's now 6.00 am.

Halfway to the station, I remembered the email.

It was from Florida Boy and innocently entitled 'Hey there!'

So I open it and start to read.

It wasn't the romantic start to my day that I usually get from him.

"I love you lots....how is this ever going to work?....is it possible to make something from what we have....I don't know how we can ever make this work long distance....I wish you lived closer...." and so on.

You get the drift.

It's true, the distance is a huge deal. I'm not sure how we ever would make it work. But maybe some things are worth struggling for. Maybe this is one of those things.

But then I read on.

"I don't expect you to be a saint while I'm not in Paris....I'm sure you've been seeing other people...."

Well, you all know that I've not been a saint. But we'd discussed our attitude to sex vs love many times and neither of us were under any illusions.

"Thing is, I've been seeing someone too....I don't know where it's heading....but I really like him....I think it might be something good".

Well, that was kind of like getting shot.

And, no word of a lie, as I read this line, the telephone rang and it was him.

"I didn't mean to send it, don't read it" he sounded panicked.

"I read it" I said. "What does it mean?"

"It means nothing, really, nothing"

"But..."

"Well, I still really want to see if we can make something together, but I just wanted to be honest with you" he said.

Turns out, he had sex with this guy - which doesn't at all bother me - but then the sex dates turned into proper 'date' dates - which we said we wouldn't do to each other - and he's 'not sure' how he feels about him. But he's desperate to see me and see how that works out.

The more he talks, the more he tells me that this guy isn't anything important. Nobody special.

But you know what? He has three weeks before he comes to see me, the other guy is local and I may as well be a million miles away. If this guy likes FB, he's going to be going all out to get him before he comes this way.

I really hate this kind of situation. Being put in competition with someone else. Having to prove you're the best man for the job. My natural instinct is to walk away. Close the door. Save my heart. But this time I think I should persevere.

So I talk awhile, but ultimately have to leave the conversation with him. I have to go to the airport and get to the UK.

In the UK, I lurch from dreadful meeting to dreadful meeting. My final meeting of the day ends with my boss asking me to stay behind to speak to her - and she then cusses me out (impressively so, I'd say) for being 'snippy' with her on the phone the previous day. I give as good as I get, but still, it's hard.

I leave the office in the UK, and head to the airport.

I get on the plane and fly to Paris.

I get back to my house at 11,30pm.

At this point, I'm knackered. Emotionally drained. Exhausted.

Florida boy calls.

It's all I can do to answer the phone. It's as much as I can do talk to him.

I tell him that we'll talk again tomorrow.

I go to bed wishing that my life never sees another day like this one.

So now it's Thursday and I spoke to him again today. I felt like I was just going through the motions.

How easily we are let down.

I honestly, truly do not have a clue. I don't what to think. I don't know what to feel.

I don't feel let down, much, but more that we agreed on a policy of 'no dates other than sex' and he reneged on the deal.

But the thing is, long-distance will always be like this. There'll always be a chance that one of us will have his head turned by someone local and the other will get his heart broken. Is that anyway for either of us to live? Under constant threat of being replaced?

Really? I just want to walk away. But I don't think I can.

On happiness

2009-08-12T23:38:00.001+02:00

I fear I spoke too soon.

Nanterre Préfecture > Gare de Lyon

2009-08-10T19:26:00.010+02:00

On the RER A, heading home. As everyone in cars takes advantage of the empty August roads and gets home early, for those of us who travel underground it's the opposite. August means less trains, less frequencies. August means getting home later than usual.

The woman sat opposite me has an amazing wig on. She's quite beautiful, but I wonder if she hasn't picked up on the fact that the wig looks like it's made from black bin bags, so shiny and plastic-looking it is.

The man next to me has beautiful forearms and chronic body odour. Those arms are like a slice of heaven reaching out from the hell of his mansmell.

Across the aisle there is a middle aged woman, sat on a carrier bag - obviously the seats on public transport are too dirty for her. She's not so germ-averse though. She's been biting the skin on the knuckle of her thumb for the past ten minutes. What's she so nervous about? The germs?

I'm listening to Little boots on the iPod. Stuck on repeat.

I turn her off and reach for my book. The Secret Scripture. Beautiful. I hold my bag on my knee and turn the pages.

The stinking guy next to me gets off at Etoile.

He is replaced by a North African guy. Short, stocky, filling his jeans in a good way. He's with someone - friend? colleague? - and they sit next to me and opposite me, respectively. The black woman with the wig shifts uncomfortably and grips her bag.

The guy next to me smells totally different to the previous occupier of the seat. The smell is pure 1980's. Kouros? Paco Rabanne? Aramis? It's pure 80's and hot to the point of distraction. I fold the page corner and put the book in the bag. I close my eyes and enjoy the trip back in time.

He gets off at Auber and is replaced by a shopgirl. She's about fifty, wearing the trademark black and red of Lafayette. I wonder which department she calls home. Mens socks? Ladies evening wear? Small electrical?

I think about what's lying ahead this week. Drinks with friends. Dinner with others. More friends arriving at the end of the week to spend the weekend together. I have housework to do first. I need to do some grocery shopping. Remember to buy champagne.

The shop worker starts sending text messages, giggling to herself as she does. It makes me think of the messages I got today when I announced online that my day wasn't going so great. I have some calls to make tonight. Friends.

Smiling to myself, I get out my book and open it again where I left off, unfolding the corner as I go.

I read the next line.

"It is always worth itemising happiness, there is so much of the other thing in a life, you had better put down the markers for happiness while you can."

My markers are here. Right here. Right now. I don't mean the train. I don't necessarily mean Paris. I mean in my heart. In my head.

This is the time I will look back on as the time I was happy.

I'm throwing down my markers.

Burning up for your love

2009-08-09T09:39:00.006+02:00

In my last post I told you how I'd planned a big weekend - to get back my mojo, to re-discover my missing muse, to find my groove again.

Well, no sooner had I posted, than I started to feel a little bit hot. A bit sticky. Hot behind the eyes, achey of limb. And that's how I ended up spending the last 36 hours in bed.

Ridiculous.

I even had to cancel a date that I had organised for yesterday evening. And trust me, this isn't a guy I'd be cancelling unless I really had to.

So, do you think it's a higher power reining me in? I've asked myself this question over the last couple of days.

There are two weekends now before Florida Boy arrives - the first one I have friends visiting me, the second I'm in the UK at a wedding, so there's no chance between now and his arrival of me behaving badly. This was the only weekend where such a thing would have been possible.

This was the weekend that I was planning to be a bad boy. Planning to get me some loving that I wouldn't be telling Florida Boy about.

And that's why I question whether someone 'up there' struck me down on purpose. Gave me a bug that lasted from friday afternoon until sunday morning to keep me out of the cheating zone.

I wonder.

Fate? Anyone?

Absent muse

2009-08-07T12:50:00.002+02:00

I'm back from holidays, back from birthday weekend and back in the office again.

Somewhere along the way I lost the muse. A temporary blip, I'm sure.

In fact, so concerned am I that I've organised a weekend of TBNIL style fun....hopefully it'll be enough to help me get my groove back (the writing groove, that is) and may even provide me with a couple of tales for y'all....

And with the weekend I have in mind, if there aren't at least two posts from it then I'll be disappointed.

Wish me luck.

And the French for "excuse me" is...?

2009-08-06T22:20:00.004+02:00

Well, apparently there is no French word for excuse me. It's 'stand and point'. Or just 'stand'.

I appreciate that this is the second post of my forties and it's a rant. Yes that scares me too.

I promise you that I'm not yet the grumpy old man that I am destined to become. But the thing is, I'm just back from the cinema, and you know what drives me crazy? People who can't say "excuse me".

You see, I like to sit on the aisle - more leg room, more elbow space, etc. But this does mean that people need to get past me. Here's a typical scenario:

Boy to girl - "Let's sit there", gesturing at seats in my row.

Girl to boy - "Yes, that seems like a good spot", again, gesturing to the seats beyond mine.

Boy to girl - "So, shall we sit there then?"

Girl to boy - "Yes, let's do it"

And then they stand there. They hover in the aisle next to where I'm sat.

Me to girl and boy - "Are you OK there?"

Boy to me - "Yes fine thanks", gesturing towards seats next to me.

Me to boy - "Did you want to get past me?"

Boy to me - "Yes, we want to sit there" points at said seats.

Me to boy - "The accepted protocol in these situations is that you say 'excuse me, may we come past you please' and I say 'of course you may' and then I stand up and let you past". Well I don't say all of this, but I allude to it with a tut and an eyeroll.

This happens a lot.

At the cinema, on aeroplanes, on trains. What happened to a simple "excuse me"?

I'm a nice guy. I don't look all that intimidating. I don't touch (too many) people inappropriately as they pass.

I just like a bit of courtesy.

Too much to ask?

(note to self : do NOT let this become a habit. An occasional rant is fine, but people don't want to hear your moaning self complaining all the time. Stop it now or people will start calling you O.L.D.)

Missing a bit

2009-08-03T10:36:00.004+02:00

In the photo I received by email this morning, it's Saturday morning, 3am and I'm dancing in Birmingham's oldest, biggest and gayest gay club.

Dancing with a whole load of friends, plus my boss and two other members of the board of directors where I work.

Yes, it seems that I invited them. Don't ask me why. I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time.

In fact, the birthday party went really well - it was a good mix of 40 friends, family and a select few colleagues who have become friends over the years.

I'm not sure that my boss expected to ever see me stood in front of a room of drunkards, wearing a pair of bunny ears, demonstrating a pair of furry handcuffs and drinking champagne from the bottle through a straw shaped like a penis, but hey - she needs to love me or leave me, right?

Now, I'm sure exciting/crazy/worrying things happened and that hilariousness did indeed ensue, but I was just a little too, erm, drunk to remember. I'd love to be recounting tales of crazy mothers and idiot friends, but I truly don't remember.

See, the thing is, I remember telling people at the restaurant that we were off to the nightclub, and then I remember waking up at my Mom's house.

The whole period between those two events is lost forever.

At least I hope it is.

Please don't tell me what I did. I don't want to know....

The roaring forties

2009-07-30T14:16:00.002+02:00

I'm in mourning. Although not dead yet, a good friend of mine is at death's door. Not long left at all. Hours, in fact.

Who is this friend? It's my youth. My younger years. My pre-middle-age.

That's right folks, I turn forty tomorrow and I'm pretty sad to be leaving my thirties behind. But hey, time waits for no man, right? I guess I'm lucky to still have these rugged good looks.

With it being my fortieth and all, I thought I'd give you a list. We bloggers love these lists, right? The big question is what kind of list to give you.

I've been thinking about it these last few days, and in the end I decided that it would be a happy list. A really happy list. A list of the things that make me smile, things that I love, things that bring me joy.

Here goes.

1. Waking up in Paris, never gets old.

2. American Boy, the song, not the Floridian.

3. But while I'm at it, Florida Boy also makes the list

4. My 5 year old niece and her curiously well formed opinions

5. My 7 year old nephew and his big heart

6. Dancing to seventies disco classics

7. French toast, with maple syrup

8. A hairy chest on a handsome man

9. A cold beer with a view of the sunset

10. Trainers/sneakers - all of them

11. The Air France Lounge at Roissy 2E

12. Thorntons Continental

13. Overnight train journeys

14. Massaman curry at the Thai Rainbow

15. My Mom and all of her little foibles and idiosyncracies

16. Yes sir, I can boogie

17. Gin and Tonic, with a squeeze of lemon

18. Big C and nights out being stupid

19. New glasses, choosing them, buying them, wearing them

20. Late night taxi rides in foreign cities

21. Holding hands with someone I love

22. The DumbAss Yank and his ropey Aussie accent

23. Tokyo

24. Falling in love with a book

25. Sudoku

26. McVities Digestives

27. Friends meeting me at the airport

28. Free upgrades. Anytime, anywhere

29. Hawaii

30. The Fierce People and their Paris madness

31. Arguing about what rocks with my Lovely Dutch/Welsh friend

32. Café Crème, rue de Birague

33. Trocadéro at sunrise

34. The first view of the sea

35. Sex, of course

36. Weekends in foreign cities on my own

37. Blogging

38. My Friends

39. My Family

40. My Life

How's that?

I realise I'm lucky. I realise that I have everything I could wish for.

So many things on my list are just luxuries that make life great, but you know what?

You could take them all away and leave me just my friends.

I'd still be the luckiest guy on earth.

My life is good and complete because of my friends.

Without them, it'd be an empty shell, an idea of a life, a life unlived.

I know that the good times are officially here. Instead of hoping for better things round the corner, I'm just going to ask that things stay as good as they are at the moment.

Whilst I mourn the passing of my thirties, I step into my forties as a happy, lucky, smiling man.

Really. How great is that?

The whole nine yards

2009-07-28T23:28:00.003+02:00

So, I'm sat in the bar having a drink with the Fierce People and a couple of other friends.

This guy comes over, clearly drunk. He turns to my Newly Forty Friend and says...

"You're sexy, man"

"Thanks" says NFF, and carries on talking to us.

"I'm good at eating ass" says the drunk guy. I apologise for the potty talk, but that's what he said, in French.

"Whatever" says NFF.

"Well, how about this?" says the guy. "It's 23cms you know..."

And with that, he flops out one of the largest penises I have ever seen. In the middle of the bar. Opens the trousers and flops it out. Just like that.

Well, it was impressive enough in terms of both length and girth, but that wasn't what will stick in my memory.

The penis, it seems, came with its own individual perfume. A scent so strong and malodourous that I could smell it from where I was sat - at least ten feet away. It smelt like a slice of gorgonzola that had been stuffed inside an old man's sock and left out in the sun for a day or two.

As eyes started to water and people started to dry retch, the NFF turned to the drunk guy.

"Think about washing it ever?" he said.

"Sometimes I wash him" said the drunk guy. "But he doesn't like the water so much".

And with that, I picked up my drink and went in search of alternative entertainment.

