ForgottenMachine over at Ten Miles Beyond the City has tagged me. Of course, he also said that I didn't have to if I didn't want to but he knows I would never dare say no to him. So he's playing with me like I'm the proverbial lamb. No, I'm not sure there is a proverbial lamb. But there is a very famous fable by Jean de La Fontaine, and take my word for it.
Anyway. Off it goes into the unknown.
10 years ago: Ten years ago, I was getting ready to leave Aberdeen (Scotland) and quit smoking. So I was feeling a few conflicting emotions, not least of which despair, sadness and your basic "my life is over" drama at leaving Aberdeen, in which I had just spent two extravagantly fantastic years, complete with getting dumped on the New Year, being called a piece of furniture (not in so many words, but we were doing a one-act play by Harold Pinter in a festival, A kind of Alaska, and I was Pauline. The adjudicator trashed us, and went on to add that I had a good silent presence. I had just gotten dumped. He'd called me a piece of furniture and that's that), and drinking a lot more than absolutely necessary at all hours of the day. Happy memories.
Also, I was gearing up for my graduation, because as opposed to you all, I had the added excitement of actually having a graduation. No, I don't mean you didn't have one. I mean we in France don't have those. Nothing like it, except in schools that just love to pretend. It's not part of our culture, so the black robe, the hat, and the rolled up thingy were an even bigger event for me.
I was also psyching up to quit smoking because everybody was telling me to (I have since acquired a personality), and I duly did (I'm nice that way), for a month and a half, in which I gained a zillion pounds and one hell of a temper. Some people are actually thankful I took it up again.
5 years ago: Aaaah. Let me repeat this for emphasis. Aaaah. Five years ago, I was in Sydney (Australia), working as a translator for the Olympic Games and basically having the time of my life. Every day for ten months, I would walk to work in the morning thinking "Oh my gawd, I'm working for the Olympic Games" with several exclamation marks at the end, and that obviously set my spirits very high. It was fabulous. It was fantastic. It was way too fucking short. Of course there was the odd... tension, like when I stormed out of the office in August (the Games were starting in September), going "if he pisses me off once more, I'm quitting", about my boss. Of course, he did and I didn't. I was having the time of my life, after all, I wasn't going to let anyone ruin it for me.
By the way, if you like sport and you're wanting to discover a new one, and you're in Paris, the European wheelchair basketball championship starts today. I can't urge you enough, it is incredible to watch.
1 year ago: One year ago, in sharp contrast, I was going through what I hope was, is and will have been the very worst time of my life.
Yesterday: was pretty standard in a very hot kind of way (hot as in heat wave - just thought I'd make that clear). Saw a friend, had a few phone calls and, in what is becoming my routine lately, thought about what job would ever want me and where I was going to end up. Except with more optimism than that.
Today: I'm having a busy friends day, I'm supposed to see my friend and her new born baby girl, go back to my former office to pick up a couple of papers, go back to the Assedic office. Oh and the summer sales start today in Paris, so I'm also meeting a friend this morning to start spending as soon as possible. And this evening, I'll go with another friend to a school play starring her daughter. And if I could make my flat presentable at some point during the course of the day that would be nice because...
Tomorrow: a picnic was organised by and with lots of Paris bloggers (and I still don't know what I'm bringing/cooking/preparing) and my parents are arriving in the afternoon to spend a few days in Paris.
I'm quitting here because it's long as it is already.
And I'm not tagging.
But you knew that, didn't you.
24 juin 2005
23 juin 2005
And that's when you know you're past your prime
- Hey.
- Hey. Wow you're tanned.
- Yeah... God it's hot here.
- Yeah.
(couple of beers later)
- Politics bla bla
- Society bla bla
- Conspiracy theories bla bla
- Nail polish bla bla
- Yeah but politics and society bla bla
- Do you want to come back to ours for dinner? And a game of Trivial Pursuit?
- Sure.
