Christening

I went to a christening on Sunday, the first since the baby's sister was christened eight years ago. It was lovely to see a full church, and it was a nice service. We all repaired to the church hall next door for a buffet and drinks, and that's when I started to get cross ...

The stepfather of the baby's mother came round to tell everyone that the 'bar' was open and there was anything we wanted, except sherry and except for the people who were driving, who could only have soft drinks.

Excuse me, but when did the law change? If there's one thing I hate (well there are lots of things I hate, but this is a pet one) it's being told I can't do something by someone who doesn't know what they are talking about. The law states that it is permissible to have a small amount of alcohol in the blood and still be legally allowed to drive. This amount is the equivalent to 2 units of alcohol. As I used to calculate alcoholic units as part of my job, I do know what I'm talking about. The amount of alcohol in the tiny plastic glasses on the tray they were passing around would be, at most, 1.5 units. I was planning on staying at the christening for an hour or so, but even if I had downed the glass in one and gone straight out to the car and been breathalised, I would not have been over the limit.

I quite agree that people should not drink more than the safe legal limit and then get behind the wheel of a car, but I don't agree with people telling me that I can't have any alcohol at all. I take responsibility for myself; it's not up to anyone else. The fact that the wine was probably nasty cheap stuff served at the wrong temperature that would have given me indigestion is neither here nor there. I like to make my own decisions, based on knowledge of myself, alcohol and the laws about it.

The christening party was spoiled for me, not because I didn't drink any alcohol - because I don't drink much, contrary to what you might think reading this post - but because someone else set himself above the law. I'm not a 17-year-old who has only just learned to drive and who needs to be reminded of the law. I'm 48, I've been driving for 31 years, and the only points I have on my licence are 3 for doing 36 miles in a 30 mile zone at 7am on a Sunday morning when there was no-one else about. I really don't need to be told what to do.

It appears to be hard for adults who have children to treat other adults as, well, adults, and to let them take responsibility for their own actions. A word of advice: if you're offering people a drink, let them decide if they're going to have alcohol or not. After all, we're all adults.

Oops, I did it again ...

... booked another trip with Ryanair, that is, not done anything else Britney-style!

Well, when Ryanair offer tickets, including taxes, for £1 each way, it would be rude not to take up the offer, wouldn't it?

So a friend and I are off to Beauvais in January to exchange one damp climate for another. It's quite a big city, but, apart from the enormous gothic cathedral, I'm not sure how much there will be for us to see. Never mind, though. If we get stuck it's only an hour away by train from Paris! I am leaning more to simply landing at Beauvais and heading straight to Gay Paree, but I know that January in Paris can be very miserable, so maybe we'll explore Beauvais after all and save Paris for a longer (and hopefully spring/summer) trip, if Ryanair are so kind as to offer me £1 seats again.

Now I'm just hoping I can find hotels for £1 ...

Poked, prodded and pricked ...

... all in the space of 10 minutes!

Yes, dear readers, it was time for my biennial rubber-glove-and-lubricating-jelly-treat down at the Doctor's surgery this morning. I know everyone is short of time these days (as am I!) but they don't even ask you to remove your skirt any more, just your knickers, so I lay spread-eagled on the couch in my bunched up skirt and pop-socks while the practice nurse (you'd think she'd be perfect by now ...) avoided eye-contact and made polite conversation about how far away I worked and at least I'd miss the worst of the traffic this morning.

A few minutes later it was back on with the knickers, sleeve rolled up for a 'flu jab, then out of the door within the 10 minutes allowed for each appointment.

At least this time I was expecting an internal examination. Many years ago, when I lived in France, I went through a very low, morose few weeks, and decided to take myself off to the doctor, with vague ideas of low blood-sugar or low potassium, or something to explain why I was feeling so miserable and lethargic.

I related my symptoms to Dr Benlolo (no, really, that was his name) who listened patiently, then said, 'Strip from the waist down and hop up on the couch' and proceeded to give me a thorough, but inexplicable internal examination.

I don't think the intervention cured me, but it was the last time I visited a doctor in the 6 years I lived in France...

My Brilliant Divorce

Dillie Keane (of Fascinating Aida fame) starred in the one-woman show My Brilliant Divorce at the Nuffield Theatre on Friday. I can't remember the last time I laughed so much that I cried, and I certainly don't ever remember enjoying a play so much that I tried to find someone to come with me to see it again the following evening. Sadly, all my friends were already booked up for Saturday night so I didn't go again, but as I seem to be able to remember huge chunks of the monologue already, that's probably no bad thing. My colleagues will be sick of the sound of me by the end of tomorrow!