France may be famous for cheese but, trust me, this was a fromage too far.

Move along, there's nothing to see here....

2009-07-27T20:45:00.004+02:00

Yep, that's the reputation that Ankara has got - not much to do, not much to see.

I know one person who has been there before - my Lovely Flying Friend - and when I told him that I was going to Turkey's capital his response was 'to the point'.

"What do you want to go there for?" he said.

"Because I've never been there" I answered. Although, to be perfectly honest, this wasn't the total truth.

You see, in the world of TBNIL there's a list of historical figures that I would, well, you know....that I would. And although not on top, pretty high up the list is one Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, the founding father of modern Turkey.

Atatürk took an islamic, tribal, disjointed and old-fashioned country and transformed it - in less than one generation - into a modern, secular, westward-looking society. He gave women rights, re-established Turkish history and language, separated the state from the religious leaders and brought about the kind of change that Obama can only dream about.

On top of all this, he was a handsome man with a twinkle in his eye. And he looked very fine in a dinner suit...

So, it was largely a historical fuck-fantasy that had me flying high above the Anatolian plain to the joy that is modern day Ankara. Heading to the centre of the nation to see the mausoleum, museum and, indeed, the legacy of the great man.

What I found wasn't a sleepy backwater. Nor was it a Stepford-ish modern capital that so often exists when government and business are in different towns. As brash, loud and obnoxious as Istanbul is, I was expecting Ankara to be provincial, dowdy, boring.

I was wrong.

The city was buzzy, lively, young and trendy. Especially so in the areas of Kizilay and Cavaklidere, which both had great café cultures and plenty of terraces from which to watch the young and beautiful parade themselves. The not so young and the not so beautiful were there too, so I didn't feel left out.

True, there's not much to see and not much to do. But if you're happy with a museum, a mausoleum and a toot round the shops, then it's a great spot.

I was sad to leave, but happy to be getting back to normalcy and to not worrying about how much the calls are costing to and from Florida.

Oh yeah, me and Florida are getting on fine. I figured the trip to Turkey would give us a bit of a break from each other - time to think about what on earth is going on. I was wrong.

We spoke twice a day, every day and never did we struggle for things to say. I'm not sure how that happened. I'm not sure when this became a twice-a-day thing. I'm not sure, I'm not sure, I'm not sure.

We have a day and a night in London when he comes over at the end of next month. We're going to see a show that he's desperate to get to.

"You know when we're in London in September?" he said to me last week. I said that I did. "Well, am I going to meet your Mom?"

"Do you want to meet her?" I asked, a little taken aback. I took a swift gulp of my gin and tonic. "Really?"

"Well, I'm going to have to meet her one day, so why not?" he said. "After all, I bet she's dying to meet me..."

At the end of the call, I poured myself another drink and went for a big lie down.

Be careful what you wish for, young Florida Boy, you might just get it.....

Frights, heights and Turkish delights....

2009-07-26T11:31:00.002+02:00

Merhaba!

Here I am ın Ankara, Turkey at the end of an almost-three-week trip. It's hot and sunny and smells of sweat, but hey, I'm sure that I probably do too, such ıs the heat - today ıs a cool day and ıt's 41 degrees ın the shade....

Anyway, it's been a holıday of extreme lazıng, loafıng and layıng about. Really, I don't thınk I've been thıs lazy ın, well, ın ever really. Totally lazy. Totally relaxed. Beautıful.

Being this lazy ısn't conducıve to tales and to blogging, let me tell you. With my loyal readershıp ın mınd, I dıd try and have a couple of adventures, but they maınly ended ın me sıttıng ın the shade, readıng a book. Yes folks, we're a long way from Paris!

Havıng sat ın the shade and read a book at the beach heaven that ıs Olü Denız (also home to the tourıst hell that ıs Olü Denız) me and the Lovely Dutch Gırl, wıfe of Welsh Dutch Frıend who was sat at the pool ıgnorıng our need for adventure, decıded we'd drıve down the coast to Kalkan for dınner.

I'd looked at the map and spotted a coast road that looked a lot shorter than the hıghway - and a lot prettıer too, one would ımagıne.

Havıng drıven the fırst sıx swıtchbacks up the mountaın, my braveness dıssappeared. On the verge of tears and two tıcks away from a nervous breakdown, I stopped the car and jumped out.

"You have to drıve now" I saıd to LDG.

"But I've never drıven the car before" she saıd.

As I started to shake, she took the keys and took the wheel.

We headed up and up, clıngıng to the sıde of the mountaın, on a road that was wıde enough for one and a half cars - wıth no barrıer or anythıng at all to stop us goıng over the edge.

"Thıs ıs where I dıe" thought I. "Here, today, on thıs road, I dıe" - I've always been a bıt dramatıc.

As we get further along the road - ıt's been swıtchback turns, awful hılls and steep descents for thırty mınutes now - the tarmac ends.

And then, as suddenly as the tarmac ended, so the gravel path that the road had turned ınto became completely, absolutely, wıthout-a-shadow-of-a-doubt undrıveable.

LDG stopped the car.

"We have to turn around" she saıd, matter-of-factly.

"But we're on a narrow ledge. We'll dıe" saıd I.

I got out of the car and trıed to compose myself. I closed my eyes. I dıd breathıng exercıses. I managed not to cry. There really was no alternatıve. Short of clımbıng the 200 metres down the clıff face and attractıng the attentıon of a passıng boat, there was no alternatıve.

We had to retrace our steps. Take the same road back agaın.

I got ın the car and sat there, tense, dyıng, shıt-scared.

I've never been so scared ın all my lıfe.

We made ıt down the mountaın, by whıch poınt I truly dıdn't care that the town of Olü Denız ıs the most hateful, chavvy, vıle, tourısty, nasty mıstreatment of one of the most beautıful spots ın the eastern med - I needed a drınk and I needed ıt badly.

I guess the fırst moral of the story for me ıs to take tıme to read maps. Apparently a green lıne means 'unmade track'. If only I'd bothered to check that before settıng out...

The other moral of the story for me ıs much sımpler, and faırly easy to ımplement.

Never, ever, ever, leave home wıthout a spare paır of clean underpants.

There's a paır ın my bag today. And all I have planned ıs a lıttle lıght shoppıng.

Turkey with all the trimmings

2009-07-10T00:09:00.000+02:00

So the trip to Istanbul is just a couple of days of down time - time alone to chill, relax, wind down before I fly to the south of Turkey to meet my friends for the holiday proper.

The last time I was in Istanbul it was new year's eve four years ago, and it was cold. Grey, wet and cold.

This time the weather couldn't be more different if it tried. It's hot, sunny and dry. It's blue skies and not a cloud in sight. It's better this way.

The last time I was here I had a sticky moment with a belly-dancing lovely.

You see, me and my Best Girl Friend had come to Istanbul to escape the christmas overkill.

We'd been successfully avoiding the worst of the holidays for a couple of years by travelling to countries where christmas isn't the done thing. Morocco had been great for us, twice. Egypt had been excellent. Both had given us cold days, but blue skies.

While Istanbul didn't deliver on the weather, we fell in love with the place for many other reasons, including the friendliness of the locals.

Having visited a particular restaurant twice already (it was handy for late night food near the hotel) BGF and I ended up being invited to see in the new year there too - the owner told us it would be a special evening with good food and entertainment.

He didn't lie. The food was excellent, and there was entertainment in the form of local musicians and dancers. Alas, because of how my seat was positioned, I couldn't see much of the entertainment without pulling a muscle in my neck.

Thus, I was more than a little surprised when BGF whispered "She's coming for you, watch out".

And that's when I found a belly-dancer gyrating next to me.

As she wiggled her charms, the restaurant started to clap along to the music. I wasn't sure what to do next.

Should I stand and dance with her? Should I too clap along? Should I smile and hope it all stops soon?

I didn't do any of these things.

You see, she had on a sturdy-looking brassiere type device that had got notes tucked into it - obviously where she keeps her tips from the other customers that she had danced for. So being a brave man, and wanting to do what I presumed everyone else had done, I reached into my pocket and got out a 10 lira note.

I stood up in front of everyone, folded the note and tucked it inside the lady's brassiere.

Everyone stopped clapping.

She looked at me stunned, turned and ran off.

"What did I do?" I said to BGF.

"Everyone else just handed her the money...." she said.

Seems that I had just treated a lovely Muslim lady like a common or garden hooker, in front of the whole restaurant.

She didn't reappear. The rest of the restaurant soon got back to chatting and clapping to the musicians, but for me and BGF the mood was lost. The service from the waiters deteriorated immediately. When the time came to pay the manager, the money was received with a grunt rather than the usual friendly request to come back soon.

I walked past that restaurant this afternoon.

Well, that's a lie.

I saw the restaurant, I crossed over the road and I walked faster until it was behind me.

I'll be seeking out new eateries on this trip. Let's hope I can stay out of trouble.

The lady and the tramp

2009-07-09T06:00:00.002+02:00

So, here’s a cautionary tale if ever there was one. It's a story that I’ve been building up to sharing with you, such is my shame.

Now, you know that if it’s something that I’m embarrassed by then it must be pretty awful, right? Well, it is. Awful and embarrassing and nasty and just plain awful.

I cringe every time I think about it.

I have only ever told one person about it, and he claimed to be very supportive. I guess he was, if you count ‘rolling on the floor laughing, clutching his sides in hysteria’ being supportive. I actually don’t.

So, it all takes place a while back. Long enough ago for me to have gotten over it, recent enough for me to still be dying a little every time I think about it.

I’d been in one of my usual haunts in Paris and had had a couple of beers.

This handsome guy came up to talk to me. He was fortyish, greying, handsome. He had a great smile and a compact yet sturdy body. "Be still my beating heart", thought I.

Turns out that he’s Italian, speaks basic French and tells me that he’s on a training course in Paris. He’s a dental technician – makes false teeth – and he’s training in a lab in the 16th. He tells me that he’s living in a shared house in the 'burbs.

So we chat – as best we can with the language barrier – and we dance and we have a good fun evening. As it gets later, we do the usual….we kiss, we have a bit of a pash and we decide that we need to take this elsewhere.

With him living out in the suburbs, I take him back to mine. We walk home from the bar, stopping occasionally to top up the passion levels. This guy is hot. He’s wearing a leather jacket, black shirt, dark jeans and loafers. He was carrying a laptop bag. Classy enough for me.

We get to mine and before we head to the bedroom he asks if he can shower.

While he’s in the shower, I have to get something from the bathroom and notice that the water is filthy. I don’t really think too much of it – those Paris streets are dirty and loafers with no socks can leave your feet dirty, right?

I also note that he is washing his underpants and socks in the shower. I don’t think this is odd, curiously enough.

So, eventually we make it to the bedroom. It’s already early in the morning and we spend the next few hours doing what you’d expect. It was dirty (in a good way), hot and passionate. I still rate this amongst the best sex that I’ve ever had.

The sex is over and it’s time for him to leave.

"Can I stay for a bit longer?" he said.

"Well, not really," say I. "It’s already 6am and I have to get some sleep and meet friends at 9.00"

"Well, maybe I can sleep here while you meet your friends?"

"That’s not really going to happen is it? I don’t know you, so why would I leave you in the house on your own?"

"OK" he said, and he went to the bathroom to collect his still-wet laundry.

"Maybe you could give me some money?" he said, as he got dressed.

"Why would I do that?" I answered, somewhat stunned.

"Because I have no money, I need to eat".

"What?"

"I have nowhere to live, I am on the streets, give me some money!" and at this point the penny dropped.

I’d been fucking a tramp.

The dirty feet, the washing of the underpants, the laptop bag filled with junk.

He was tanned because he lived on the streets. His whole story had been a lie.

Thank goodness that I only ever have safe sex.

I started to look around and make sure that nothing had been taken. I’d had some english money on the sideboard and noticed that it was gone. It was only a tenner, but still.

He caught my eye as I twigged that the cash was missing. He looked sheepish and handed me the note.

"I only wanted it to buy something to eat" he said.

And that’s when I grabbed his sorry ass and dragged it out of my apartment, furious.

In the hallway, I emptied his bag to make sure that nothing else was in there. I pulled out his pockets and checked that he had stolen nothing else.

Then I got him out of the building.

Holding him by the neck against the wall of my building, I did my best ‘macho gay’ thing. It was more Vin Diesel than Bruce Willis, but I'll live with that.

"If you are not gone from here in ten seconds I will call the police. I will kick your thieving ass and I will then call the police. If I see you anywhere near this building ever again I will kick your ass and then I will call the police".

I let him go and he dropped to the floor.

He picked himself and ran off. Really, he ran away.

I went back to the apartment and took the longest shower of my life.

In some ways this is a funny story – I mean, fucking a homeless guy is kind of hilarious, in a life-out-of-control kind of way. But it is more sad than funny. More scary than hilarious.

I told you it was a life lesson, and boy did I learn something that night.

I learnt that drink isn’t always my best friend, but equally I’m not sure I wouldn’t do the same again, given the evening that we had spent together.

I also learnt that if someone has filthy feet it’s possibly because they sleep on the streets.

Equally I learnt that I’m not a pushover. That I can handle situations. That I can be strong of body as well as of spirit when needs be.

But I also learnt that I need to calm down. To sleep around less and to focus on finding l’homme de ma vie.

A couple of weeks later I met Florida Boy. And the tramp faded into the past.

Getting preposterous on the Bosphorus*

2009-07-08T10:20:00.004+02:00

Holidayeee! Celebraaaate!

Oh yeah, it's that time of year. Every so often I get the opening bars from the Madonna classic in my head and I know that summer vacation is here.

Such joy.

No work for three weeks.

Tonight I'm taking a flight to Istanbul and I'll be getting all preposterous by the Bosphorus for the next few days before heading to a fabulous villa on the Turquoise Riviera for a couple of weeks.

I'm guessing Istanbul will involve a whole raft of ridiculousness - a little hammam therapy, a little mosque visiting, a little bit of Topkapi palace harem envy and a spot of nocturnal Turkish bear-chasing.