(one dinner later)
- God it's hot.
- Yeah. Makes me all drowsy.
- Let's move to the couch. More comfy.
- We really should have a coffee.
- God I'm tired.
- Oh dear, it's only 11:00.
- We're old.
- Yeah. Thanks. Bye.
- Don't fall over on the street, OK?
- Hey. Wow you're tanned.
- Yeah... God it's hot here.
- Yeah.
(couple of beers later)
- Politics bla bla
- Society bla bla
- Conspiracy theories bla bla
- Nail polish bla bla
- Yeah but politics and society bla bla
- Do you want to come back to ours for dinner? And a game of Trivial Pursuit?
- Sure.
(one dinner later)
- God it's hot.
- Yeah. Makes me all drowsy.
- Let's move to the couch. More comfy.
- We really should have a coffee.
- God I'm tired.
- Oh dear, it's only 11:00.
- We're old.
- Yeah. Thanks. Bye.
- Don't fall over on the street, OK?
22 juin 2005
Not quite fully functional
Yet. Still. Whatever.
Having re-read the odious post below (after the last comments), I realised a couple of things:
1. You'll agree with me that it has got to rank at the top of my personal worst-written stuff. For a good many reasons. And this entry is not about to even the score.
2. You deserve to know that I went to the doctor's again yesterday, because it was just getting ridiculous living in my own little bubble, not quite hearing what was happening on the right side of me, and feeling like said right side of me was numb from the top of my head to the end of my toes due to the cottony sensation that prevailed in my ear. Suffice it to say that it wasn't an infection after all and it's all good now, my hearing is normal, and you at the back had better stop snickering, because I can hear that too.
3. You must be sick with worry as I never told you if we made it in one piece to Monastir after that dreadful black-out. Breathe again: we did. And the girl who was listening to her mp3 switched it off.
4. You must be sick with trepidation to know what the deal turned out to be with the bus ride to the hotel: it only lasted an hour and a half, AND the bus was very comfortable. We made it to the hotel at around 4:00 in the morning (yes, I will spare you the queuing at the police gates in Monastir airport), in bed about 4:30. The holiday really started then.
5. You must be thinking I had a horrible time, considering the only things I told you about were the journey, the sunburn and the ear. I had a splendid time. It was fantastic. Brilliant. And I'm not only talking about the sun. That was my first real holiday in two years, and it totally lived up to my expectations. Actually, no not quite, I'm still white in some places, and my legs are doggedly refusing to tan properly. But having a couple people offer a couple tens thousand camels for me did make all this tanning rubbish appear quite trivial. Obviously they know about inner beauty in Tunisia. So there.
Anything else you think I might have left out? Ask away.
Having re-read the odious post below (after the last comments), I realised a couple of things:
1. You'll agree with me that it has got to rank at the top of my personal worst-written stuff. For a good many reasons. And this entry is not about to even the score.
2. You deserve to know that I went to the doctor's again yesterday, because it was just getting ridiculous living in my own little bubble, not quite hearing what was happening on the right side of me, and feeling like said right side of me was numb from the top of my head to the end of my toes due to the cottony sensation that prevailed in my ear. Suffice it to say that it wasn't an infection after all and it's all good now, my hearing is normal, and you at the back had better stop snickering, because I can hear that too.
3. You must be sick with worry as I never told you if we made it in one piece to Monastir after that dreadful black-out. Breathe again: we did. And the girl who was listening to her mp3 switched it off.
4. You must be sick with trepidation to know what the deal turned out to be with the bus ride to the hotel: it only lasted an hour and a half, AND the bus was very comfortable. We made it to the hotel at around 4:00 in the morning (yes, I will spare you the queuing at the police gates in Monastir airport), in bed about 4:30. The holiday really started then.