If the play comes to a theatre near you at any time, GO!

And if it ever comes out on DVD, get it!

The Land of Po

A little over a year ago, I fell prey to the marketing ploys of Ryanair, and ended up going to Marseille (October) and Barcelona (November) on very cheap flights. Last week, another such offer fell into my email inbox and I fell for it again! This time it's Poland, Wroclaw to be precise, for a week in March. Yes, I know it's likely to be very cold ... and by the time Ryanair had added on the cost of check-in and the cost of putting a bag in the hold, the flights had increased to £75, but never mind, I have time between now in March to try and sell vast quantities of unused and/or unwanted 'stuff' on Ebay and Amazon to try and find the money! I'm going with my travelling companion from Marseille, and we spent a happy couple of hours on the computer yesterday looking at hotels. We've settled on the 5* Sofitel, which had a pretty good deal on if you book and pay in advance on a 'no-cancellation' policy, so this is where we'll be staying.

18 weeks to try and learn a bit of Polish, although that shouldn't be hard. I could learn, 'Get out of my shop!' in Polish quite easily, as the owners of some Polish grocery shops in the city are refusing to serve British people. In case anyone out there is puzzled as to why this should bother me, the city in question is in England, not Poland ... Yes, I know, I could feel my blood pressure rising and a potential heart attack coming on as well.

Until later, do widzenia!

Colin Fry and TJ Higgs

I spent a very enjoyable and interesting evening yesterday at the Guildhall, where Colin Fry and TJ Higgs presented an evening of ... well, what would you call it? They call it a demonstration, but I felt it was an evening of connections, between this world and the world that lies beyond. I'm a believer, not a sceptic, but all the same I do question everything before I accept it - my belief is not blind. The messages that came through were specific, not the 'does anyone have someone on the other side whose name begins with M?' variety, and it was lovely to see the positive reaction of the members of the audience who did get a message.

If I was going to get a message, the Guildhall would have been the place. Less than a week after my mother's death in 1992, my father handed over the mayoral chain of office to the new mayor, and I took my mother's place at his side. She had been ill throughout the mayoral year, but fulfilled her duties with grace and dignity, never letting on that she was so unwell. My father died two and a half years later. If ever either of them were going to come through, I felt it would have been there, but I wasn't disappointed when there was no message for me. Perhaps, at last, I have come to terms with their deaths, and perhaps that's why other people received messages, not me. Other people in the audience needed to hear that their loved ones were safe, and in a happier place. I didn't need to hear that, because I already believe it to be true.

If anyone - sceptic or believer - is in two minds about going to see such a demonstration, I would urge them to go. It was a very positive and affirming experience, and I'm looking forward to Colin's new shows coming up soon on Living TV.

Pink Paradox

The company I work for supports Breast Cancer Care, and donates a certain sum of money to them for each pack of our best-selling product. It's a great cause, and yesterday, the culmination of Breast Cancer Awareness week, the whole company made a special effort to raise extra funds for the charity. Ladies dressed in pink washed cars, hairy-chested men allowed themselves to be waxed (ouch!), local companies donated scores of goodies for the raffle - with prizes including wide-screen TVs, use of a brand new Mercedes SLK for the weekend, hampers, six-foot tall cuddly penguins (as in Happy Feet) - and a good friend of mine supplied huge quantities of alcohol from her company (which is also one of my former employers) for the Finance Wine Cellar Clearance. I'm sure she won't mind if I add a link here to her firm's cocktail website, which she works tirelessly to promote. There was a Car Boot-ique - an indoor car boot sale - and various pink non-alcoholic cocktails to try, pink doughnuts on sale, and, as we have a multi-national workforce, a fantastic buffet of food from around the world to sample at lunchtime. The Pink Panther put in an appearance and we had a Wii-mbledon tournament. My doubles partner and I got through to the quarter finals (no thanks to me - she kept having to remind me which cartoon character I was!)

The only sour note was a 'phone call from my boss to one of my colleagues to tell her that she must not spend any time on Pink Day activities, because we were all far too busy... What a shame he felt the need to point that out when we are all very responsible when it comes to prioritising work. What a great pity he felt the need to point it out when he had spent half of Friday out of contact travelling to be with his girlfriend for the weekend ...

I guess when you get to that level of seniority you feel you can make the rules, but don't think apply to you. Funny, but I have always subscribed to the 'lead by example' viewpoint...