No doubt there'll be a kebab and a cocktail in there somewhere too.

So, while you are all slaving away at your day jobs, think of me, cruising past the Golden Horn, enjoying the sun on my face, the wind in my hair and the view of Turkish sailors in their cute little uniforms.

Before I go, I'm going to leave you with one more post. As tales go, it's comedy, tragedy and a life-lesson all rolled into one.

It'll be with you soon.

Meanwhile, take care of yourselves in my absence. I'll try and post from the coast, but I'm not making any promises. If all else fails, I'll see you at the end of the month!

Miss me loads!

TBNIL xxx

* credit CB / Bette Midler

My mom and the BBC (that's Big Black Cock, between you and me)

2009-07-07T00:01:00.000+02:00

Now, you may think that this post title is just there to get me loads of extra hits. Trust me it's not, but I've no doubt it'll up the numbers somewhat.

I don't know about my fellow bloggers, but I use Google Analytics to keep track of readership stats, etc. I know, it's a bit OCD of me, but I like to know how many people love me. A usual month these days sees around 2500 visits - I'm not sure if that's good or bad, but it's a treat for my poor undernourished ego.

Anyway, that's not what this is about.

You may remember my experience with the DumbAss Yank in Brussels at the Taschen store? Well, stupidly (or brilliantly perhaps?) I ended up in the Paris branch of Taschen with my Mom last weekend.

I was hoping that she might spot something to buy me for my birthday in there. She didn't.

Anyway, I had my head in a lovely book of Eero Saarinen architecture when I realised that I'd lost her. She'd left the pretty architecture and fancy hotel section of the shop and was nowhere to be seen.

And then I found her.

In the 'adult' section.

Now, not only was she in the 'adult' section, but she'd found herself a lovely copy of the 'Big Penis Book' to leaf through.

When I caught up with her, she was flush of face and not a little giggly.

"What would you do with this, bab?" she asked, opening the book to reveal a photo of a black chap with a penis that could only be described as, erm, long, thin and scary. Really, it was hanging to the middle of his shin.

"I guess you'd wear it as a scarf" I said, trying to sound comfortable with the conversation.

"Well, I think it's awful" she said. "But this one...." and she turned to the page that her other finger had been marking.

This second page contained yet another 'gentleman of colour' and his member. But this time the penis was meatier. It was less long, but what it lacked in length - and it lacked nothing in length really, but was just not as much of a record breaker as the previous offering - anyway, what it lacked in length, it certainly made up for in girth.

"I like this one" she said.

"Right" said I, now visibly squirming. "Let's go".

I took her for ice cream at the gelateria next door in an attempt to take her mind of the book.

As she tucked into her ice cream - she chose 'dark chocolate and cream', no lie - she turned to me with a pensive, serious look on her face.

"It's a wonder that you and your brother aren't coffee-coloured boys" she said.

I spluttered my Dulce de Leche over the shopping bags.

Sometimes I wish we could just bond over shoes.

Don't go chasin' waterfalls

2009-07-06T10:15:00.004+02:00

While I’d been throwing some laundry in the machine, tidying the bathroom, making a drink and arranging some fancy snacks on plates, my Mother had been sitting watching the TV.

I'm not telling you this for sympathy. I'm not complaining, nor trying to make myself seem like Cinderella here. I just wanted to set the scene a little.

See, my Mom likes a bit of French TV, even though she doesn’t understand it.

She likes to watch the crappy gameshows and try to guess what the objective is. She also loves – as do I – the French version of Wheel of Fortune. Alas, she rarely gets any of the words, but enjoys shouting at the screen nonetheless.

Nonetheless, when I walked back into the living room with snacks and drinks, I was a little surprised by the scene that greeted me.

My mother was sat watching the French ‘Who wants to be a millionaire’.

Since getting back from a day pounding the hot streets of Paris, she’d taken the time to change out of her 'street clothes' and into her pyjamas. She'd folded away her clothes, taken her shoes and changed them for slippers. Alas, she hadn’t thought about changing her glasses.

So she was there, on the sofa, in pink pyjamas and oversized Dior sunglasses.

It was like a scene from Katie and Peter. Actually, she reminded me more of Ozzy Osbourne.

"Who are you trying to be?" I asked her. "The prince of darkness?"

"What do you mean?" she said, looking surprised.

"The glasses, Mom. The glasses".

At which point she realised that she’d been watching TV with her sunglasses on for the last hour.

Now, I’m a giggler and this is a trait that I get from my Mother. However, since my Mom reached a certain age, there’s always been a cautious side to her laughter. Laugh too much and she, erm, well, she 'loses control'.

And that’s exactly what happened.

Tickled by how ridiculous she looked, my Mom started to laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

She laughed to the point where she was crying, where she was gasping for breath.

To the point where she wet herself.

Yep, she pissed her pants, on my sofa.

And that’s when I started laughing too.

What other choice did I have?

What time is it? Mother time...

2009-07-03T10:46:00.008+02:00

Yesterday was hot. I’m not complaining – Lord knows we don’t get enough warm days around here – but it was hot. Sweat-trickling-down-my-ass-crack hot. I know, you didn’t need to be told that, right?

So after a day of sweating in an office with windows that can’t be opened (because of the construction site next door), I ran home to change into shorts and a t-shirt. I had to be at the airport to collect my Mother, and if I was going to brave the RER B, it certainly wouldn’t be in my work clothes.

The RER B was as bad I had thought it would be, so, even though the quick change was a nuisance, it turned out to be a great idea. Arriving at the airport, I was happy to step out of the sticky train and into the airconditioned loveliness of Charles de Gaulle.

I say loveliness, but as anyone who has been there knows, CDG is not lovely. It is impressive and utilitarian, but not lovely.

I got to the arrivals just as my Mom’s flight was declared to have ‘landed’. ‘Posé – 19.40’, said the screen.

And then the status of the flight didn’t change.

I waited, and I waited. The Air France desk knew nothing.

An hour after the flight landed, my mobile rang.

"It’s me" said my Mother. "I’m still on the plane"

Whilst I’d been stuck in the bowels of terminal 2, I hadn’t noticed the weather outside. It had changed from hot and sunny to hot and stormy. With thunder, lightening and torrential rain. And therein lay the problem.

The aircraft was at a remote stand, and they couldn’t get the passengers off the plane and onto a bus until the risk of a lightening strike had passed.

An hour later, she called me again.

"I’m still on the plane, but it’s all ok" she said. "I have a ham sandwich, an orange juice and I can use the toilet whenever I like". Whoever said she was difficult to please?

Two hours later, almost three hours after the plane had landed, my Mother emerged from the French customs area.

I gave her a hug and the usual "welcome to Paris" and then realised that something was a bit odd. Her outfit was fine, her hair was its usual self, but the accessories….what was going on?

"Are you wearing three watches?" I said, looking incredulously at my mother’s wrists.

"Oh, erm, I suppose I am, yes" she said. "I couldn’t decide which one looked best."

"So you decided to wear all three?"

"Well, to be honest, I put all three on to see which one looked best and then forgot to choose". She said, sheepishly. "To be honest, I hadn’t really noticed it until you said".

And there we go. She’s here for the weekend.

Let the games begin.

First I was afraid, I was petrified

2009-07-01T08:54:00.010+02:00

Last night I went for dinner with Skaterboy and a couple of his friends. The invitation seemed innocent enough, but as the evening progressed I got the feeling that I was there to get the approval (or not) of his friends. It was a bit, erm, unusual.

As we walked back to mine, I decided to ask him.

"Was I being assessed back there? Being judged?"

"What do you mean?" said Skaterboy.

"Well, I felt like Fantasia Burrito waiting for Randy Jackson to tell her that she's 'da bomb', you know?"

He laughed, as he does when he has no idea of what I'm talking about. I guess translating 'da bomb' into French didn't help.

"Well, if this is going somewhere" he said, "it's important that you get along with my friends..."

And that's when I slammed on the mental brakes. I screeched to a halt.

"If this is going somewhere?" I said.

"Well, you know, I like my boyfriends to get along with my friends."

While the idea of boyfriends seemed quite nice as we were walking home, hand in hand, through a balmy Paris evening, the reality hit once we got back to my place.

As we were getting down to business, I couldn't stop thinking about the Florida Boy. I'd missed his call while I was at dinner with Skaterboy. Given a choice between being where I was - in bed, banging the brains out of the hot frenchman - or returning FB's call, I knew that I wanted to be on the phone.

So, as I headed off to work this morning, leaving Skaterboy dozing in my bed, I realised that I had to sort this out. I had to stop this guy from thinking we were anything more than friends that fuck.

But, to be honest, I'm not even sure about the friends that fuck thing anymore. If I'm thinking of FB while I'm in bed with someone else, if I'm wishing it was him, if it's his face that I want to be seeing next to me, then surely this is telling me something.

As my DumbAss Yank friend would say, I'm a smitten kitten.

Oh boy. This should be a great moment.

So why do I feel scared?

What Facebook taught me

2009-06-30T09:10:00.002+02:00

Facebook has been a revelation to me. Some of you may have worked this out already, but I'm kind of a fan. It's yet another way for me to share the ridiculousness of life with an eager and willing bunch of fans, sorry, friends.

But it is more than that.

Facebook has taught me valuable life lessons. Things that I never knew about myself.

In the days BF (Before Facebook), I never knew that my Korean name was Jung-so Hong. I never knew that if I was an airline, I'd be Pan Am. That if I was a stripper, I'd be known as Lovely Swingfest.

Facebook put my mind at rest when it told me that - in no uncertain terms - I would survive the swine flu epidemic. It wasn't wrong.

Sometimes it disappoints - as a West Wing character, FB is convinced that I'd be Toby Ziegler, when we all know that I'm CJ Cregg.

Sometimes it confirms what we have all suspected for a long time - as a Golden Girl, I'd be Blanche. As a Sex and the City girl, I'd be Samantha.

A while ago, I decided to rediscover my spiritual side. I asked Facebook to tell me more. I was a little worried by the truth that it revealed to me.

It seems that I'm a closet Mormon, a troubled Catholic and my Jewishness is around the 10% mark (thanks to a little nip and tuck I received as a baby).

As a Muslim, it tells me that I have a way to go before my Haj pilgrimage. As a Buddhist, I need to chant some more, spin some more prayer wheels. Clutching at straws I asked whether or not I'd be a good Seventh Day Adventist. It seems that Ellen White would 'roll over in her grave' at my lifestyle.

Damn you, evil Facebook, for denying me the pleasure, brotherhood and permission to judge others that only organised religion can bring.

But I guess the most revealing thing that my New Best Friend tells me about myself is that I'm 95% fabulous and that I act like a 12 year-old.

An over-sexed and especially slutty 12 year-old, that is.

Paris Pride 2

2009-06-29T14:39:00.006+02:00

After a big night out on Friday - working our way slowly down the list of bars, ending up in the dodgiest of them all - we woke up on Saturday unsure of how proud we actually felt of ourselves.

Alas, we had to rally and get some energy from somewhere because Saturday was Gay Pride, Paris style. And before the parade there was shopping to be done!

So, we headed off to the Marais via my local shops on Fbg St Antoine, accumulating bags as we went. In fact, the shopping trip was nowhere near as damaging as the previous day's visit to the Blvd Haussmann sales had been. Although, amongst the crowds and the heat I did manage to pick up the most beautiful pair of silver All Stars with 40% off. Too lovely, I'm sure you'll agree.

Anyway, shoes aside, we tootled round the Marais then headed over to join the parade at the pont de Sully, so that we could walk with the floats on the final leg up blvd Henri IV to the place de la Bastille.

Trust me when I say it was hot. Trust me when I say it was crazy.

Despite the huge crowd and the blazing sun, we managed to dance our way up to Bastille. Our fellow marchers were friendly happy and generally all out to have a great time. The streets were lined with spectators and it seemed that truly all walks of life were there - from straight families with kids to gay couples and big groups of friends, and not forgetting the occasional Parisienne grandmother, looking on in bemused, elegant amazement.

Hot, sweaty and desperate for a cold drink and a sit-down, we arrived at the square and decided that we should head back to my apartment - in theory a five minute walk from the end of the parade. I say in theory because, in their infinite wisdom, the police had cordonned off my street - no doubt in an attempt to stop the fabulous gayness from spreading.

The nice police lady who was refusing me entry into my street did say she'd let us past if I could prove my address to her.

I handed her my rainblow flag to hold and started to root through the TBNIL manbag.

It was only when I looked up at the policewoman to explain that no, there was no ID in my bag did I realise how fantastic this picture was.

She was there, in full riot gear and with a face like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle, holding my rainbow flag. She didn't seem to be happy about it. It seemed to amuse her colleagues though.

I guess it was no way to impress her, and so we had to find a different way home. Instead of the five minutes it should have taken, it ended up being a 20-minute schlep round the back streets. But hey, a bottle of champagne, a cold shower and a comfortable sofa was waiting when we finally got there.

Suffice to say, it didn't take long before we were refuelled, recharged and ready to party....

Paris Pride 1

2009-06-28T16:59:00.006+02:00

So, it's been Pride weekend here in Paris. And what a weekend it has been.

It all started on Thursday with the (somewhat tardy) arrival of my lovely Irish Dutch Friend. We headed out for dinner with friends and ended up at a bar until the wee hours. This didn't help me get up and go to work on Friday, but hey - Friday is my half day, so it didn't hurt for too long.

Somewhere along the way on Thursday evening, we got to talking about sex, as is to be expected really - especially when it's all boys together. One of my friends - one half of the Fierce People - got really excited when someone mentioned having sex in a bathroom.

"Nothing could stop me from having sex in a bathroom", he said, somewhat over-excitedly. "Nothing at all. Except maybe if there was shit on the floor."

Whilst I applauded his cleanliness and generally healthy attitude to human waste in a sexual situation, I felt that there was a bigger question that needed to be asked.

"What kind of fucked up bathrooms do you go to where there is shit on the floor?"