5. You must be thinking I had a horrible time, considering the only things I told you about were the journey, the sunburn and the ear. I had a splendid time. It was fantastic. Brilliant. And I'm not only talking about the sun. That was my first real holiday in two years, and it totally lived up to my expectations. Actually, no not quite, I'm still white in some places, and my legs are doggedly refusing to tan properly. But having a couple people offer a couple tens thousand camels for me did make all this tanning rubbish appear quite trivial. Obviously they know about inner beauty in Tunisia. So there.
Anything else you think I might have left out? Ask away.
21 juin 2005
Longest day, longest post
Far from the madding crowds is what I was hoping for when I went to Tunisia, of all places, fool that I was...
It apparently is one of the most popular destinations among French cheap holiday-makers. I would have guessed Morocco.
Anyway. The crowd was so alarmingly large in that shed of an airport that is Terminal 3 at CDG that we queued for about an hour before check-in. That's a long time to queue.
A 10:15, the plane hadn't left the ground, when take-off was meant to happen at 9:25. But then, at that early hour, boarding had not even started. Hell, check-in wasn't even finished.
Then they said the flight to Monastir would take 2 hrs, instead of the promised 1.30.
I was beginning to sense a pattern. Did that mean that the bus drive I had guesstimated at 4 hours would last for 6? Did that mean that the hotel would be a rotten-wood shack out in the middle of nowhere? Did that mean that the pool would turn out to be a pond and the sea, well... a bigger pond?
Would the girl sitting next to me finally switch off her mp3 player during take-off and prevent us from plunging to our deaths before finding out?
Quite a few questions whirled through my head, none of which seemed to bother the in-flight personnel, bless their work-unconscious little hearts. Oh, yeah, because we nearly died. Of fright. They switched off the lights at some point. Of the plane. All the lights. Switched off. Well, folks, I love planes, I love airports, I'm difficult to scare, even when it's rough. I might get sick, but scared uh-uh, no siree. Except those two seconds. That they switched the lights off. In the plane. All the lights. That was scary.
Fast-forward to Saturday. Remember that my back got badly sunburnt - and in fact my ear did get sunburnt too. That's a first.
So I wake up on Saturday with a deaf ear. Spend the whole day trying to do something about it, to no avail. Realise that I'm taking a plane on Sunday and might either suffer a brain leak from the pressure or kill someone if what is blocking my ear suddenly escapes it due to the pressure. Pressure is indeed a tricky thing to master, and I'm only just starting.
So we call a doctor. Truth be told, I was a little apprehensive of a ruptured eardrum in the plane. So I thought I'd be a sissy and have a doctor come. Oh yeah, because there is no actual first-aid station at the club. To warrant attention, you have to hurt yourself. I suspect there should be profusion of blood for them to take you seriously.
But still, they call the doctor, who says he'll be here in 20-30 minutes. Forgot to say "an hour and". Finally arrives, checks my ear, pronounces an ear infection, gives me a prescription for an injection and antibiotics so I can take the plane the next day and tells me I'll be fine in the morning*.
So off we go into Hammamet for the Pharmacie de nuit, where I can take my drugs and get my injection, among lots of Tunisians and tourists who have come to get their (daily) dose of Biafine. We take a taxi into town. Now, for those of you who have never been, driving is a very personal experience in Tunisia. The line in the middle of the road is a concept on which cars try to be balanced, as opposed to an actual partition between two directions. Fun. Although to be honest, if I'm not driving, I'm kind of oblivious do dangers and threats. So when the taxi suddenly swerved to avoid being hit by another taxi who was dangerously close to us in a curve, I hardly batted an eyelid. Not so my friend and the driver. Said driver goes into a frenzy of phone calls, in which I understand the make of the car and the fact that he was with tourists (not because I'm really gifted with languages, but because they're the same words), and when he drops us at the Pharmacie, he asks us if he can wait for us so he can go lodge a complaint at the police and we can testify. And he looks at us with that amazing look that all guys seem to have there, and he says how important it would be and what a good thing we would be doing. And we just give in.