Next time he asks me to do anything personal for him, I'm afraid I shall be too busy ...

French music

When I lived in Paris, apart from tuning in to The Archers religiously every night at 8pm (because of the hour's time difference) I listened exclusively to French radio, which played mostly British or American music anyway. In 1996, French culture minister Philippe Douste-Blazy decreed that 40 percent of music played on French radio must be by French artists. Up until then, based on what I listened to, I'd say only about 15 - 20% was French.

I loved some of the French pop songs that were out during my stay in Paris and, much to my delight, some of them are available on You Tube - this was one of my favourites and when I found it this morning it was as much as I could do not to cry as I sang along (in my head, not out loud!) Just as well, as I was at work at the time ...

There is a live version on You Tube, so if you'd like to see Monsieur Cabrel, looking even dishier than he does here, search for his name and 'Encore et Encore'.



... Hours feel like weeks. You find yourself sitting on the floor, leaping up every time you hear the door bang ... Think yourself lucky that there's still a trace of his aftershave on your jacket ...

The song is about a woman whose boyfriend has left her - particularly poignant for me, as I was dumped by 2 men almost simultaneously round about the time the song was released. I suppose it served me right for going out with both of them at once! But I did find myself sitting cross-legged on the floor of my studio apartment, drinking glass after glass of whisky and diet coke (Tab, as it was called then) singing my little heart out to this song, which was practically on a loop on my cassette player, crying harder and harder as the bottle emptied.


Eau Sauvage by Christian Dior still brings a tear to my eye, but despite all the trauma of that period, the memories are happy ones, and I still love the song. I even learned something from the heartbreak, and I wouldn't have changed a thing. I'd do it all Encore et Encore ...

The nights are drawing in!

I don't know what it's like in your part of the world, but here in the South of England, at 7.30 in the evening, you could be forgiven for thinking it's around 5pm in late October.

I like Autumn ... in Autumn, not in late Summer - and for the past few years, September could have been classed as late Summer, with sunny days and light evenings. For the past couple of weeks I've had a quilt around me as I sit on the sofa watching television at night. My cat comes in with cold paws and a cold nose and snuggles close to me for warmth. I'm contemplating getting my winter-weight duvet out of mothballs because the summer one isn't enough any more.

So, instead of bemoaning the Summer we've (not) had, I'm going to embrace Autumn, and look forward to better television, stews and casseroles, and different clothes (although not for work - thanks to the aircon, it is permanently bikini weather in the office).

Only 108 days until Christmas!

Fast Karma

Karma works both ways, and sometimes it works extremely quickly...

The forecast said sunny intervals and the sky to the south-west was blue, so I took a chance on Saturday and went to the beach. Oh joy! My lovely hut neighbours had put a first coat of paint on the bits I can't reach and it's looking good. I handed over the money for the paint and Hilary said, 'Oh, David, tell her about that man! Kite-man!'

'Oh yes,' said David, a twinkle in his eye. 'I saw him in the car-park, with his leg in plaster. Seems he lost control of his kite and came crashing down on the sand bar and broke his leg ...'

When I stopped shaking with laughter I slapped on some suntan lotion and lay down on my lounger to soak up some rays. Within twenty minutes a light wind had sprung up, sending clouds to hide the sun. Another twenty minutes on and Hilary and David, by now clad in fleeces, packed up and went home. I toughed it out a little longer before retreating into the hut with a blanket and my book, shutting one door against the now howling gale. After another hour I gave up, got dressed and stepped outside the hut into the cold wind.

There was Kite-Man, leg all mended, blowing up his rig and preparing for an afternoon's fun in the sea.

Now that's Karma.

I take it all back ...

I got home, logged on in one last vain attempt to connect to the internet before giving Talk Talk the benefit of my (not very high) opinion of them and ... it's working!

Maybe the upgrade to the service in my area took a little longer than planned but whatever the reason, my internet service and I are happily re-united, without the need to buy a new router that I can't afford. Phew!

Thank you, God.

Incommunicado ...

As I usually do before going to bed, I sat at my computer to check for any late emails. Talk Talk flashed up the helpful message, 'It looks as if you are having problems connecting to your Broadband.' I followed all the usual steps (Talk Talk 'loses' my connection on a fairly regular basis) and, when that didn't resolve it, I rebooted. That normally clears it. In fact, ring your office helpdesk, wherever you are in the country, and the chances are that you'll be advised to switch off and switch on again. Having booted up, Talk Talk flashed again, 'We have detected a problem with your broadband connection.'

