Sunday in sunny Paris

My friends are fantastic people, I'm lucky to have them, and I love them.
And that's really all I have to say right now.

And no, this hasn't been brought to you by ForeverFriends or some such. I just had a lovely day with one of my friends that I just don't see enough of, and as I was told some bad news on Saturday, it was even better to see her.
Especially as it was sunny. Very sunny. And Paris was very very busy for a Sunday. People were out in droves to enjoy what feels like the last of the summer sun - plus it was Journées du Patrimoine this week-end (European Heritage Days - in short, you could visit monuments and lots of other places; hours of queuing involved). Those who weren't so culture-minded, amongst whom we were ashamed to count, were sitting at terrasses, however, and it was very difficult to find a spot in the sun. Let me rephrase this. It was hell. So we had to devise a strategy, which was suggested by a very harassed-looking waiter.
I was meeting my friend for lunch, you see. Actually, I was supposed to meet her for brunch, but after several long minutes spent trying to find a time that was not too early (I wanted to sleep if I could), not too late (she wanted to go swimming - each to their priorities, eh - and knew she would be ravenous afterwards), we worked out that lunch was in fact a pretty good compromise. We're nothing if not compromising. Make of this what you want.
Now that that essential bit of context has been established, let's go back to the getting-a-spot-in-the-sun strategy. Very simple. Take example on nature. Just like vultures, walk in circles around those who look like they're finished but cannot be bothered to ask for the check. They'll grow tired of it and helpfully depart after a short while. And no, I'm not proud of it, so quit guilt-tripping me already. The waiter suggested it.
So find our spot in the sun we eventually did, and we had the same chat we've been having for ever. Work, love, life, flat, love, work, life, love, life, love. And work for good measure. And life again, because it's not advisable to finish a week-end conversation talking about work, is it? To think I hate to be predictable.
But it was great. And fun. And sunny. So really, who cares about being predictable?
As we parted ways, I thought I'd walk part of the way home. Because it was sunny. An on-the-spur-of-the-moment kind of thing, if you will. Turns out that try as I may, I'll be predictable to the end though. I got lost. As was to be expected, really. The thing is, at some point, I did notice that some buildings on the left must be new, as I'd never seen them before on my way home. I clicked about 5 minutes later. What a... silly... something.
But I did find my way again, and a bus. Crowded of course, but that was OK, as my trusted mp3 player was in my bag; and I was just getting my headphones out, in that weird feet-wide-apart position that all standing bus passengers have learned to master so we don't lose our balance and end up on some unwilling person's lap, when this lovely lovely young guy stood up and insisted that I take his place. I told him it would really make me feel old if he gave up his seat, but he just told me to hush and sit down. I could never resist authority. Lovely.

Did I say up there that that was all I had to say? I lied. Didn't expect me to lie, did you?
There you go. I hate to be predictable.