There was no answer forthcoming, so we ordered another drink.

When the time came for me to take a leak, you can be assured that I trod very carefully indeed.

Not feeling myself. Not feeling anyone else either.

2009-06-25T09:30:00.008+02:00

If I’m going to tell you about what happened ‘out of hours’ on the stag weekend, I need to tell you more about Florida Boy.

You see - and you know me well enough to realise that this isn’t something I say lightly – I’m kind of off casual sex at the moment. I know, it’s stunning right?

See, the thing is this – I really like Florida Boy. Really like him. And I think it’s changing my perspective a bit. It’s definitely making me think about what I’m doing going on endless dates.

Me and FB talk every day online and then again every evening by telephone. In fact he just called as I'm typing this. He makes me laugh, he’s funny, handsome and dirty.

So it’s kind of weird, because he’s so far away, but I know that deep down I don’t want to get involved with anyone until after I’ve seen him in August - and until I’ve decided whether he’s what I think he is or not.

Then, you’ll understand that it was pure curiosity that led me to leave the stag party behind at 2am and head to the Cockring, the infamous Amsterdam gay club.

"Where are you off to?" said the groom.

"I’m kind of straight-barred out," I said. "I’m going to find something else. You’ll be ok without me, right?"

The groom was, at this stage, barely able to speak and propped up against the bar in an awful Irish pub just of Dam Square. We’d been there for what seemed like hours and hours. Football was being repeated on the big screen. It was so not my scene.

"You off then, mate?" this was the Lost Phone Boy, less drunk than the night before, but equally obnoxious.

"Yeah, thought I’d go find somewhere a bit livelier".

"I’ll come with you – where are you going?"

"The Cockring"

"I’ll maybe just stay here a bit longer." And with that he skulked back over to the bar.

So I got to the Cockring and it was crowded. And it was small. And hot. And smelly. The place was full of good-looking guys though, so that helped my mood. I did a bit of a tour and ended up standing with my beer at the edge of the dancefloor, admiring the moves of a rather bear-ish Dutchman.

The dancefloor in the Cockring isn’t large, and there was a tiny stage at one side. As I wondered what on earth it could be used for, my question was answered in the shape of two handsome young men. One was blond, short and hairy, and was wearing a leather kilt. The other tall, dark and muscled and wearing a pair of, well, a pair of see-through underpants.

It doesn’t really matter what they were wearing though, as both were naked within minutes and brandishing their ‘weapons’ at the crowded dancefloor. They waved their bits at the crowd and then at each other. Then they started to wave each other's bits at the crowd....

What was the most stunning thing about this, however, wasn’t the show itself – let’s face it, we’ve all seen men with erections dancing naked on tables, right – but more the fact that nobody was watching.

Everyone was dancing and dancing hard to some Katy Perry remix. She’s hot and she’s cold, apparently.

And then I saw why everyone was dancing. There was a guy dealing. No, wait, there were lots of guys dealing. Seems ecstasy was going round the room faster than a dose of herpes. No wonder the boys just wanted to dance.

Well, I know you’d be disappointed to hear that I stood back and watched. That I didn’t participate fully. So with the spirit of my youth pushing me forward, I scored, I swallowed and I danced.

So let's get this clear. I was feeling great, in a happy, lovely, dancing, fabulous mood, as were the rest of the boys in the room. The bar was full of handsome, friendly guys who were out for a good time. I even chatted to a guy or two, and got bought a drink by a handsome Mexican.

So despite all of this, nothing happened.

Nothing.

No kissing, no snogging, no heavy petting. No 'come back to mine', no 'let's go to the darkroom', no 'there's a sauna round the corner you know...'. Nothing.

All of the above could easily have happened, but it didn't. I didn't want it to happen. I shied away. I just wanted to dance, smile and generally have fun.

I'm a bit worried, to be honest.

Do you think that maybe there is something wrong with me?

Please don't tell me it's love, because, quite frankly, that's ridiculous.

This is how we roll, apparently

2009-06-24T08:56:00.003+02:00

Can you imagine anyone less likely to be heading to Amsterdam on a stag weekend?

Me either.

With images of strippers, tanked up lads and lost afternoons in coffeeshops filling my head, I boarded the Thalys with a trolley bag full of dread. Really, this wasn’t the weekend I would have chosen.

The problem is, though, that as best man I had absolutely no way of getting out of the stag weekend, nor did I have any chance of fading into the background and slipping quietly away. What I needed to do was embrace it. Start to look forward to it. Find a way to enjoy – more than enjoy, to love - this weekend.

If you look at it positively, then there are many things to look forward to. Spending the weekend with ‘the boys’, drinking the days away, the occasional joint, dancing late into the morning to crap music with a group of sweaty guys. Sounds just like any other weekend when I put it like that.

Well, it turns out that this isn’t what happened.

From a group of 9, only five turned up – including me and the groom. And the other three were fairly nerdy, pretty geeky and mostly looking forward to watching the Grand Prix on the TV on Sunday afternoon. Jesus wept.

So, it's Friday night and we're planning to go out on the town, but the groom has been smoking dope all afternoon and he’s in no state to go anywhere. I told you it was a classy weekend, right? In the end, I take the other three to meet up with my Amsterdam friend (thank the Lord for friends in ‘high’ places) who is playing in a band that night.

We have a pretty good night, except that at one stage, one of the geeks loses his phone.

"My phone has been stolen from my pocket" he said to me. "I need you to find it for me."

"Erm, that’s not going to happen. Are you sure it’s been stolen?"

"Yes, I am. And you’re in charge so you need to find it"

You can imagine how well this has conversation is going down with me. But it turns out that there’s a reason for his panic. It seems he works for a government ministry and there is sensitive data contained within the depths of his Crackberry. The data must have been pretty sensitive because the boy is practically crying.

Despite it being a lost cause, I enrol the help of my Amsterdam friend, and he heads off to ask around and see if anyone has handed it in. Like that ever happens.

Amsterdam friend came back ten minutes later.

"I’ve asked at the bar," he said, talking to the Lost Phone Boy, "and the barmaid said you’re a wanker".

"Wha….?" Said LPB.

"I also asked at the cloakroom, and she said you’re a wanker too."

"Bu…."

"And then I asked the bouncer, but he just said that you’re a wanker."

And that was pretty much the exact moment that the little, weedy, geeky Lost Phone Boy punched my tall, solid, rock-god, Amsterdam friend. Right on the nose.

It was also the exact moment that I left the bar.

I figured that there was more fun to be found elsewhere.

It turned out that I was right…..

(oh, and the LPB had left his phone in his bedroom, so it had never been stolen. This didn't stop him getting a huge bollocking from his employers though....he he)

Stand up for Australia

2009-06-22T22:51:00.003+02:00

So, I'm just back from the stag weekend in Amsterdam, of which there will be more postings, don't worry.

Meanwhile, however, I wanted to tell you about my trip home this evening.

On the way back from Amsterdam I stopped over in Antwerp to catch up with a colleague and to go see some customers that I hadn't seen in a while.

So this evening, when I boarded the train back from Antwerp to Paris, the train was already pretty crowded, what with it starting, as it does, in Amsterdam.

The Thalys has allocated seats and, lo and behold, my seat was already taken by someone who wanted to sit next to their girlfriend and who 'thought I wouldn't mind swapping'. Well, I'd have preferred to be asked, but hey, I wasn't going to be churlish about it.

So this is how I found myself taking the fourth seat with three Australians....three drunk Australians. Mother, Daughter and Mother's husband. Mother and hubbie were about 55 years old; daughter 30-35.

So, daughter heads off to the train bar to buy a (third) bottle of rosé, and mother shuffles down in her seat.

From my seat next to hubbie, I'm in the prime location to see mother's foot pop up from under the table and into his lap.

And with her shoeless foot, she starts to massage his penis through his trousers.

Really.

In a true-blue Aussie male way, he reaches for the box of chips and says to her "want a Pringle love?"

"If I wanted one, I'd just take one" she said, flirtatiously. Scarily flirtatious.

"You always take everything you want," he said.

"Well," said she, coquettishly, and still rubbing his dick with her foot, "well, I want you to give me something tonight at the hotel".

I mean really, there's only so much a boy can take.

I'd have moved seats had the train not been quite so full.

And if the husband hadn't actually been quite a hottie, in an older mannish kind of way.

And if his erection hadn't been quite so alarmingly, well, erm, impressive....

Culture club

2009-06-19T10:56:00.002+02:00

The summer approaches and as the evenings stay lighter for longer, so the theatres, operas and concert venues go dark.

So, as the Paris 'season' draws to a close, I thought I'd give you some of my highlights and lowlights of the year....

Highlights would have to include the excellent production of Talking Heads by Alan Bennett at the Theatre du Rond Point des Champs Elysées. Great writing, well translated and then perfectly staged and acted. Shame that the subtle Englishness of some of the comedy was lost on the French audience - how many French people really picked up on the fact that a woman moving from Roundhay to Harrogate really does have 'ideas above her station'....?

Equally great, but surprisingly so was the Tings Tings at the Bataclan. A small venue and a group with an equally small repertoire. I was expecting a car crash and I got 45 minutes of pure pop excellence - highly charged performance that energised the audience and got everyone dancing (which doesn't happen all that often at French gigs).

The other expected car crash that turned out to be brilliant was this week's concert by Marianne Faithfull. She hasn't got the best voice in the world, was singing off sheets (such is her lack of memory) and she seemed a bit drunk, but boy did she rock. Amazing performance. I cried during the Ballad of Lucy Jordan. An experience I'll remember for a long long time.

Amongst the other female performers who rocked my scene this year have been the fantastic Aimee Mann (sublime) and the newcomer Little Boots - a good set and a great performer.

The modern dance evening at the Palais Garnier was also sublime, with an incredibly disturbing final piece that the French found funny.

Disappointment has come in the shape of performers and performances that should have been brilliant.

Rufus Wainwright - my future husband - really didn't cut it earlier this week at the Cité de la Musique. He was alone with his piano and chose a maudling selection of songs, occasionally brightened up by a couple of his oldest numbers. He seemed unprepared and the setlist seemed like it had been thrown together at the last minute. For a big Rufus fan like myself it was really sad.

Equally sad was Morissey deciding to cancel his Paris gig. He's threatening a return in November though, so we'll have to wait and see how that turns out.

And finally, Matthew Bourne's Edward Scissorhands ballet at the Theatre du Chatelêt should have been excellent. I saw the original staging at Sadlers Wells and it was fabulous in a weird, dark, fantastic kind of way. The Paris show was just not right. Something about it was lacking. It just didn't do it for me.

Other concerts included Fleet Foxes, who would have been great if they'd only sung one or two songs, the Killers who absolutely blew me away, and a great presentation by Semyon Bychkow of Rchard Strauss and Shostakovich at the Opera Bastille. The Shostakovich - symphony 7, 'Leningrad' - was truly spectacular.

Chosing the event of the year would be difficult. I really would struggle to pick one from all of them, so here's the top three:

- Aimee Mann
- Killers
- Marianne Faithfull

....hmm, I want to add Tings Tings to the top three as well.

All rocked. All were amazing, and I left all four of these concerts feeling buoyed, moved and ready to take on the world.

Surely that's what music is all about?

Nobody forced you

2009-06-17T16:07:00.000+02:00

Flying back into Charles de Gaulle airport from the UK, and the pilot makes an announcement.

"We'll be landing in fifteen minutes, but unfortunately they're making us land on the remotest runway. So, after landing, we'll have a twenty minute taxi to the gate. However, we'll be at the gate five minutes ahead of schedule."

So, it was clear right? Land early, drive a bit then get to the stand on time. No reason to complain. Or so I thought.

Five minutes into the 'taxi', the guy across the aisle from me starts to tut. He's fidgeting in his seat and he's a-huffing and a-puffing.

"This is beyond a joke." He said, to no-one in particular.

I look across at him - schoolboy error - and that's it. He's locked onto me and he's starting to talk.

"You here for a holiday then?" he said, condescendingly.

"No, I"m heading home", I told him. "I live in Paris".

"Oh, I live in Paris too" he said. "Hate the place. Hate it. I go back to the UK every weekend".

"That's a shame. Paris a great place to live."

"What's so great about it?" he said, throwing down the gauntlet.

I was about to tell him why I like my adopted home, but I changed my mind.

"Where do you go back to every weekend?" I asked him. "Where in the UK?"

"Northampton" he said, surprisingly unashamedly.

"Hmm. Northampton," said I. "It has a lovely shoe museum, I hear."

He looked at me as if I had just flicked shit on his tie. That was the end of that conversation.

As we were disembarking, he was ahead of me in the queue. He turned to speak to the (lovely, friendly, handsome, French) steward.

"This is the worst airport in the worst city in the world!" he exclaimed, loudly.

"Really sir?" said the stew, with a disarming smile. "I didn't see anyone force you onto the plane. Maybe it's just you? Have a pleasant evening!"

Air France 1 : Miserable git 0

I like Paris. And I really like that steward.

Burn, baby, burn

2009-06-16T09:28:00.000+02:00

Whilst in the UK, I met up with the Girls From Work for dinner and drinks - these are the girls that I worked with 20 years ago at the travel agency.

Both GFW1 and GFW2 are lovely. Both have families now and are working moms, but both manage to be very cool, very stylish and hilariously funny. We always have a great evening out, despite the fact that I generally lean back and listen as they talk at each other.

So, we went to a great place in Kenilworth for dinner. Kenilworth is a pretty little town in Warwickshire - complete with tumbly down castle. It is also home to GFW2's MacMansion. Truly, this house is e-nor-mous. But then, GFW2 has always been able to sniff out the money, ha ha.

Anyway, we're sat at dinner in this fancy restaurant and we're remembering the last time that we ate there as a threesome....

We arrived for dinner at the usual time. GFW1 had driven me - unusually, as I'm normally the driver - and she'd driven us in her fairly old 'mom-mobile', a Renault Mégane Scenic.