This was about 11pm on Friday. I followed the steps, I logged on and off, I followed different steps, logged on and off again, in short, I would not be beaten! Eventually, at 4.30am on Saturday morning I had to admit defeat and I went to bed.

Later that same morning, I left a pitiful voicemail on a friend's 'phone - 'lucky' woman uses Talk Talk as well - explaining the problem, and she 'phoned back with a solution! Not the quick/easy/cheap one I was hoping for, but a solution nevertheless! Apparently, Talk Talk has been upgrading their service, area by area, and since the upgrade, the wireless router that was sent out to new members last year is no longer compatible. Of course, they didn't acknowledge this themselves, my friend's partner managed to find out the information on the internet and my friend's solution was to buy a new router. She's had no problem since.

My problem is that a) I can't afford a new router and b) if I could, PC World have had such a run on the particular type I need that they have sold out, presumably to disgruntled Talk Talk customers.

'Check the internet for fixes in one of the nerd forums,' my brother helpfully suggested. I would if I could connect to the internet ... (well, I know I'm connected at the moment because I'm posting this, but there is a limit to how much time I can spend on personal stuff at work!) ... and if I understood nerd-speak. I am fluent in French, I have a smattering of German, but geek is all greek to me.

So tonight I have the prospect of wading through pages of nerd-ese that I've sneakily printed off at work, and talking to the lovely people at the Talk Talk helpdesk who, according to the friend who had the same problem, could be prosecuted under the Trades Descriptions Act for their lack of help. They couldn't understand what was wrong in the first place, much less suggest a solution.

When/if my internet connection gets back and running I think my first Google search will be for wig manufacturers, because by then I shall have torn all my hair out ...

Wish me luck!

Progress ...

Oh me of little faith!

I had a letter from the District Council yesterday in response to my cry for help about getting the kite-surfers a designated area to the west of the beach, away from the huts and the children and the swimmers, where they can do less harm. The Council has invited the Secretary of the British Kite-Surfers Association for a meeting to discuss the issue, and I will be informed of the outcome!

It may not be success (yet!) but it is certainly progress, and I am very hopeful for a more peaceful and relaxing summer next year, without Mr ex-SAS getting stroppy and threatening, and bringing hordes of his kite-surfing pals to set up camp in front of my hut with what feels like the express purpose of winding me up.

Watch this space!

Things that go bump in the day ...

As a pre-birthday treat (and shame on all who forgot it was 2 August - notable lapses being my Aunty Wendy and my Grandmother) a friend of mine took me out for the day on Tuesday 29 July. I was allowed to choose where I wanted to go, and my requirements were simple. 'I'd like to go to a haunted house, please.'

I had heard nothing about Athelhampton House prior to our visit, except that there was supposed to be the ghost of a monkey there. I went along hoping to hear a chattering or scratching noise, but the reality was far more interesting ...

The house and gardens are far more spectacular than my few photos here show, so do take a look at their website via the above link.

The friend I went with, Lesley, seems to be a lot more sensitive to atmosphere than I am, but we both felt very giddy on the staircase leading up to the King's Bedroom, to the extent that I had to hold onto the bannisters. We had a quick look into the room before realising that we had missed some other rooms further up the stairs, so returned the way we had come and visited the Marevna Gallery, at the top of the house.

Back in the King's Bedroom, as I walked past the left-hand side of the bed, I suddenly felt that I couldn't breathe: my lungs seemed paralysed. There was a pressing feeling in my chest, as if something soft, like a ballon or a pillow, was being pressed very hard against my heart. I'm very alert to anything to do with my heart after my op earlier this year, but it didn't feel like an angina attack, just a heavy pressure. I said to Lesley, who was walking ahead of me, that I couldn't breathe, and she came back to where I was standing. She was breathing fine, but said she felt a pressure in her chest - just as I was feeling, although I hadn't said anything aloud! The feeling of pressure, and not being able to breathe vanished as soon as I left the room, and I asked the house steward if she knew if anyone had died in the King's Bedroom. Due to the age of the house, it seems very probable, and as I had brought the subject up, she was able to tell me that there have been several people who have had inexplicable experiences in the house, or seen/heard things.

I sensed nothing else for the rest of the tour around the house and the lovely grounds, and I didn't feel that the experience I had was malevolent or threatening in any way. I'd recommend the place to anyone, even if you're not interested in ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties...

