25 mars 2005

And I let fame fly me by

Running an errand (does that word use the singular?) yesterday afternoon, I was deep in thought and in my conversation with my mom over the phone.
On the way "in", I had kind of noticed that some people definitely had cameras and mike-thingies but I thought... Oh come on, who am I kidding, I didn't think anything, I just saw them and barely registered. Especially as there were not really all that many of them and no bright lights making my various blemishes stand cruelly out. I do digress, don't I.
So on I go, do what I have to do, and walk back to work in the brisk and determined canter that I have a liking for when in business. On the phone. Because it looks so much more business-like. No one needs to know that I'm talking to my mum, right? Also, I'm not talking to her in a whingeing "Mo-o-o-m" tone, but about culture: she's off rehearsing because she sings (not professionally, let me add, but that doesn't make her any less good. And she doesn't even read this, that's how good she is), and I'm asking her where the bugger the last two tomes of Alexandre Dumas's "Le Vicomte de Bragelonne" are, because the suspense at the end of the second book is just about killing me.
Oh and should I add that I'm looking down, because that's what you do when you're walking the Parisian sidewalks, the true owners of which are the little doggies and their numerous, treacherous, and sometimes enormous turds. And you want to avoid those at all costs (although, truth be told, sometimes it just doesn't work, and you put your foot in it, quite literally).
Now, I'm not telling you all this so you can look up to the sun and say "is she EVAH going to get to the POINT?". No, I'm actually going to the trouble of typing it all up so you understand what led to what.
Thus I was walking in the fashion described above, when suddenly this very pretty girl strides towards me, talking really loud, seemingly at me. I'm wondering. Understandable, I'm sure you'll agree: what have I done? Nothing, as it transpires as she gets closer that she's obviously talking to someone else. Someone deaf, considering the intensity. When she's close enough, I recognise her. Olivia Bonamy. That's when it all hits me. That's when I nearly hit the mike-guy as well. So I swerve extremely artfully, i.e. without letting anything on, in order to avoid the mike, the camera, everything; pull a face (not, thank gawd, caught on camera, I don't think) as I realise what's going on (but anyway that would be all right, because I'm on the phone, remember, so I could just be reacting to what the other person, which nobody knows is my mum, has just said... Ah, I've got it all sussed), and walk on. Toward a blond guy standing in a doorway. Looking at me like I'm so stupid I should be shot before I start suffering from so much stupidity. I think it might have been Guillaume Depardieu (son of Gérard). Although I'm not sure, because apparently (I've checked, how pathetic) they're not shooting anything together. Well, no film anyway.
You'll probably be pleased to know I didn't drop everything right then and there, shrieking in a Janice-from-Friends way "Oh.My.God. Huh huh huh huh." (the last part is my lame attempt at transcribing her... sound) and asking all of them to hire me, even for a very small part, even not a speaking part, even a silhouette in the crowd. Even to bring them coffee on the set.
No, not this girl. This girl just kept totally cool, went on talking to her mum, walked on and away from her obvious destiny as a French TV celeb, and back to the job she's leaving soon.
Just think though. Maybe I would have ended up really marrying George, after some very twisted but efficient networking. Well, it would have had to be twisted, right: it's not exactly a straight line from French TV to Danny Ocean. He-llo?
Oh well. I guess I'm meant for great things.
In my neighbourhood.

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