The weather has been kind of unfair, and that means we've had to rearrange scheduled visits to museums and parks to accommodate rain and shine. So today, because clouds were kind of vaguely threatening, we decided we'd walk to the Père-Lachaise, so we could make a hasty retreat to my flat if the heavens opened up and let pour a heavy summer rainfall. Or something. Somehow, visiting a cemetary makes me wax lyrical, when clearly I shouldn't do so in English.
Anyway, that was this afternoon. The morning was spent dallying about in the flat, grocery shopping and preparing lunch, while my niece was preparing a cunning goddaughter plan that involved going through my jewel box.
And there is nothing I can say about that, considering I have vivid (and shameful) memories of me going through my own godmother's rings and shiny things, saying "can I have them when you're dead?". Yes, people, it's time you knew the awful truth, I was Damien's best friend as a child.
But I never, and I mean never, pushed it so far as to use her, or anybody else for that matter, as a styling head. My niece did go that far. Thankfully, she did her mum's hair first, using my necklaces a hairjewel, and my hair clips as hair clips, granted, but in a way, I'm sure, that was never intended in the worst (or... best, depending on your outlook on this) torture textbooks. So she brushed and combed, and pinned and twisted, and looked at the result and went "oooh, mummy, you're so beautiful like that. Really, I think I really did well here." And she turned toward me.
That's when I ran away screaming. I don't remember much after that.
Once she was finished making her mum look like something... something, and I'd regained consciousness, we went to the Père-Lachaise, as planned. Because, you see, we had a cunning scheme of our own. The cemetary is huge. Huge. Its hilly, cobbled avenues take up a fair part of the 20th arrondissement, and it's really beautiful. Plus, considering the number of historical figures (no, I'm not necessarily talking of Jim Morrisson here) that are buried there, there is quite a lot of information. And my niece is nothing if she's not hungry for information. She asked a lot of questions. She ran after the crows and the pigeons. She collected little pieces of gravel. She asked more questions. More importantly, she walked a lot. Combined with yesterday afternoon's exertions at the Louvre, that yielded the much-expected fruit of her, at home, tired out, all cuddly and obedient, having her tea without complaining or dragging it out to unbelievable lengths, and going to bed promptly at 9:00. After cheering Christine Arron on.
The perfect niece.