The house steward told us that Athelhampton had been featured on Most Haunted as one of the top ten haunted houses in England - you can view the episode, broken down into segments, here or all in one hit here.

I only took a few photos because the official website has much better ones, but here are a few pictures from the gardens :

All in all, a very interesting and exciting visit. I really would like to stay there overnight, but I don't think I'd find anyone to come with me!

Flea markets, cockroaches, prawns and alsations

While I was living in Paris my brother Stephen met the woman he was destined to marry. What better way to woo her than whisk her away for a romantic weekend in the City of Light? Unfortunately for her, his pay didn't quite run to the George V hotel, or any other for that matter, but he could afford the coach/ferry fare for both of them, and he asked if I would put them up. I warned him it wouldn't be romantic, as I lived in a studio and we'd all have to sleep in the same room.

My mother was delighted. She didn't approve of sex before marriage (or after it, according to my father) so she was confident that there would be no 'hanky-panky' with me sleeping mere feet away.

'Tell her I have cockroaches, if you're really worried,' I said. 'That'll make sure she keeps her knickers on.'

Of course, I didn't expect my mother to tell my future sister-in-law this, but mothers never do what you expect them to, do they?

Wanting to make a good impression and ensure they had a good time, I took them to the flea market at the Porte de Clignancourt on day one. We had a great time rummaging around the stalls and stands and after a happy couple of hours decided it was time for lunch. This is when the trouble started. The café we chose was a very popular one and they had run out of tables outside in the sun, but I appealed to the owner's national pride: it was the first time I had met my brother's girlfriend - the only time I'd met one of his girlfriends, so I knew she was special to him. I wanted them both to enjoy their brief visit to Paris and I'd selected his café and we'd all be just devastated if we couldn't have lunch on the terrace.

My plan worked. The owner carried another table and three chairs outside. Unfortunately he put it down where his huge alsation used to relax in the sun. The alsation was not happy at being ousted, and sat by Sarah's leg, glaring at her and salivating. Sarah is afraid of alsations ...

To her credit, she only whimpered a bit, and after another word with the café owner, the dog was dragged inside and Sarah relaxed and ordered her first course. Being British, she ordered prawn cocktail. Being France, the prawns were shell-on. The dish was placed in front of her with several pairs of beady eyes staring at her and she went white. Sarah is afraid of shell-on prawns ... it's the eyes and antennae that freak her out.

While she went to the bathroom, my brother and I started to peel the prawns for her but she was back before we had finished. She was holding her hand in the air, blood dripping from her palm. She slumped into her chair and told us that she wasn't used to 'squattez-vous', or toilettes à la Turque (the squat-and-drop holes in the ground) and had put her hands on the walls on either side to brace herself. This was a big mistake as her hand slipped on a broken tile and gashed her palm open.

Smelling blood, the alsation came and sat by her again while I went and asked the café owner, who was beginning to regret ever putting the table outside for us, if he had a first aid kit.

'No,' he said. 'We only took over last week and we haven't got around to that yet. Here, have some paper napkins.'

Poor Sarah ate her (peeled) prawn cocktail with her fork in one hand, and the other hand clenching a dozen or so white paper napkins that were slowly turning red.

What else could go wrong? Well, we had the main course to get through. Steak frites, you can't go wrong with that, surely? Especially when I told the waiter that Sarah wanted her steak bien cuit, no, more than well done, absolutely cremated. Not a drop of blood, thank you. In fact, not even pink in the middle. Brown to the point of being black all the way through, please. I could not have been clearer. The steaks arrived: Sarah cut into hers and moved back just in time to avoid a jet of blood shooting out of the middle. So much for bien cuit! I think the owner wanted to make sure we never came back... I sent her steak back with renewed instructions, even though I could see she was rapidly starting to lose her appetite. It came back, cooked to Sarah's exact specification, but the chips were cold. We gave up. We went back to my flat, Sarah's hand still swathed in bloody napkins.

After a few drinks in a local bar later that evening, Sarah started to see the funny side of it, much to my brother's relief, but when we were all tucked up in bed that night I heard Sarah whisper, 'Is it true, what your Mum said, about the cockroaches?'

'I don't know,' Stephen whispered back.

'I'm not taking any chances,' Sarah replied firmly. 'I'm keeping my pants on!'

Sarah and Stephen celebrate their twentieth wedding anniversary at the end of August this year. I asked them if they fancied going back to Paris for the occasion. The answer, in perfect unison, was a resounding No!

Just in case you didn't believe me ...

... here I am with my medal for finishing!

