Dissertation down, bam!

Well, sort of. I’ve used too many words from the thesaurus to prevent sentence after sentence coming out the same. Oxford is a sobering change from Paris, I have no idea what I plan to do with my Summer. I’ve been so occupied with France, that the idea of returning to England hasn’t been tangible enough to scare me into finding a Summer placement. I’m certainly going to need something to fund my inevitable trips to and from France to fill the gaping bordeaux shaped hole in my psyche.

It’s the Imperial centenary ball tonight with the departmental dinner beforehand, so I’m lugging myself to London later today to get ready for it all.

Reading: Rimbaud – selected letters, and the Automatic Millionaire by David Bach (although I’m skipping all the chapters whose titles include exclamation marks… eg. There is no catch! Let the Goverment Help! or Your Journey Begins Today!

I think the heat is getting to me

I woke up last night and tore part of the light fitting from the wall. I’m not sure why, but I remember thinking that it was very important at the time. God help the person who I end up sharing a bed with.

Much fun was had at the picnic. It was my first trip to the famous Butte de Chaumont, and it certainly lived up to expectations. An impressive amount of Pimm’s made it into our glasses, and I think the general dehydration landed a couple of us with mild heatstroke. Still, poor Rhino came off rather worse, opting for more homeopathic sun remedies (champagne and chocolate tart)

Tourte

Well I feel like I ought to post something really as I’m attending this picnic in the 20th… can’t have people reading 5 month old posts. It’s a shame I can’t title this post épuisé, because in comparison to whenever I decided to post last, I’m absolutely bloody knackered. With a dissertation to write and a project report which are both rather significant chunks of my degree, this musical which I’ve signed up to has stolen the rest of whatever semblance I had of down-time.

My time in Paris is coming to an end, which is a great shame, as I’ve been having a marvellous time. I’m going to blame my lack of update on the fact that I’ve been too busy to write anything down – which in itself is a pity as I barely remember half of what I’ve been up to. Internet heroine has helped a bit (facebook), and I’ve got some sort of visual diary which I can fall back on when the grandchildren (or the children of my adopted thai child) ask me what I did during my university days.

Marvellous friends, wonderful people. I haven’t had the oppurtunity to meet the stereotypical arrogant parisian, which leads me to suspect that they don’t exist in any numbers which aren’t comparable to London… well either that or I am the stereotypical arrogant parisian. I suppose you can judge for yourselves at the picnic. I’m going to bring a quiche, or some sort of tourte (if you ask me to pronounce this word there may be a scene).

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.

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.

Ca te dérange?

Lebanese neighbour: “Hey could you help me with something?”
H: What’s that
LN: I just want to stick these roses up in my room
H: Sure

**Ohh, that’s nice he wants to put some flowers up for a possible girlfriend**

LN: I want to stick them on the roof next to my corpse bride poster so it looks like a grave
H: Riiighto…

** Ok, slighlty bizarre, but I’m all for keeping up the friendly neighbours pretense, perhaps this is perfectly normal behaviour in Lebanon**

LN: Thanks so much for helping me out. They’ll look much better in three days when they are dead
H: Ummm, ohh?

** Maybe he’s a witch?… Come on now, he’s NOT another witch, what are the chances. Anyway don’t you know his country was attacked!? Show some compassion you bigot **

LN: Do you know where I got the flowers from?
H: Not the florist?
LN: It was a bit risky but I took them from a cemetery after someone put them down, I wanted them to be authentic

🙂

😐

😮

Fortunately my back was turned to him, but a look of horror must have spread over my face. I am a party to what was essentially grave robbery.

C’est chiant, quoi?

I’m not speaking nearly enough French, I really need to be disciplined.  All the erasmus students hang out in their respective hoards using English for any diplomatic purposes.  I’ve had to take drastic action, and joined a choir, and the ENST forum, AND I’m going to get a language exchange buddy.  Meanwhile I’m spending hours constructing poorly written reports for the various Travaux Pratiques which we’ve been assigned.

I still can’t quite get it out of my head that I’ve stolen someone else’s life and they’re about to reclaim it and send me hurtling back through the channel tunnel.  I did however, have a semi sobering moment the other when I got my haircut.  Greeting me with a broad North of England accent, I discovered that Heidi had come to France 15 years ago on a whim and decided to stay, picking up three new languages on the fly if-you-please.  It was certainly a relief to actually meet someone on the other side of what I may end up doing.  Sorry Petite, Coquette and Maitresse, you remain my intangible protagonists of Paris.

I now have a bank account which I can tick off from my list of things which I require to feel properly Parisian.  All that’s left so far are

Social security card
Navigo card
Coat hangers
and at least one pair of really great shoes

I managed to duck into Zara and pick up a new jumper and shirt.  These french guys are making me feel inadequate, with their leather belts and expensive watches.  I spent all this time in England trying to pass as a heterosexual, and now I’ve had to relegate my polo shirts and hoodies to the back of my wardrobe.  I am a broken man, in my light grey merino wool v-neck, and black pinstripe slim-fit.