GFW2 arrived and we ordered and started to work our way through the fabulous food.

Sometime shortly after the starter plates had been cleared, the Maitre d' cleared his throat and asked, loudly, if anyone was driving a Renault Scenic. He had an edge of panic to his voice.

GFW1 put her hand in the air - yes, just like being at school - and said that it was her car.

"You may wish to follow me Madame", he said. "It seems that there is a problem with your car".

I went with GFW1, out to the car park at the back of the restaurant. We arrived just in time to see her car burst into flames. Literally. Bang. Flames. Lots of them.

Apparently, one of the kitchen staff had seen smoke coming from the engine and had alerted the Maitre d'. Alas, it was too late by the time we got out there.

Not only was the car on fire, but it was not doing the cars on either side of it any good. Alas, the flames were such that it was impossible to move those cars and all the other drivers could do was sit and watch as their cars went up in flames too. Oh, and they called their insurers.

The fire brigade took an age to arrive - as in many small towns in the UK, the brigade is a voluntary one and you need to wait for the firemen to finish their dinners, get out of the bath or get off the golf course before they tackle the blaze. In the meantime, the kitchen staff had tackled the blaze as best they could with the kitchen extinguishers.

As we sat back down for dinner, once the blaze had died down, GFW1 turned to me.

"Well, at least I'm no longer the designated driver" she said. And she promptly ordered a double gin and tonic.

I think she needed it. She definitely deserved it.

Like a penis, only smaller

2009-06-15T09:29:00.003+02:00

The trips home are turning into a predictable routine.

Every time I go home, I do the same things, with the same people. Dinner with the Girls From Work (the chickies I worked with 20 years ago...), drinks with Lovely colleagues, a day with the Nephew and Niece, Mother ever-present and hovering in the background.

So this time I decided to spice it up a bit.

There's a guy who I met a while ago in Brum, in a club, and we've kept in touch ever since - albeit in a very loose, surface, vague interest kind of way. He had recently asked if I wanted to do something when I was next over, so I said sure, why not.

As he launched into his third beer and his fifteenth non-anecdote I realised that this was a mistake. He was possibly the dullest person I'd met in a long time. And he should have been so interesting. On paper he's a really fascinating person - he's lived in Tokyo, in Cairo and in Tel Aviv and has spent much of his adult life travelling.

Alas, the paper was more interesting than the flesh and blood. It was dullsville. Truly dull.

Anyone who has spent any time with me will know that I have an anecdote for all occasions. A tale for every situation. I appreciate that this can be a bit much. But this guy - the stories were neither funny, nor interesting.

So, we drank a few beers and then he asked me if I wanted to 'do something'. Now, dearest reader, the guy is boring, but he is hot. Physically, he ticks every box, and then some that I never thought needed ticking.

He is tall, strong, muscled. He has a hairy chest, a short beard and a twinkle in his eye.

How could I say no. We skipped off back to his place in a fancy city-centre loft.

However - and this is where I need to issue a 'too much information' alert - it turns out that he wasn't as well proportioned as I'd hoped.

There were two things wrong.

Firstly, he had the smallest tackle I've ever seen. I mean, this was small. It was like a teeny tiny acorn sat in a birds nest of pubic hair.

He was neither a shower nor a grower. He was underdeveloped.

It's not like I'm a big size queen, but I knew as the shorts were dropped that this wouldn't end well.

And as awful as this was (truly, at one point he was walking towards me naked and I thought he'd tucked it between his legs) it was nothing compared to the other physical disaster.

"What could be worse than a non-dick?" I hear you ask.

Well, the thing is, he had unfeasibly long legs. I mean long. He was probably six foot four, and most of that was leg.

This, combined with a refusal to just lie on his back (I told you this was too much information, sorry) made for, erm, 'difficult' lovemaking.

It was like a shetland pony trying to shag a clydesdale.

It was almost physically impossible. Note that I say almost.

As I tried my hardest to make the most of a bad situation, as my dignity ebbed slowly away and as my desire for the evening to reach a happy ending slipped out of view over the horizon, who do you think was forefront in my mind?

Yes, dear reader, it was you.

And there's the moral of the story. No matter how undignified, boring, awkward or nasty a situation is, it is ALWAYS good for the blog.

My discomfort is your pleasure. My pain, your gain.

His small penis, your big laugh.

At least, I hope you are laughing....

Jockstraps, junk and jam

2009-06-13T23:15:00.005+02:00

"Uncle, Uncle!" screamed my niece - four years old - as she opened the door to me on Wednesday evening. She was extremely pleased to see me - I'd like her to be in charge of my welcoming comittee wherever I go.

Anyway, she was thrilled to see me, and had something she wanted me to see>

"Uncle, come and look at my brother's willy - it's really hard..."

At this point, I started to wonder what kind of freaks make up my family. Luckily my brother stepped in with an explanation.

"He's been to Tae Kwon Do," he said, "and he's still wearing his protective underpants".

And so he was. Alas, that was all he was wearing.

I accepted the offer of a cup of tea, put my cases down and sank into the sofa.

My niece was dressed as a mermaid, my nephew naked but for backless underwear. My brother was picking at his feet and my sister-in-law was busy with a cookery experiment involving packet mash and tinned beef.

The room was full to the brim of rubbish, crap, junk. A full cast of High School Musical dolls. A Deathstar and TIE fighter. Two televisions. Three two-foot piles of magazines and at least five different Dora the Explorer dolls, in various guises. On top of this was yesterday's dinner plates and last night's pyjamas. And two half full bottles of Pepsi Max.

As I sat there in the surrealist of surroundings and chatted with my six-year-old, jockstrap wearing nephew about his day at school, I truly wondered what was going to lie ahead over the days to come. What freakishness would my friends and family deliver over the next 72 hours?

I hate to give you a cliffhanger, but suffice to say that I haven't been dissappointed. There's more to follow.

Meanwhile, however, I must get back to my Mother - she's just produced some 'Weight Watchers' toast dripping with butter and jam for a suppertime snack.

Oh yes folks, this truly is la vida loca....

You've got a home here

2009-06-09T19:47:00.007+02:00

Yep, I'm going to Birmingham tomorrow. Land of my fathers. Bosom of my family. The green, green grass of home and all that.

I feel a little bit sick.

Things I'm looking forward to:

- seeing my nephew and niece again

- full English breakfast (just the once, I promise)

- gossiping with the girls

- curry, naan bread, onion bhajis

Things I'm really not looking forward to at all:

- mithering relatives

- lists of chores waiting for me on my Mom's kitchen table

- my Brother's 'advice' sessions

- head office

I'm only going to be there until Sunday, but I'm already thinking I might change my ticket and come home sooner.

I know I'll have a good time really. I know it'll be ridiculous and funny and that I'll come back armed with tales for you all. I know that the thought is worse than the deed.

So why am I putting off ironing?

Why am I avoiding packing?

How come I feel sick?

I wonder if I've finally found my home....and I'm just reluctant to leave it?

This is the song that comes to mind. Beautiful, no?

New Jersey's finest

2009-06-07T02:52:00.004+02:00

So, I went to the local bar with The Fierce People tonight, for a couple of drinks and a bit of friendly banter.

I knew it would be a strange evening when, walking into the toilets for a pre-beer wee, I came across a guy washing his dick in the sink. Yep, it was flopped into the handbasin and he was giving it a good old once over with soap and hot water. Lord.

Anyway, as the bar filled up, we could hear the dulcet tones of a pair of Americans above everything else in the room. The half of The Fierce People that is American, drawn as he is to his fellow countrymen, felt that he had to investigate.

I'm so glad that I left him to it. From a good distance of at least 3 metres/ten feet, I could hear the American tourist sprouting his opinions...

Turns out he is a gay policeman from New Jersey and is in Paris on holiday with his boyfriend - also a NJ policeman.

I tried to ignore what he was saying, but it became increasingly difficult, mainly because of the rubbish he was talking. Here are some examples of things I overheard...

"George W Bush is the best modern-day American President. That's a fact"

"People in the United States hate Barack Obama and are embarrassed by him"

"Obama is a one-term president. Palin will be the next president and she'll do a great job"

"The worst thing the republicans did was have Palin as the VP candidate. If she'd been the presidential nominee we'd have a republican president now"

You can imagine that I really didn't want to talk to this guy. You can imagine that our political opinions are poles apart. Mainly because I don't understand why a gay american would vote for the GOP, the party that hates him. But hey, each to his own.

The gay policeman walked past me on the way to the bar.

"Hey there. I guess you don't like what I've been saying" he said, having obviously cottoned on to the faces I was pulling as he spoke.

"It's a free country", said I. "You can say what you like".

"But you don't agree" he said, looking for conflict.

"Of course I don't." I said. "But that's not the problem. The problem is that you have a volume control issue. You seem to think that everyone is interested in what you have to say. You think you need to talk at such a volume that everyone can hear. I don't care about your politics. But I don't want to hear about it from the other side of the room".

And with that, he apologised. He told me how he had trouble controlling his volume and that his superiors in "the force" had spoken to him about it on many occasions.

I asked him how he reconciled being gay with being a Republican.

He said simply that he never wanted to get married, never wanted to adopt, so GOP policy never bothered him.

I asked him why he supported people who clearly hated him. He had no answer.

"My family has always been Republican" was the best he could give me.

And with that, I decided it was time to leave.

God bless America....

Shake it out

2009-06-05T08:59:00.003+02:00

Yesterday, I had to go to Avignon. I didn't need much time there - basically I had to get there chat a little, sign a contract and leave.

I booked TGV tickets for me and Debbie and off we skipped. We had two hours in Avignon - plenty of time for what we needed to achieve. Well, it would have been, had we not missed our train.

We missed our train and so our leisurely two hour meeting became, by the time we arrived inthe south, a rushed twenty minute affair. Craziness. Instead of signing the contract with our new customer in a hotel meeting room, we did it sat on the steps outside the Avignon TGV station. Funny, but not my most professional of moments.

Anyway, the train home, we find ourselves in what appears to be the military carriage.

Me, Debbie, the strange woman opposite with lots of bags - and fifty soldiers. All in uniform. All with guns.

It was kind of unnerving (and not a little exciting - they seem to issue pants that are one size too small in the French army, thus ensuring tightness across the thighs and bottom *swoon*), but everyone soon settled down and me and Debbie fell asleep.

I woke up to see that the woman opposite was clutching a large bag on her lap. She'd been sat in the same position when I nodded off except that now she seemed to be holding on to it like it was the crown jewels.

As we approached Paris and the Gare de Lyon, she unzipped the bag. Debbie shot me a look as if to say 'what on earth?'.

The woman put her head next to the open bag and started talking baby-talk into the bag. Real goo-goo-ga-ga stuff.

And then, in one smooth manouevre, she pulled out of the bag the biggest, fattest, ugliest cat I've ever seen in my life. This cat was fugly. And enormous.

The cat, god bless it, was either asleep, dead, drugged or just lazy. The woman, however, was having none of this lethargy and started to shake the cat.

She shook it like Louise Woodward would shake a toddler, but got absolutely no reaction from the cat.

She caught me and Debbie looking at her.

"He has been on his holidays in the countryside. He is worn out." She said.

"Maybe he just needs to sleep", said I, the non-cat-expert.

"I think you'll find that I know what's best for him!" said the clearly crazy cat lady. She slammed him down on the table between our seats.

The cat woke up, screaming.

"See?" she said. "He just needs to see that he's back in Paris. He's really missed the city."

"Haven't we all?" said I, my eyes wandering to the to the tight-trousered Army boys, all busy manhandling their luggage off the train.

"Haven't we all...."

Confusion reigns

2009-06-04T08:23:00.003+02:00

I know, I have a complicated lovelife and an even more complicated social life. Or is that vice versa? Anyway, I get lots of people tell me that they struggle to keep up with all the names that come and go on the blog.

With this (and your sanity) in mind, I thought I'd give you a bit of a character list - much like the kind of thing you find at the beginning of really complex novels. You know the ones - the kind where thirty pages in you go "Who on earth is Captain Hanshaw?"

So here goes. I hope it helps. Lord knows, it might help me...

le Parisien
This is the boy that I like a lot. He's the one in Paris who makes my heart beat faster. He's handsome and sexy and funny and *swoon* be still my beating heart. He's also the one least likely to commit, the most difficult to pin down to a next date and incredibly focussed on passing his exams.

Skater Boy
Now, imagine a thirty-year-old guy who rides a skate board, dresses like he's from Linkin Park, has piercings (various) and a silly sense of humour. That's skater boy. He's also very cute, a bit of a geek and into role-playing card games (no, I don't know what that means either). He's good in the sack, hot as a hot thing and always a pleasure to have visit....but he's not boyfriend material.

il Postino
A handsome, forty-something postman of Italian origins. He's in great shape and is frequently happy to buy me a beer before we throw each other around the bedroom. I can't ever really see anything going on beyond the beer and bedroom thing, but hey - he's fun. Oh, and he in-line skates....

Jersey
Jersey came to Paris this spring for a couple of weeks with his job. He's the boy who cried in the Dépot, who cried in the street and who cried in both of our beds. He also cried when I waved him off to the airport, so that won him points. He's now back in Jersey with his dog and says he doesn't miss Paris, but that he does miss me. Go figure that this is going nowhere.

the Fierce People
These are my lovely friends - the American trust-funder and his hard working French boyfriend - who I go drinking with, share laughs galore with and who cook me fabulous food served on the best china. Alas, the proposition of a foursome with Jersey was a low point in our friendship. We laugh about it now. Kind of.

Lovely Paris Friend (now living in the south)
This is my beautifully handsome, charming, funny and overly truthful friend who I miss dearly. After being my big Paris buddy, he moved to the south, where he lives in self-imposed exile, in the sunshine, but out of the limelight - I know which he prefers, and it isn't the sunshine, honey.

