Back in the Old DartI will never catch the bus to Paris ever again. On the way home on Saturday night/Sunday morning I sat wedged between a huge group of Russians who were coming to England to pick fruit for the summer. They smoked, drank and listened to Michael Jackson - not from the cool early 80s ouvre, but the really, really crap stuff from the late nineties that he was only doing to support his plastic surgery addiction. They were also wearing stonewash denim jeans with blue denim jackets, but not in an ironic, 'Hey, I'm a crappy arts student who enjoys hanging out in Camden and am cool enough to pull this look off' way. They meant it. Other than the transport issues, Paris was brilliant. Sadly, apart from the really old security guard, I didn't get any other offers during my stay in the city of lurve. But I did get to watch some top-class tennis and drink an astonishing amount of wine. I also decided to do an Amelie tour, which consisted of me wandering about Montmarte in the desperate hope that I'd stumble across some key landmarks in the film. Apart from the whacking great big church on the hill, which was rather easy to find (even for the American tourists) I found the fruit shop, quite by accident. I would have walked right past it if it wasn't for the huge Amelie poster stuck on the side of the shop behind the rows of fruit and veg. Also, the postcard stand displaying Amelie postcards, videos and DVDs managed to clue me in to the possibility that this, in fact, was the fruit and vegetable stand out the front of Amelie's house where the mean grocer and the nice but totally spastic guy worked. It was an extremely dingy and yukky part of town frequented by busloads of tourists and shabby bohemian bogey-ouis types - according to Olga they're referred to as 'Bobos'. I thought they were just French Chavs. The tennis was brilliant. Olga managed to score us some tickets to the Tournet-du-Paris-ey 2005, which I guess was like a warm-up comp to the French Open which starts next week. We saw Andy Roddick get thrashed, then we saw Andre Aggasi trounce Thomas Enqvist, then we saw some guy called Nadal/Nedahl[?] beat a guy called Monaco. The Frenchies seemed to really like the Nadal guy. It wasn't at the Roland Garros stadium either, it was at the extremely noice and posh Paris Country Club, so we didn't have to mix with plebs. There were only about 500 people or so watching, so we had a brillo view.
I Love Paris in the SpringtimeBonjour. I am writing from Olga's Lovely Dorm Room in South East Paris - whee whee! Sorry, Olgs is sitting over my shoulder and she's just corrected the previous statement - technically, we're 100 metres outside the boundary of Paris. Does that mean we're in the East End? Does that make us the French equivalent of a Chav? I made the horrendous mistake of getting the bus here from Paris as the Eurostar was hideously expensive and the plane didn't really occur to me. I left London Victoria station at 9pm last night and got in this morning at 6am (1hr + for the time difference). I turned up out the front of Olga's French language school about 45 minutes early for our 8:15am rondenzvous? Rondevous? You know what I mean. As I sat half asleep on the bench out the front of the school, (probably with a little bit of drool in the corner of my mouth), dozing, I was awoken by a cheery French security guard coming over to say hello. After explaining in perfect French that I could not understand French, which kind of threw him a bit, I think, (considering I was sitting outside the front of a French language school - as Olga just pointed out from over my shoulder). To cut a long story short, I managed to score a hot date with aforementioned security guard, who invited me on a date when he finished work at 1:30pm. Considering that I couldn't speak French and he couldn't speak English, it was rather amusing. He kept running backwards and forwards to get bits of paper, which he would then write the time, '1:30! 1:30!' Then he kept pointing to the two of us. As tempting as the offer was, Olga managed to save me just in the nick of time from strange, short, 50-something (Olga thought he was cute - she wanted me to write that - but she thinks Gerard Depiduiuidididu is cute) security guard dude. Why did I turn him down, you ask? Well, the hot-date he proposed, was McDonalds. Top Shelf. Seriously had to drag myself away from that big-spending Don Juan.
Smells Like BrightonLife is truly freaking weird sometimes. If you'd have told me three months ago that I'd be sitting in the lobby of the Brighton Hilton Metropole Hotel, drinking Stella and nibbling Nobbys Nuts while I played on my laptop (internet broadband access) after winding down from a swim in the pool - I'd have laughed in your face. And yet, here I yam! Luckily for me, the company whose conference I'm covering are paying for my accomodation, rather than my company, (who are stingy bastards and would feel they'd covered their obligations if they'd thrown a pillow and sleeping bag at me and told me to sleep in the gutter). Yep, and I'm lapping it up. Brighton is truly weird. It's like, Bondi on steroids. I just went down the road (the hotel is on the main drag which is parallel to the beach (Campbell Parade, if you will)) to try and find somewhere decent to eat. However, I was out of luck as every single shopfront was a bar, club or... bar. And it's seriously 5 degrees outside but everyone is in complete denial and walking around in t-shirts and extremely short mini skirts. Not only are they complete slappers, (or chavs - that's my new word) but the girls here must be completely immune to cold. So anyway, as I was unable to find anywhere normal to eat, I've ended up in the Lobby Bar instead. Tomorrow I finish work at 5, so I plan to make my way to the famous pier, which is about 600 metres down this main drag. There's also a huge pier out the front of this hotel but it is a total wreck and has fallen to bits. Not so cool. Note to self: Must buy Brighton Rock.
