It snowed. It was cold. I tasted more beer in two and a half days than in the rest of my life combined. I also ate more potatoes, sugar and fat than in the rest of my life combined. It was great.
And then I came back to Paris. It had snowed. It was cold. I lost a ring on the bus home, and I'm very pissed off. On the plus side, the ladybug that had chosen my ceiling to die has suddenly come back to life.
And there was a huge spider on my bedroom wall (huge being a slight exaggeration, but still. It was biggish.). "Araignée du soir, espoir" notwithstanding, I killed it after a very Rambo-like, "you're ugly as fuck, darling, and you're dying. Now."
Thrilling, chilling, blood-curdling.