épuisé

Hmmm my blogging hiatus has reached a point where I’m either going to start again or completely give it up.  I’ve got about 15 half started posts which are even more all over the place than usual, and I seem to have generally lost my groove.  I think it may have a lot to do with the fact that I have no time to do anything at the moment because I’ve scheduled so many extra curricular activities for myself, and by the time I get home I’m so exhausted I can barely muster enough strength to string a sentence together in basic English, let alone moderately comprehensible prose.

However the end is in sight, and the holidays are on the distant horizon.  Turkey, pâté and christmas-tree shaped mousse; such is Christmas in France.  Despite all predictions based on the horror of Japan, I’ve lasted three months here and I’m pretty sure I can make it through.  The key is lots of different distractions, of which (apparently) I haven’t had time to blog about.

1) I joined the English theatre society for which I have to audition on Thursday (strangers in the night)

2) Signed up for club arsehole (direct translation from club cul.) in order to get a bit more culture.

3) Joined the ENST forum and set about the impossible task of trying to convince Berkshire IT companies to pay for a place

4) Went to a gala event at Opera Garnier to see Idomeneo, where we were fed champagne and foie gras at the interval.  I shamelessly stuffed myself despite my wailing inner vegetarian.

5) and I finally infiltrated the oligarchy!  In the form of a blogging soirée in the 19th.  I shall publish a flash animation of the secret handshake in a few weeks, although apparently Petite has accepted my homosexuality in lieu of a full sex change.

6) Oh yeah, and yesterday I watched 9 hours of America’s Next Top Model.  That’s right… all of cycle 7. Michelle and/or Melrose was/were robbed by that little bitch.

Nouveau page

I’ve just added an Anglo-Franco glossary to the site. I’ve had a couple of the french students ask if I could compile a list of British slang for them. So any additions are welcome, although let’s refrain from regional dialects (ie. Blood, creps, bruv, cotch etc. etc.)

Oh and for you Americans out there fetch doesn’t count.

Pressé

I know I know, I haven’t updated in quite a while. And although I’m sure you’d be riveted by the intricasies of the last few weeks before exams, I don’t really have the time to go into them. As it turns out half the Erasmus students have done Maths degrees, and as such are quite at home with the level of difficulty here I am currently in the process hacking my way through wikipedia, whittling out a crash course in Hilbert Spaces and the like.

I shall be in blog hibernation until possibly the end of next week.

épuisé mais ravi

I played football the other day for the first time in about 10 years. I’m not exactly sure how I ended up agreeing to participate, but it quickly became apparent that it was not going to turn out well. I probably should have cottoned on when the two Italian guys had football boots without studs for ease of use in an indoor arena.

In any case, I was trying to find an out from the word go, but ended up having to endure 40 minutes of it in which I almost scored an own goal; got nailed in the balls almost passing out; and nearly dislocated someone’s knee by pushing them into a wall.

Hasty excuses were made, and secret oaths taken to never again play football neither for love nor money.

Fortunately as an alternative, I’ve discovered some joggers with whom I joined today for a few laps of Parc Montsouris. Now, admittedly I had been warned about this by various bloggers (Le Blagueur en fait), but I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. Women… running… dressed in sequins, silk scarfs, and off the shoulder sweater numbers.

Nike weeps for this lost nation.

Rembourser les faveurs

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, glancing up and down the street before I rang the buzzer. By the time we’d both sat down to coffee the Godmother had already sized me up. I could feel a muscle on my face begin to twitch as I watched the steam from the hot chocolate circle around her eyes. She began in heavily accented English:

‘So… my associates tell me you’ve started blogging in Paris’

‘Oh, er… yes Godmother’

‘You come to Paris, and blog here without seeking my blessing? What have I done to make you treat me so disrespectfully?’

‘Oh um, oooh I’m terribly sorry, I don’t suppose I could get that n-?’

‘And you would even ask of me a favour?’

‘Oh… yeah, ok, Godmother, do you know where I can acquire… some marmite?’

With this the godmother leans back in her chair and smiles slightly.