Brighton Rocks?Well, something interesting is happening with work at last. They have decided to send me to Brighton for the weekend to cover a conference, all-expenses paid. I've been wanting to go there for ages because I've been dying to see the beach. It is a bit cold, but I'm being optimistic and will take my cossie because the Evening Standard yesterday said that Meteorologists were forcasting 'killer heatwaves' this summer. If that means it's going to climb over 15 degrees, them I'm all for it. Also rather interested because all I really know about Brighton is that in the 1950s it was ruled by nasty little gangsters with Catholic-guilt issues, who were, according to Grahame Greene, like a piece of Brighton Rock where the words are written the whole way through the candy and never changed, no matter where you broke it off. Or something. Well, there's some allegory about being Catholic and being capable of pure evil because you thought God would forgive you when you confessed. Or something. Who gives a shit really? This is what Year 12 English does to you - it scars you for life.
What are you doing this weekend?
London: The Bureaucrat's Wet DreamI feel like I am finally breaking through the glass ceiling of Catch 22's. Today, I successfully managed to register myself at the local doctor's surgery. Hurrah! It may not sound like much, but it took two months, three letters, my first-born son (his name was Frank - sorry I didn't tell you about him, I didn't want to get too attached), and then I had to prove I could cook a three-course meal in 1 hour using one signature ingredient in each course (it was quail, and yes I beat the Iron Chef). After all that, I had to fill out two forms in triplicate, once in Arabic, and I was registered. Phew! But what is really great is that the doctor's surgery is only open from 9-5 on weekdays, so you have to take time off work and make an appointment a week in advance if you want to go. So it's SUPER-useful. I just plan to stay really healthy so I don't have to go (haha! Here's me, sitting at the computer with a vodka in one hand a half a packet of chocolate McVittie's digestives in the other). [Note for Mum: This is a joke - I am kidding. Digestives? It's another word for biscuit.]
Whee! Whee! Paris!Next Tuesday night I'm off to Paris for four days of mayhem, madness and nutella crepes. Olga is spending a month there studying, and every single person she knows is taking advantage of her and coming over to visit (and sleeping on the floor for free). I also plan to test Olga's newly learnt language skills to the full, as I do not speak a word of French (except for 'I am sorry I do not understand French' which doesn't count because it cancels itself out, really. Actually, according to Olga, what I had been saying the whole time was, 'I am sorry; French - I do not understand'. Thanks alot Readers Digest for making me sound like a tool.) Eurostar was a complete and utter rip-off. They wanted £200 for a return ticket. So I told them they were dreamin' and purchased a £32 return ticket on National Express Coaches. Admittedly, I am still shaken from my last experience with National Express (January 4, 1998). Eleena and I caught a National Express coach from Dublin to London and almost didn't return. The bus driver beat up two passengers and left them at Hollyhead. He almost ran over one of them when he fell under the front wheel of the bus, but then he stopped and decided to drag him out and kick him some more instead. Then he drove off and almost stranded me and Eleena at a highway stop somewhere outside of Manchester (or Birmingham). We ran after the bus, screaming and waving at him to stop. Luckily for us he did, but there were still 6 people inside the petrol station stop that weren't so lucky. My bag with my passport was on the bus at the time. So you see, I have quite alot of issues with National Express. My left eye still twitches whenever I see one drive past. But for a saving of £168 I am willing to put myself through a bit of exposure therapy. If Rani can hold a spider, then I can do this. As soon to be dad and sports personality Lleyton Hewitt would say, C'mon!!!
FunnyAs I sit here at home on a Saturday afternoon, I should be working on a report. But I have been side-tracked by the discovery that I can access broadband internet on this laptop I have borrowed from work. I have also been wiping the tears of laughter from my face after reading Modern Toss comics. Mr Tourette and other gem characters such as Prince Edward - Royal Entrepreneur are pure brilliance. 
I was in a pub yesterday and the cigarette machine said, "You smell and you're ugly". Then I heard a voice coming from a nearby plate of peanuts saying, "You're a very beautiful young lady". Turns out the cigarette machine was out of order and the nuts were complimentary.
British - good at nicking stuffI popped into the British Museum on Saturday, just to make it feel like I was on holiday and that my whole weekend had not been wasted writing stupid reports for work. How good are the British people at nicking stuff? It is amazing how much stuff was there - Egyptian, Greek, etc. The Rosetta Stone was ace, except I kept getting pushed out of the way by midget French schoolkids who were taking photos of it with their camera phones. Little merde-heads.
Rambling in KentOlga, myself and a noice friend of Olga's called Lisa went for a ramble in Kent yesterday. We hopped on the train and went to somewhere that sounded noice called Sevenoaks. Didn't really know what to expect but we were armed with a 50-year-old map of Kent, lent to me by my landlord, and a dream of seeing green countryside and lots of trees, innit. Amazingly we found a castle in the middle of a huge park - think it was called Knole Castle or something. There were deers running about everywhere. Then somehow we ended up in the middle of a golf course. Lisa's excellent sense of direction kept us on track and earnt her the nickname 'Pidge' - short for homing pidgeon. With just an old map she managed to find a pub in a small village called Godden Green. We'd walked several miles by this stage so the two pints of lager top were a welcome break. Am a bit jealous of everyone who has gone on holiday this weekend - it's a long-weekend bank holiday, see. Jeff and Sally are in Brussels, Jamie and Mario are in Greece and I am here writing stupid reports for work. They better give me time in lieu or I'm crackin' skulls.
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