Dumb Ass Yank
A recent visitor to these shores, but a long-time visitor to these pages. This is the guy who came to Paris and made me realise how much I miss having a really great friend who lives locally. He's fun, funny and saying goodbye to him was hard. He also has the whitest, glow-in-the-dark-est teeth I've ever seen. And can quote scenes from any film you'd ever care to mention. He also has a great blog. Go visit, you'll be impressed.

Irish Dutch Friend
One of the best gifts these pages have ever given me. Someone that I know I'll still be hanging out with, acting like an idiot and drinking myself silly with in fifty year's time - if either of us make it. If you haven't read his pages, then why not? Start now.

American Boy
Oh my. What to do/say/think about this one? Well, he's lovely. He's fabulous. He lives in Florida. If he lived in Europe I'm sure we'd be married with a dog, a doublewide and a 4x4 by now. Alas, he's in Florida. We speak every day. He sends me gifts. He makes me feel giddy. Did I mention that he's in Florida?

Then on top of this lot there are various family, friends, bloggers and boyz who have cameo roles. Walk on parts. Extras, if you like. My crazy Mother, for example. Or the American guy who brought his husband round for a threesome. Or my lovely boss.

And of course there's Debbie.

Lovely, crazy, forthright, slutty, beautiful, mad, psychopathic, schizophrenic Debbie.

We all love Debbie.

Well. Ish.

DAY, dates and daft old ladies

2009-06-02T19:49:00.002+02:00

So, the departure of DAY left a big hole, which I decided to fill in the way I know best - dating!

I'm sure you'll all be pleased to know that Skater Boy made an appearance last night - we went for lovely lebanese food, a couple of cocktails then came back here and banged each others brains out. He he. I exaggerate of course - the lebanese food wasn't that great.

Leaving him in bed this morning, I skipped off to work and ploughed my way through a whole backlog of things that I've been putting off, avoiding and generally not doing.

2pm found me strolling down a very sunny Champs Elysées, giddily heading towards the lawyers office for a short meeting. 4pm found me strolling back up the Champs Elysées, where not even the sun nor the giddiness of the locale could lift the black cloud caused by two hours with nuisance lawyers. And it seemed like the only advice I got was to spend more money with them. Hateful profession.

Anyway, as quick as my black cloud descended, it lifted. My téléphone portable rang. It was le Parisien. Long time, no hear, I know. But he's had exams and we decided to cool it while he was studying.

"You want to meet for a drink? I have two hours before class".

Now, I hate being anyone's 'beck and call' girl, but hey - for le Parisien, I'm pretty much happy to drop everything and go running.

We sat on a shady terrasse near Art et Métiers and downed a couple of pre-school drinks. He held my hand and we caught up.

I walked him the 50 yards to his school gates and we kissed goodbye. Be still my beating heart - the one who is the least available is the one who really makes me turn to jelly. Typical, eh?

Anyway, walking home I rang my mother to get news from the other side of the channel.

It seems my Aunt, in a moment of curious-ness, decided she'd like to see what being blind would be like. So she closed her eyes and headed to her bedroom.

As she woke up at the bottom of her stairs with a broken wrist, she decided that it wasn't much fun. Apparently she'd thought - eyes closed - that she was stepping into her bedroom when in fact she was stepping on to the staircase.

Let this be a lesson to us all. Taking risks with your eyes closed can lead to nasty accidents.

I mean really - a broken wrist! That'd be the end of a lesser person's sex life...

Living in a bloggers paradise

2009-05-31T13:48:00.003+02:00

So, DAY and me had a great week - with me working (and trying to shift this bronchitis) and him sightseeing. Meeting after work to go in search of evening entertainment.

One of my promises to DAY was that I'd take him to the Depôt - the infamous Paris gay sex club / nightclub. You can imagine that it's not somewhere I go to very often (yeah, right).

Anyway, Friday was the night that we'd planned our Depôt excursion. And we had a lovely evening - we started at the usual bar, where we met up with friends (the Fierce People) and had a few drinks. We then headed off for dinner at Paris' cheapest Chinese restaurant. Midnight found us dancing to trashy disco at a Bear's bar in the Marais.

By one thirty, we were about ready to head to the Depôt. And it was about the right time too - any earlier and the place would have been empty, it being a 'late night venue' and all that.

As we paid our money and headed downstairs to the lower bar (and the labyrinth...) I turned to DAY. It seems he'd seen the same thing as I had - and neither of us really knew what to say.

On the dance floor was a wiry, thin guy dancing away to some euro pop. He was wearing a bright white baseball cap and the brightest, whitest sneakers. That was all that he was wearing. Apart from the white at either end he was naked. Dancing away and wobbling his tackle in time to the music.

"That boy looks just like a Q-tip" said DAY. I told you he was funny.

Anyway, after a couple of drinks, we split up for us to each take a bit of a tour of the establishment. This turned out to be less than satisfactory for both of us - the boys touting their erections in the doorways of the cubicles didn't really do it for me, nor for DAY it seems. A bit of a moment with a Mexican later, we met up again and decided to hit the road.

We got home at four and fell into bed and into a coma.

The next day, we walked our hungover asses to Père Lachaise cemetery, where we admired Chopin, Wilde, Piaf and Morrison. The sunshine and fresh air did us good. It was only when we took the métro for the schlep across town to Etoile that it went wrong.

Halfway through the thirty-minute journey I looked at DAY. He'd turned green and there was sweat dripping down his face.

"You ok?" I asked, worried that he'd throw up over the train.

"Mmm hmm" he said. From his mumbled answer I could tell that he didn't need to be talking. That all he needed was to concentrate on not sharing his breakfast with the other passengers.

The nausea seemed to come and go (for both of us) during the day, but luckily it passed in time for us to head out for DAY's last night in Paris.

As we sat eating dinner at the Palais de Tokyo - on the terrace, looking out at the Eiffel Tower, glittering away - I realised that this boy was a keeper, a friend for ever. It's been a short visit, but one that has been so full of fun, laughter, ridiculousness and hilarity.

I wish he lived nearer. As I waved him off at the airport I felt so pleased to have this new friend in my life, but equally I wished that I had a friend like him who lived in Paris. Someone who 'got' me. Someone to share ridiculous moments with. Someone who makes me laugh and who puts up with my idiot-ness.

I've said this before, I know. That despite all the other great things this blog thing has brought me, it's the friends I've made through it that surpass anything else blogging has to offer.

And for that, I praise blogger every day.

Chocolate, chips and pierced pudenda

2009-05-27T08:58:00.005+02:00

Yesterday I was in Brussels with my lovely visitor, the DumbAss Yank. Please don't think this name as derogatory - it has been mutually agreed upon and is a term of affection. Honest. And he's a bit of a dumbass yank too. If I'm honest...he he.

Anyway, yesterday DAY and me went to Brussels on the Thalys for a day of sightseeing, beer and chips with mayo. And lovely it was too. DAY is a classy dude with a great sense of humour - as those of you who read his blog will know. I've been laughing pretty much non-stop since he arrived.

Arriving, as the trains from Paris do, at the poorly located Gare du Midi, we started to walk into town. Brussels was grey and wet - a real change from the hot and sunny Paris of the previous day. We'd adopted (or been adopted by?) a young American guy, who was also in Brussels for the day, but who seemed unsure as to why he was going there or what he was going to do when he arrived.

The three of us, on our hike into town, happened upon the Taschen store. Now, I'm guessing that most of you - being the classy folk that you are - know of Taschen. they're a high-end publisher of art/architecture/design/filth books. Their store in Brussels is new and very fancy. We went in to have a look.

As we perused their artistic volumes, steering clear of the deluxe 'Tom of Finland' so as to not scare the young American hanger-onner, we were approached by the shop assistant.

He asked if he could show us one of their books. It was a weighty tome, with its own pedestal and fancy presentation box.

The book was "The Book of Olga" - a curious collection of photo's of a Russian Oligarch's wife, taken by the marvellous Bettina Rheims.

The sales assistant started to leaf through the book, whilst the three of us looked at the photo's. As he told us the story of how the book came about, we marvelled at the images contained within.

Olga was largely naked. Largely having a great old time, being tied up, tied down, and getting funky with various 'models' (both real and plastic).

As he opened the pages to reveal a double page 'spread' (quite literally) featuring Olga's pierced pudenda in all its meaty glory, I had to stop myself shaking.

I had started to giggle on the inside and knew that I couldn't look at DAY, for fear that one little smirk from him would send me running into the street.

As we declined to buy a copy of the book - a snip at 600 euros - and left the shop, I realised that this was as European an experience that these two Americans would be likely to get.

I mean, it's not like you'd walk into a bookshop in Tulsa and be presented with a fey young man extolling the virtues of a pornographic book, telling you why the photograph with the legs akimbo was artisticallly relevant and saying how the picture of Olga with her legs in the air and her tits somewhere around her ears was 'a celebration of a man's love for his wife'.

I mean really.

Only in Europe.

Left to my own devices, I probably would

2009-05-21T18:07:00.004+02:00

So, Debbie has left me.

She's gone off on her holidays to some far flung island with her fancy foreign lover - who, worryingly, also works for me, but not in Paris.

Of course, the fact that they work together and don't want to encourage gossip means that it's all top secret. Cloak and dagger. Ridiculous. Trouble is, they're not fooling anyone. Pretty much everyone in the company knows of their 'affair'. It's the most exciting thing to happen since the factory employees stood round in a circle one lunchtime to watch one of the boys off the line get blown by his girlfriend. Truly, this happened.

Anyway, I'm not getting drawn into it. Anyone asks me where she's gone, I don't know. They ask me who with, I don't know. I may be keeping schtum on the outside, but inside I'm dying. Pretty much like Chandler when he's not allowed to make jokes. I so want to gossip about this, but it's just not fair.

I guess I'm lucky that I'm the only gay in the village at work. There's no chance of me ending up in some career-defying clinch with a colleague, unless of course, there's an 'adventurous' 'married' man amongst their ranks (trust me, there usually is).

The old adage of 'don't get your honey where you get your money' still applies, I suppose. Even in these enlightened times, it's hard to date / sleep with / get caught doing something inappropriate with a colleague and not have it affect your reputation. I guess it could also enhance your reputation. Depends.

That said, I've had my moments. There was once a Scottish guy who worked with me a long time ago - in the UK, at a different company. He was cute, horny, a rocket in the sack. Turns out he was sleeping with both me and my (female, married) secretary. Eee-uw. That was embarrassing.

And then the Scandinavian customer who threatened to take his business elsewhere. But let's not go there.

Debbie is doing herself a mix of good and bad with this whole thing. The management of the company are pleased that the pair of them are refusing to comment - seeing this as a professional act on their behalf, keeping work and private lives separate. However, in terms of who the company is gossiping about - well it's Debbie. Poor girl.

I'm doing as much damage control as I can, but I know that she'll sort them out when she gets back.

When I said to her that people will talk about the situation, she replied,

"In France it is fine to have many lovers before you marry. I am young. I like sex. If this offends people, then it is their problem."

I fear it may be her problem too. But hey, I'm not one to judge.

After all, it's not like Sweden has remained a secret.

La France laïque

2009-05-20T18:54:00.002+02:00

When Chirac welcomed Pope John Paul II to France all those years ago (1996?97? I know, I should google this, right?) he bade him welcome to "secular France - la France laïque".

Things haven't changed since then, if anything the division between state and church is more reinforced than ever, with schoolgirls being sent home for wearing headscarves and all religious paraphernalia banned in the workplace.

In a modern society, this secularity is a good thing, it seems. Religion is religion and the rest of the day-to-day is well, not religion. Let's keep it that way. Religion plays no part in affairs of state here in France. Unlike in the UK, where the Queen is both Head of State and Defender of the Faith.

So with all of this "we are not a religious state" attitude, you'll be surprised to note that tomorrow is a national holiday. Why? It's Ascension of course. The country will come to a standstill for the day in order to celebrate Jesus ascending to Heaven (that is what ascension is, right?).

Government will not be sitting, civil servants will not be working. For what is undoubtedly a religious holiday. In a secular society.

You can do the maths yourself, I'm sure, but this doesn't add up to anything logical, does it?

Naturally, I felt the need to discuss this with Debbie today (I know how much you all love that girl. I did this for you). This is how the conversation went...

"So, celebrating Ascension in a secular country. How does that work?"

"It is not a religious holiday. It is part of our culture" she said, looking at me like I'm crazy to not understand.

"But it has to be a religious holiday. It's celebrating Christ ascending to Heaven. How is that not religious?"

"Because it is part of our culture. We are a Catholic country, after all."

"Hmm. Not really though. You are a secular country, where the main religion is traditionally Catholic, but even so, only half of the nation claim to be Catholic" - I'd looked my facts up before starting the conversation - useful with Debbie.

"Yes, and being secular is very important to the Republic. It is a cornerstone of who we are" she quite rightly replied, giving herself the benefit of being on both sides of the argument - therefore undeniably correct.

"I agree" I said. "The division between church and state is important here in France. But I don't see why that doesn't extend to people getting days off to celebrate religious events."

And there's the crux of the argument for me - 'we'll be as secular as we like, until it affects our days off, then screw it'.

"You are just being difficult. Why do you have to question everything?" She seemed to be getting annoyed. "Just accept things. Enjoy the day off. Maybe you should go to England and eat cucumber sandwiches."

I wasn't sure where she got that one from, but as insults go, it didn't really work.

"Anyway, I don't care" she said. "I am not Catholic, but I will take as many of these Jesus days as they are willing to throw at us".

"Lucky that Pentecost is just around the corner then" I replied.

I ducked as the stapler went flying past my ear.

Moving on up

2009-05-19T09:47:00.004+02:00

I'm trying to move offices at the moment. Running the gauntlet of the French real estate world (again).

How difficult would you think it is to find some decent offices with warehouse space attached?

Well, it's kind of impossible.

As Phil and Kirstie would say, most of these places require 'vision'. Vision that means looking past the dead pigeons on the floor (really), ignoring the fully operational toilet in the corner of the office (really), forgetting that the floor moves on the mezzanine level (boy did it).