Petite was in fact completely lovely, and a pleasure to meet, especially since the part of my brain which is prone to flights of fancy had begun to suspect that she was:

a) a man
b) a robot
or c) An internet ghost

Thoroughly reasurred, I’ve been well provided with marmite and crumpets. Although apparently some day – and that day may never come – the oligarchy will call upon me to do a service for them, or else make me an offer that I can’t refuse…

Something about a kidnapping and a sex change?

Aspirateur à main

I finally got my student loan through today! and how does any self respecting man celebrate? I bought… a brand new 4.2 Volt hand-held vacuum cleaner. I’m staring at it now, trying to retrace the steps which lead to it’s purchase. It all seemed terribly important at the time, but I can’t remember what the catalyst was. Well obviously I couldn’t keep borrowing the one from the building’s reception, what if someone else had it? The situation would be so embarassing my whole reality might collapse into a singularity. No… no, it’s better that I have my own. Now at least I can vacuum the crumbs out of my keyboard and assault the metre radius around my coloc while he’s eating.

I do have an inexplicable penchant for household appliances. Perhaps it’s a symptom of my degree. While my engineering buddies around me are getting the latest ipod femto, I’m off buying multi-tier steamers, breadmakers, or that Italian pasta roller which cost the best part of £60. The obsession didn’t stop with appliances either, by the end of my second year I had a bizarre collection of disused consumables: Miso paste, pork lard, two different kinds of seaweed, vine leaves, mung beans… I’ve managed to keep these baser urges in check recently, but I live with the constant threat of slipping over the precipice and losing my student loan on a trouser press and a kilo of saffron.

Don’t the scientologists have a healing circle for people like me?

Karaoke mugshots

As promised, pictures of the new hit sensation composed of myself, Maitresse and Julie.

We don’t look at all happy in the second one, I think it was after a few beers… next time there’ll be costumes and backup dancers I swear.

Branché

 

Adrift no longer
Platonic shadows scatter
I exist again

_______________________

Oh yeah? Well I think the real question is when is a haiku not appropriate?

So, 16th century Japanese poetry aside, I’ve been given a mobile phone! Reassimilated back into the collective, my societal umbilical cord is firmly back in place. Big shout out to Maitresse (it’s the American way) for the handmedown. I was going to use lots of metaphors for passing on the baton, but that would be to admit to myself that she may really be giving up the game.

It might just be part of my naivety as a wet-behind-the-ears-aspirant, but it was pretty awesome to actually meet other bloggers for the first time. Having a tangible, responsive human being in front of you is a far cry from the passive, almost voyeuristic state which you can get into while trawling through their posts. Although this sur-reality was probably enhanced with the renditions of Grease showtunes (in full harmony) during the karaoke.

There are pictures to follow, but for now you’ll have to settle with the current centre of my universe

Savoir-vivre

Scarfed and shirted up, we went along to the forum dinner last night, only to find that there had only been 4 places booked for 56 students. A few angry phone calls later and blame duly assigned, we were left to our own devices in the 13eme.

Meandering down the Rue des Cinq Diamants, we found a scruffy little Basque restaurant in the heart of Buttes aux Cailles which was supiciously packed. The patrons seemed to be eating what was essentially salad, which on closer inspection turned out to be packed with pan-fried liver and other delicious meaty bits. They somehow managed to squeeze four of us in and the evening was salvaged with a superbly omnivourous menu at around 15 euros a head.  I would highly recommend it except that doing so would would decrease my chances of getting a table next time (there were a lot of people waiting at the bar by the time we left).

In other news it has been recently pointed out that I may be turning into an etiquette facist, but honestly, who eats with their mouth open at our age?  That’s not to mention people going for Spaghetti al Giappone.

Quelle Horreur.

Les Thèses

It’s that time of year where the mass of graduating students symbolically part ways in an avalanche of paperwork. Invariably the dealers with the blue chips are the ones who attract the most players, but there are the occasional few, we masochistic few, who go the PhD route – treading the slippery path of academia.

I’m not sure if it’s because of my aversion to the mainstream, or a genuine desire to do something which has the good-guy stamp of approval on it… But on the whole, the professors at college seem a lot happier than the people I met on my internship.  Even though they had lots and lots of money. My ego – as opposed to my superego which really ought to know by now – has genuinely started to suspect that money isn’t everything.

Tony Robbins will be mortified.