Phew, what a scorcher!

I love the hot weather - under the right circumstances. These include sea in close proximity, a lack of clothing save for a sarong or a tankini, fresh air and a jug of something ice-cold. Sangria springs to mind.

I do not love the hot weather when I have to go to work in an office where you can't open the windows ('Why would you want to open a window? We have aircon!) especially when the AIRCON IS BROKEN! Sorry, was I shouting?

Only one area of the building is without functioning aircon at the moment - yes, you've guessed, the area where my desk is situated. About 10 of us are affected. We've managed to find one decent sized fan and one little one, but all they seem to do is move the hot air around. The huge windows radiate every calorie of heat into the offices: it's like working in a sauna.

The back of my neck perspires, my face looks like a tomato that's just been rinsed under a tap. I kicked my shoes off under the desk for a few minutes and couldn't get them back on again. I swear I left damp footprints on the carpet!

The Factories Act (1961) states that it's not reasonable to have to work in temperatures below 16°C, but there is no upper limit. The thermometer on my desk was next to the fan, and it still showed almost 30°C today.

The least my boss could do is go out and buy us all an ice-cream! But if I suggested it, I'd be the one getting into a hot car and going to the shop. Maybe, for once, I'll keep my mouth shut!

Race for Life

I did it!

For the fourth year running I completed the Race for Life. It was touch and go whether I would take part - when I enrolled in February my operation was supposed to be eight weeks off, giving me about 15 weeks to recover before the race. Due to NHS 'procedures', though, I had only 7 weeks between operation and race and the cardiac nurse roared, 'Oh no you're not!' when I told her I was doing the Race for Life ... Having promised to walk (I'm built for comfort, not for speed; it was never my intention to run) and not push myself to do it in under an hour, cardiac nurse said OK but after my first cardiac group rehab session I have been soooo depressed it's been a struggle to get out of bed in the morning to go to work, let alone to hike 5km round the Common. Yesterday I got up early, pottered around a bit, but feeling desperately fed up after a couple of hours I went back to bed for the rest of the day, only able to drag myself up in time for Casualty at 8.50pm.

Anyway, I did it, I'm glad I did, and I'm proud of myself. I don't know if I'll do it next year, though.

Barking, not biting ...

This is one of the photos that came up in an email entitled 'special moments'. It wasn't my favourite, by any means, but as soon as I saw it, I thought, 'Hmmm, I've seen that startled look before.' A colleague had received the same email and when she got to this photo she looked up and said, 'Look, that's a picture of you and me!'

Now, I do agree that I tend to explode with rage from time to time, but nobody takes me seriously, they think I'm just exaggerating for comic effect (which can be frustrating at times). It seems, though, that my original roar (or bark, to keep the canine theme) does startle them.

For the record, my bark may be a bit scary, but I never bite. I'm too afraid I'll leave my teeth behind ...

La Vie en Rose

Sitting in the surprisingly modern foyer of the health clinic, waiting for my cardiac rehab appointment, I leafed through a magazine (another surprise, it was in date!) and found a small article on Petit [sic] Anglaise. I immediately went into an internal rant about how it should be Petite with an e if it was Anglaise, but fortunately there was no-one to hear my tutting, and it was a mistake on the part of the journalist, not the writer herself of Petite Anglaise, first a blog, now a novel. I spent the next few days catching up on her blog, and, through it, remembering all the things I loved about Paris when I lived there. Do take a look at her blog - it's a wonderful slice of Parisian life and a great unfolding story of a young Englishwoman's life.

I'm sure I can't have been deliriously happy for the whole of the six years I was there but, looking back through the inevitable rose-tinted glasses, I loved my time in Paris. Most of my friends and family have heard all my anecdotes and incidents a dozen times before and I don't often get the chance to tell my tales these days, so I thought I'd commit some of them to the blogosphere before they fade from my memory.

Every day for 6 years I walked along the Rue de la Folie Régnault, turned onto the Rue de la Roquette and walked to Place Léon Blum. I made my way down the steps of this metro station, Voltaire. I'd travel two stops to Oberkampf, change lines, travel to Place d'Italie, change lines again for another two stops and get off at Maison Blanche on the Avenue d'Italie. I worked as a PA in a company that made photographic accessories - flash guns, tripods, lens filters - and the reels that were used in the good old days of movie and audio tape, before things went digital.

Every now and again, in between my rants about my current life in England, there will be the odd reminiscence about 'the good old days' in Paris, so do stop by from time to time!