The French realtors are a breed unto themselves. They are regularly 30 minutes late for appointments, have to be chased for any follow up and generally have little or no information. They certainly never have the answers to my questions.

On Friday last week we stood outside a building - in the rain - for thirty minutes before deciding to go home. I was furious.

Fifteen minutes later - 45 minutes after the time of the appointment - my mobile phone rang.

"Hello sir, I have arrived. Where are you?" It was the realtor.

"Oh, I gave up and left fifteen minutes ago" I replied.

"But I came all this way to meet you!" he said, indignant.

"Yes, and I was there on time. You weren't".

"Well, this is very bad. I will not work with you again. I am here now, but you have chosen to cancel the appointment at the last minute. We shall not do business together".

He got even more upset when it turned out that I wasn't in the slightest bit saddened by this news. I told him that I wasn't bothered. That if his idea of good service is leaving me outside in the rain for half an hour then he needs to think again. That he isn't the only realtor in Paris and I'd be very happy not to work with him again.

"Now, monsieur, let us not be hasty...." he said, trying to win back the situation.

I went back to the office and instructed another realtor.

Let's hope this one turns up on time.

Let's hope he finds me an office.

I mean really, how difficult can it be?

Sad songs

2009-05-18T22:35:00.003+02:00

My cousin died at the weekend. She's finally at peace, out of pain, missed sorely by her family.

Her little boy has decided that they now need to move house. He's decided that now Mom's dead, the house will be haunted forever. There's no telling him otherwise.

I'm sad that I won't be able to get over there for the funeral, but I guess that goes with living overseas, right? Needless to say, my heart and thoughts will be with them all on that day.

The songs they've chosen for the funeral are some of the songs that my Mom used to listen to a lot around the time of my Dad's death, so I can only imagine how it's going to be for her. My brother will be there to hold her hand, but I personally feel pretty helpless, pretty useless.

Anyway, I'm sad but not depressed. Angry but not ranting.

I'm questioning how my Aunt keeps her faith. She's a devout Christian. I asked her whether her faith was a comfort, whether she found the answers when she prayed. She told me that she's certain that there's a reason for my Cousin being taken so young, but that God has yet to tell her what the reason is.

She countered this by saying "and he'd better bloody well hurry up and tell me the reason or I'm going over to the Muslims".

Laughter kind of seems inappropriate, but as she laughed at her own joke, she seemed to ease up.

She smiled, sighed, and said "she was a lovely girl you know. To see her suffer like that isn't right. Suffering like that for so long. She'd have been better off dropping down dead in the supermarket."

"Just like my Dad did," I reminded her.

"Oh yes," she said. "Now that was a ridiculous way to go, wasn't it?"

I had to agree. Attention seeking to the very end.

It must run in the family.

I'm in love (with a fairytale)

2009-05-17T22:15:00.002+02:00

Eurovision weekend. The weekend of glitter, sequins, sparkle and camp.

Ah yes, this year was no exception. All the freaks were there.

From the big old Greek poofter dancing on top of a big hair straightener (it would take a lot to straighten this boy out, trust me) to the strangely asexual German 'heartthrob' bumping and grinding with Dita von Teese. From the big Maltese girl belting her heart out, to the English girl getting a violin bow in the eye (really, she did).

We had the elegant superstar Patricia Kaas crooning for France being beaten by the ridiculous Azerbaijanis who seemed to have forgotten that the 80's are over. But maybe they're not over yet in Baku? Azerbaijan is the 'land of fire' as their points person told us at least fifteen times during her ten-second slot.

As a side issue, I did once know of a girl from Baku with a ten-second slot, but this one was slightly different.

The Russians put on a fabulous show, and everyone seemed to be having a lovely time. Alas, if only the Swedish girl had hit those notes (any of them). If only the Turks had been able to sing as well as dance. If only Britain hadn't put Andrew Lloyd Webber on the stage.

But, for once, partisan voting seemed to be a thing of the past. Sure, Croatia gave top marks to Bosnia and Greece got douze points from Cyprus, but this year it seemed musical talent won the day.

Very early on it was obvious that Norway were going to win.

The little boy singing did indeed look like a hobbit. But that's not such a bad thing. He had a great song, and some very good dancers to giddy things up a bit. He was bound to win.

And win he did - with a huge majority.

It all put me in mind of the year that Abba won with Waterloo.

As the French commentators said yesterday evening - "Abba were lucky that year - France had pulled out due to national mourning and so the Swedes had an easy ride to the winning spot".

God bless the French. With Patricia Kaas ending up way down the table there'll be a lot of ooh-la-la-ing to look forward to over the next few days.

No doubt they'll come up with a good excuse.

National pride does have to be protected at all costs, after all...

Tell it like it is

2009-05-15T08:27:00.006+02:00

As I mentioned in the last post, I wore a suit to work a couple of days ago.

Such is the rarity of the event that I had a bit of a panic when I got the suit out of the wardrobe. The thing is, I have a few suits, but they are mostly at my Mother's house (because I never wear them). So, I only actually have the one here in paris - the one that I bought for my cousin's wedding last September.

Unfortunately - well actually I think it's fortunately - I have lost a fair bit of weight since the wedding. This means that the suit wasn't exactly a snug fit. Keeping my trousers up was a major issue (keep the jokes to yourself). Not classy.

Anyway, I arrived in the office and Debbie, from her coign of vantage behind her desk, surveyed the chic-ness that was my elegant get-up.

Now, despite the fact the suit was a little large, I still think I looked very chic. Dark blue suit, lovely shirt (white, with fine pin stripes in brown and electric blue) good shoes (Kenneth Cole, thank you) all topped off with my usual elegant demeanour and winning smile.

"Is your suit navy blue?" said Debbie.

"Yes, it is," said I. Navy blue has always been my favourite colour for suits.

"It would be better in black".

"But....."

"You look like my Grandfather. Blue is for old people. You should have bought a black suit."

Jesus, sweetheart, tell it like it is. Hold no punches. Don't spare my feelings.

Today I'm sat here in jeans, trainers and a black Nike track jacket, looking casually stylish, stylishly casual. It's Friday, after all.

"I suppose that today you think you are 20 years old," said Debbie as she entered the office.

I declined to comment.

Do you need me to spell that? G. A. Y.

2009-05-13T08:25:00.005+02:00

My boss is due to arrive at lunchtime. We have a meeting with our French accountants in their swish offices at the back of the Champs Elysées - I've even put on a suit for the occasion (navy blue, for those of you interested, Calvin Klein shirt, no tie).

Anyway, me and my boss go back years. She's been my boss for, like, ever and we know each other very well. We've travelled all over together and seen each other at our respective bests and worsts.

Goodness only knows, then, why she still insists on telling me how pretty/intelligent/charming the latest female addition to the staff is. She's desperate for me to get married, despite the obvious barrier.

One of my earliest memories of Boss Lady sees us at the Dorchester in London, chatting to Sir Bernard Ingham - former press secretary to Margaret Thatcher, who now fills his time with after dinner speaking, spouting views on immigrants and 'the poor' and generally making a nuisance of himself.

"Hello Sir Bernard", said BL, swooning. "I'm from Yorkshire too, you know!"

"Hello dear, lovely to meet a Yorkshire lass". Both Sir Bernard and BL have accents that could cut glass, such is their poshness. Both are typical conservative, boarding school, old money sorts. Neither has been to Yorkshire for decades, yet to hear them talk it was like they were regulars on the set of Emmerdale.

"This is TBNIL," said BL, introducing me. "We're lucky to have him with us today - he's usually jetting off somewhere, flying the company flag overseas".

"Oh really," said Sir Bernard. "And how does the missus feel about this?"

I tried to answer but BL got in there first.

"Oh he's not married you know - girl in every port this one, ha ha"

"Yeah," said I. "Something like that".

So the function continued and I find myself alone with BL. I ask her why she said that I have a "girl in every port".

"Well, you know dear - I don't want him to think that you're a queer!" she said.

"But I am," said I. "I am a queer. I'm a homo, a fag, a gay, a big old pufftah - as well you know!".

"Now really," she said. "There's no need to be coarse".

And that was the end of that conversation. Ever since, she keeps telling me about the new girls in the office, inviting me to dinner with her and a single friend, asking me if I've found a nice French girl yet. Every time she gets the same answer.

"I'm gay. You know I'm gay. Stop doing this."

I think she just does it to wind me up now. Surely no-one can be that stupid?

Anyway, I'm taking her to dinner in Paris tonight and my Lovely Paris Friend (now living in the South) is coming along. After a couple of hours with both of us, she'll soon realise that I dance at the other end of the ballroom.

Well, let's hope, anyway. I'm kind of bored of being an elgibile bachelor.

Mid-terms

2009-05-12T14:34:00.003+02:00

It's not often I approach the 'new post' field without a story to tell you. With nothing more than what's going on in my head, in my little world. But here goes. General musings, virtual ramblings, rubbish by any other name.

Firstly, I've been thinking about Thora Hird a lot these last few days. How she reminded me of my Grandmother. I'm thinking of her because tonight I'm going to the theatre to see Talking Heads by Alan Bennett - and her 'A cream cracker under the settee' is, for me, the best of all the Talking Heads series. It always has me weeping uncontrollably though, so I'm hoping it's not on the bill tonight. I'm taking tissues just in case.

I've also been thinking a lot about Florida and how I might ever manage a transatlantic relationship. The American Boy and me have been talking daily since he went back. I enjoy talking to him and he makes me laugh lots. But really, where is this going? He's back at the back end of the summer, so let's see. Never say never, but equally, let's not make life hard for ourselves.

My other big topic is how my life seems to be drifting a little bit out of control. I'm getting way behind on the day to day stuff. I have a ridiculous social life, and never really manage to find time to do the laundry, to clean the house, to go supermarket shopping. I need to sort this out. I need to get back in control of it all. But it's all kind of dreary, no? How to rediscover a love of housework? If anyone's got any ideas, they'd be more than welcome.

I also need to find more time to work my blogroll. If you haven't seen me at your's for a while, I apologise. I'm trying desperately to keep up.

Finally, I keep thinking of my cousin. She's still with us, still soldiering on. Every time my Mother calls I expect that it's going to be that call.

So with all this in mind I'm making some 'mid-term' resolutions.

These are they:

1. Find time for housework. Recognise that having to rush around every time someone visits is no fun. Keep on top of it and it takes less time.
2. Enjoy calm, quiet moments. Leave at least one weekend in four empty, without plans for visiting or for visitors.
3. Try to socialise only on weekends, and one schoolnight per week.
4. Get back to the gym. Summer is coming and this goose is getting fat. Not a great combination.
5. Blogroll. Work it. Visit blogs I love and find new ones too. Make time to do this regularly.
6. Get good sleep and make sure there's always breakfast in the house for the next morning. No more breakfast on the run.
7. Speak to my family more often, keep up with friends. This is harder than you'd imagine.

So these are my seven new rules. Things that I need to get sorted.

Oh, and I still need to find me a husband. And preferably one who lives on this side of the ocean.

Wish me luck, dearest Reader, I think I may need it.

Elephants feet and Japanese heart surgeons

2009-05-11T07:07:00.004+02:00

The weekend started strangely. No sooner had me and Lovely Paris Friend (Now Living in the South) touched Dutch soil, than we were whisked away to a party being held in LPF's honour.

The party was at the house of an old friend of LPF. A house that my Lovely Irish-Dutch Friend had told me was 'a little bizarre'. He wasn't wrong.

If the strange collections of the house's owner weren't odd enough - he had collections of elephants feet, horses teeth, chinese wedding outifts, stuffed crocodiles, roman oil lamps, sword fish swords, ottoman slippers, and so on, and so on - then the way that everything was displayed most certainly was. You see, this guy has a thing for symmetry.

Everything is displayed in pairs and every table had a mirror image facing it. Not just the same things on the same tables, but literally mirror images. Craziness.

And as six-thirty rolled around, and we were on our third glasses of wine, me and Lovely Irish Dutch Friend started to get a bit panicky. The room was filling with the strangest collection of men - all men, all gay, all of a certain age. We started to feel like we were the virgins being offered to the room in a Dutch version of 'Eyes Wide Shut'.

Truly, if the host had appeared in a black cloak and goat skull, I wouldn't have surprised.

Seeing our chance, we slipped out and headed into town for some more 'normal' entertainment. We tried not to skid on the zebra skin or trip over the stuffed turtle as we ran, giggling, out of the front door.

Having eating fabulous Thai food, we met up again with LPF and a couple of others and headed to one of the Hague's finest homo establishments for a couple of beers.

Now, dearest reader, you know how hard I am trying to be a good boy. To go on a system slut-down (TM). To be less, erm, easy. Well, it seems that I'm failing.

I appreciate that this next part may seem like it is coming straight from the realms of fiction, but really, it is true. Thing is, I started to chat to a lovely guy and it turns out he's from Tokyo, that he's a heart surgeon and that he's in the Hague on an internship. Yes, dear Reader, I did indeed end up in Holland with a gay, Japanese cardiologist.

He left fairly early - he had surgery the next day, I kid ye not - and I was left with Lovely Irish-Dutch Friend who told me how LPF had been found in the alley behind the bar, fast asleep. I didn't like to tell him that I'd already seen him there when I had slipped out with the surgeon for a bit of a 'ruck and maul' al fresco.

As LIDF and me headed to our favourite Den Haag bar, at three a.m., I reflected on how funny my life really is. Funny and marvelous at the same time.

The friends that I spent this weekend with are friends that I have met through this blog. Without this blog, this weekend would never have happened for me.

Blogging brings many things to many people. To some people blogging is an escape, a way to share their experiences, a window into another world. For others, it is therapy, giving them the opportunity to vent frustrations and / or anger with the world around them.

To me, blogging has brought lovely friends, Japanese heart surgeons and stuffed turtles.

There aren't many that can say that, I'm sure.

I'm trying really really hard

2009-05-07T16:20:00.002+02:00

So, you know from my last post that I've decided to go for a slut-down (tm).

