I can make George Clooney out in the distance.

Or, I think I'm gonna make out with George Clooney in the not-too-distant future - not sure.

It's so typical - read so unbelievably annoying, yet so very flattering, while at the same time very unsettling, especially if you, like me, are utterly disorganized - judge for yourselves.
So I have the job. They'll be starting the visa process now.

See, I have been trying to escape France's legendary tax pressure, social benefits and mad politics for about 18 months now, and this, right now, is exactly the time when a test I'd taken in January for a job in a much less distant country, over the sea but accessible by train, decides to show positive results, which means I'll be sitting a phone interview today at noon. Well, not so much sitting as pacing the flat, raising my eyes, going for a cigarette and remembering that the puffing will be heard...

Considering both places and jobs (even though I don't technically have the second one...) are very alluring, for different reasons, if I do get an offer on that one too, it's going to be one tough choice.

Which is why I hope that George, in his infinite wisdom, will come to my rescue and propose.
On the condition that we stay in Paris, of course.

And just so you know, I will say yes.