Well, I'm trying really hard, but it's not working.

I wrote the post yesterday.

Then I went out last night to meet some friends for a drink or three.

I ended up going back to Jersey's hotel with him - and with a phone number from a (very cute) French guy in my pocket.

What hope is there? Huh?

Temporary slut down

2009-05-06T09:25:00.005+02:00

So, I made a decision back at Easter that I'd slut it up a little bit.

My love life wasn't exactly boring, nor was it pedestrian, but it was getting a bit samey. The same faces, the same things. You know? A boy needs a bit of variety, non?

So I started out to get me some more action. Some Heinz 57 varieties kind of action. Boy oh boy, did I succeed.

You've seen some of the results (yes, it's true - I don't share everything with you....). It's kind of got out of control.

I could tell you the tally, but I won't. I could tell you the nationalities, but equally, I don't want to shock you. Suffice to say that it's been like the United Nations meets Fleet Week.

The month has passed in a blur of bodies and beer and I've struggled to keep up with my daily day-to-day-nesses. It's been, quite frankly, exhausting. So I'm formally announcing a month of system slut-down*. I'm going to be good for the next month.

I'm not saying that I won't be bad. But I'm going to be better. Maybe not put it about so much. You know, even the good stuff can get diluted if too thinly spread. And this is good stuff, trust me, ha ha.

So this next month is going to be about losing a bit more weight, running more, having less sex, eating healthier, paying my bills on time, taking out the recycling and generally getting my house in order.

I'm going to eat at home at least four times a week. I'm going to wake up in my own bed every morning (I never said alone, and I never said that it wouldn't be after a walk of shame). I'm going to be a good boy. Make my Mother proud.

Do you think I can do it?

I think I can. I'm motivated, focussed and determined.

That said, I have a friend visiting from the US in two weeks time. He's looking for a week of Parisien fun and (I'm guessing) a little debauchery and I feel like it'd be wrong not to oblige (boy do I, it's going to be fantastic...he he).

I may just have to alter my slut-down* plans.

So how about this? I'll be good for two weeks, but then expect the floodgates to re-open.

Watch out Paris. Take your holiday while you can.

You've been warned.

*registered trademark

Teeth

2009-05-04T16:40:00.004+02:00

So, I was chatting with Jersey last night and we decided it's all about the teeth.

We were stood at the bar enjoying a beer and watching the dancefloor. The bar in which we were drinking is famous for its Sunday 'middle eastern' evening - which basically means hot lebanese guys dancing to fabulous middle eastern disco music. The dancing is spectacular, as you'd imagine.

Anyway, in this hotbed of machismo and testosterone, it was obvious that the conversation would turn to which guys around us 'floated our boats' so to speak. We chatted to guys as they came and went from ordering drinks at the bar and we were frequently disappointed, nay horrified, by the surprises behind the smiles.

Often one of us would catch the eye of a handsome man, only for him to smile back at us with a mouthful of, well, disaster.

Bad teeth. Everywhere we turned were bad teeth.

Now, I'm English so I'm clearly not one to talk about the state of anyone's teeth, but as the evening drew on, we decided that teeth were actually a key deciding factor.

If a guy has bad hair, well it's kind of forgivable. Bad shoes - yeah, they can be changed. A hairy back? I quite like that. A bit of extra weight, no problem. But bad teeth? Eek!

We agreed that no matter how much he made us laugh, no matter how sexy he was or what he appeared to be, erm, packing, if he had bad teeth it would be a no. Sorry. Not tonight.

As we finished our drinks, we said goodbye to the bartender (good teeth, great arms) and headed off to the other bar. To the rendezvous point for the couple from the other night. We were being brave. We were feeling a little crazy too, but I think we were largely just egging each other on enough to go through with it. We waited for them to arrive.

We ordered a beer. And another. They didn't show.

We gave them until 11h30 and decided to go home. I guess they weren't feeling as brave as us. Nor as reckless, clearly.

Oh well.

It's been a long time since I was stood up.

I guess there's a lesson in there somewhere.

perspective

2009-05-03T13:53:00.003+02:00

What kind of a day is this?

I'm trying to sound positive, but I'm actually pretty down at heart.

My cousin's doctors have told her husband that she'll pass in the next couple of days. She's a beautiful girl, suffering from awful cancer. Her two boys - aged 9 and 11 - have been spending as much time as they can with their Mom, but she's tired.

Her Father - he's my Uncle, but my Aunt isn't her mother, if that makes sense - I know really well. He's a 70 year old man with a quiet dignity, a great sense of humour and a love for life. As a kid, I remember him as the uncle who'd tickle you into submission, the one who'd have a bad joke that he was desperate to tell you, the one who plays with my brother's kids the same as he used to play with us. I spoke to him this morning and he's broken.

To have this guy cry down the phone to me is just awful. Awful. I can feel my heart breaking for him, even as I type this.

I know that he'd swap places with his daughter in a blink. I know that he'd do anything to stop this. I know that he has no idea what to do anymore.

To me the worst part of this whole situation is seeing/hearing my Uncle and knowing the pain that he carries in his every waking minute. Not that he sleeps anymore. He is simply beside himself with grief. He's lost. His reality has shifted and I'm not sure it will ever shift back for him.

My Aunt told me two weeks ago that my cousin had been out shopping, buying gifts for her sons' 18th and 21st birthdays. As she told me this, we both had to take a minute. Neither of us was able to speak through the tears. How did that girl find the courage to stand in a store and make those decisions? Make those purchases that will be so very important to her boys?

Life is hard sometimes. Life is horrible sometimes.

Enjoy your life. Live it to the full. Love your friends and family. Find someone to love you back.

These are the words of my cousin.

These are her wishes for her sons.

Awesome foursome(s)

2009-05-02T16:33:00.002+02:00

A tub of Crisco, a mexican wrestling mask and a ball-gag.

These were the items proudly on display in the bedroom of the Fierce People, my lovely Franco-American friends. I was passing through the bedroom on my way to use the toilet, before you get any ideas.

Anyway, I was invited for dinner, along with the crying American - henceforth known as Jersey, due to his Garden State origins. Now, Jersey has gone up in my estimations over the last week, changing from a homesick, lost and sorry individual to a handsome young man who just so happens to be a rocket in the sack. Jeepers. I wasn't expecting that.

We'd been invited for 'dinner and a card game' which sounded lovely, and which was, indeed lovely, if a little, erm, unconventional. The dinner was amazing, as ever. The card game was a surprise.

Instead of a couple of rounds of 'laissez-passer' or 'cherchez la femme' we sat around playing a vintage (1970's?) Mork and Mindy card game that had us all reaching to grab polystyrene eggs and shouting 'nanoo-nanoo' and 'shazbat' at each other. Largely hilarious. Especially when mixed with gin.

As the evening drew to a close around 3am, one of the hosts turned to me and said "why don't you both stay here tonight?"

"What do you mean?" said I, suddenly worried.

"We could do a little ménage à quatre...." he suggested, with his husband looking on eagerly from behind a glass of gin.

As you can imagine, me and Jersey laughed this off as the joke that it wasn't and kissed the hosts, thanked them for their marvelous hospitality and quickly left. We hit the street and started to run. Run and laugh. Hysterically.

So, having turned down the offer of a foursome, we head home and to bed.

The following evening - yesterday, in fact - we were out on the town, the four of us drinking, dancing and being generally giddy.

"You see him?" said Jersey to me, pointing at a very handsome, hairy-beary kind of guy.

"He's nice," I replied. "We should take him home".

This was a joke. A silliness. A throwaway quip.

"Dare you" said Jersey, obviously knowing that those were the wrong words to say to me.

"OK" said I, rising to the challenge.

We walked over to talk to him. He was very friendly, French and thrilled by the exotic anglo-american pair that had decided to talk to him.

Jersey nudged me. "Go on then", he said.

"We were just on our way home, and we thought that maybe you'd like to join us", I said, thinking that even for me this was an outrageous thing to do.

"Sure", he said. "I'd like that, but my husband is here tonight"

And with that, he introduced us to his husband. A two-metre, handsome, gentle giant of a guy, with a football shirt on (bad) that was balanced by a very cute smile (good).

"These guys want to take me home with them" said the hairy-beary French guy.

"Oh, not this evening Chéri," said husband. "I'm too tired. Let's do it Sunday instead?"

Both Jersey and myself looked at each other like dumbstruck fools, muttered something along the lines of "you bet your sweet ass that we'll be there" and left the French pair to head off home.

So it seems I have plans for tomorrow evening. Very curious plans.

I know, I brought it upon myself, but I do wish that I had someone else to blame.

Treading water

2009-04-30T06:47:00.002+02:00

I'm busy.

Too busy.

Really. It's getting kind of ridiculous.

I'm busy at work and busy socially. I don't have time to do lots of things that I should and can't even think about doing many things that I want to.

I've neglected my blog roll (sorry!) and I'm finding it hard to call my Mother more than twice a week. I just about manage to hold down a Facebook page, but seriously, that's it. I've had to get up at 6am to post this missive, such is the disaster that is my schedule at the moment.

To give you an example of how crazy my days are, let me tell you about yesterday.

Yesterday, I planned to start the day easily with an hour of catching up on general rubbish in the house. No chance. I've been trying to talk to my boss about something for days and when does she choose to call? Yep, I lost the hour I'd put aside and then some.

By the time I got off the phone, I was fifteen minutes late for my train.

So, instead of taking a leisurely métro ride to the Gare du Nord, I ended up rushing to find a cab and racing off to meet Debbie. This would be the first of four taxis yesterday.

I take the train to Lille, then change stations and trains and head further north to Calais. All the train ride I am working, prepping the meeting that I am heading to in Calais.

A taxi, hotel meeting room and another taxi later, I'm back at Calais Fréthun TGV station and back on the train to Lille.

In Lille, I grab a sandwich and jump the train to Paris. I grab a sandwich because I know it's my only hope of eating that day. I'd alread missed lunch and so was determined not to miss dinner.

Arriving in Paris, I head off to see the first friend of the evening. And this is where the day gets crazy.

I have a lovely time with my new Paris Blogging Friend at the Opéra Garnier - it's a modern dance performance that started good, got better and ended up with an amazing, moving, disturbing piece that - to me - was about pack mentality, alpha male-ism, bullying and torture. It was amazing, yet uncomfortable. The French found it hilarious and laughed a lot. Bunch of insensitive freaks.

Alas, after the performance, I didn't have time to really chat with PBF as I had a second friend to see. He was waiting for me on the steps of the Opéra and we headed off to my favourite bar for a drink. It was lovely to catch up with him, but we only had an hour together as he had a train to catch and I had a third 'date'.

Yep, I told you that the day was crazy.

Anyway, as we left the bar, we kissed goodnight and planned that the next time we'd have longer together. With this friend, it's hard. I never really get to see him that often and, when we do, both of us always leave feeling short-changed. We spent the next half hour texting each other back and forwards - him on his train, me in the final taxi of the day. We made tentative plans for next week. We'll see.

I get out of the taxi at the final friend's apartment in the fancy 16th, take the lift up to his flat and collapse into bed. Luckily he was already there. Luckily I found a bit of energy.

I get to sleep at around 1.30 thinking of the chaos that today has in store for me.

I know I said that I'd got up at 6am to write this post, but that was a bit of a lie - I was up already. I'd left the flat in the 16th at 5.30 this morning, taken the métro and walked in through my own front door at 6am.

I'm off to shower now. Iron a shirt and shine my shoes. I need to be up and out in half an hour.

Goodness knows when I'll phone my Mother.

Bo Bun, Bipimbap and Bling

2009-04-28T00:51:00.006+02:00

I'm having an existential crisis. Really, I am.

This is serious stuff.

Thing is, Paris has so many great eating options that I never want to eat at the same place twice. But I have my well trodden path now and find it hard to get away from the places that I love.

I keep promising that I will find new places to eat, but I never do. It's turning into a crisis, as everytime I get a visitor, or go out for dinner with a date, I always end up at the same places. I'm going to tell you my favourites in a minute, but please, dear readers, please tell me of other great spots in Paris to eat.

For Japanese and Korean food, I love Japkora near the Theatre du Chatelet. Their Bipimbap takes some beating. The only time I've ever had better Bipimbap was in Business Class on Korean Airlines flying to Fiji. Yes, I know. That's as weird as it sounds.

If it's a revolving sushi conveyor, then the Matsuri chain gets my vote - especially the branch at the rue du Bac. Really great mid-shopping treat and the biggest toilet seat I've ever seen..

For Vietnamese, then it's hard to beat the seedy, down at heel Dong Huong in Belleville. A favourite for years now, this place does the best Bo Bun in the city. For 8 euros, I'm not complaining. Even when they send you to sit in the sandwich shop next door and bring your order up the street with a teatowel covering it.

For a romantic dinner à deux, then you'll go hard to beat the dark lighting and good food at le Réconfort on the rue du Poitou, just next door to the Christian Lacroix designed Hotel du Petit Moulin in the Marais (where else?). The food is fine, the ambience is so romantic and the lighting is very, very forgiving. What more does a boy need? A big wallet. It's not cheap.

And then my all time favourite place to get dinner, lunch on the run, a good plate of charcuterie or cheese, a decent mojito or just a smile from a cute waiter has to be the Café Crème on the rue du Birague, off the Place des Vosges. Not only is the location excellent (and a ten minute walk from home) but their souris d'agneau is to die for. Everyone who has visited me has been and eaten here with me. No-one has died. Yet.

I have a couple of others, but these are my favourites. My real favourites.

In a city of great food and amazing restaurants, these are all places that stand out as being a bit special - if not for the food, then for the setting. If not for the food or the setting then for the lovely waiting staff and the great cocktails.

So. You've been to Paris. Where did you eat? What did you drink? How did you get rid of him in the morning? he he.

Tell me your secrets. If not Paris, then tell me about your home town favourites. Let's make it a big-old-all-food-love-in.

I'm hungry.