So I go have my cheek punctured, pick up my drugs, among an actual crowd of people, at 9:00ish p.m. on a Saturday (I thought they were all there for methadone**). And hop back in the cab, off we go rolling into the sunshine to the police station. He parks in front of it, gets out, we wait in the car, he comes back five minutes later, smiling, it's done, we drive away.
Uh? Whatever.
*It's three days later and I'm still not better.
** By the way, some of you are here because of this page http://www.aspma.com/term/methadone-withdrawal-symptoms.html. Care to explain?
It apparently is one of the most popular destinations among French cheap holiday-makers. I would have guessed Morocco.
Anyway. The crowd was so alarmingly large in that shed of an airport that is Terminal 3 at CDG that we queued for about an hour before check-in. That's a long time to queue.
A 10:15, the plane hadn't left the ground, when take-off was meant to happen at 9:25. But then, at that early hour, boarding had not even started. Hell, check-in wasn't even finished.
Then they said the flight to Monastir would take 2 hrs, instead of the promised 1.30.
I was beginning to sense a pattern. Did that mean that the bus drive I had guesstimated at 4 hours would last for 6? Did that mean that the hotel would be a rotten-wood shack out in the middle of nowhere? Did that mean that the pool would turn out to be a pond and the sea, well... a bigger pond?
Would the girl sitting next to me finally switch off her mp3 player during take-off and prevent us from plunging to our deaths before finding out?
Quite a few questions whirled through my head, none of which seemed to bother the in-flight personnel, bless their work-unconscious little hearts. Oh, yeah, because we nearly died. Of fright. They switched off the lights at some point. Of the plane. All the lights. Switched off. Well, folks, I love planes, I love airports, I'm difficult to scare, even when it's rough. I might get sick, but scared uh-uh, no siree. Except those two seconds. That they switched the lights off. In the plane. All the lights. That was scary.
Fast-forward to Saturday. Remember that my back got badly sunburnt - and in fact my ear did get sunburnt too. That's a first.
So I wake up on Saturday with a deaf ear. Spend the whole day trying to do something about it, to no avail. Realise that I'm taking a plane on Sunday and might either suffer a brain leak from the pressure or kill someone if what is blocking my ear suddenly escapes it due to the pressure. Pressure is indeed a tricky thing to master, and I'm only just starting.
So we call a doctor. Truth be told, I was a little apprehensive of a ruptured eardrum in the plane. So I thought I'd be a sissy and have a doctor come. Oh yeah, because there is no actual first-aid station at the club. To warrant attention, you have to hurt yourself. I suspect there should be profusion of blood for them to take you seriously.
But still, they call the doctor, who says he'll be here in 20-30 minutes. Forgot to say "an hour and". Finally arrives, checks my ear, pronounces an ear infection, gives me a prescription for an injection and antibiotics so I can take the plane the next day and tells me I'll be fine in the morning*.
So off we go into Hammamet for the Pharmacie de nuit, where I can take my drugs and get my injection, among lots of Tunisians and tourists who have come to get their (daily) dose of Biafine. We take a taxi into town. Now, for those of you who have never been, driving is a very personal experience in Tunisia. The line in the middle of the road is a concept on which cars try to be balanced, as opposed to an actual partition between two directions. Fun. Although to be honest, if I'm not driving, I'm kind of oblivious do dangers and threats. So when the taxi suddenly swerved to avoid being hit by another taxi who was dangerously close to us in a curve, I hardly batted an eyelid. Not so my friend and the driver. Said driver goes into a frenzy of phone calls, in which I understand the make of the car and the fact that he was with tourists (not because I'm really gifted with languages, but because they're the same words), and when he drops us at the Pharmacie, he asks us if he can wait for us so he can go lodge a complaint at the police and we can testify. And he looks at us with that amazing look that all guys seem to have there, and he says how important it would be and what a good thing we would be doing. And we just give in.
So I go have my cheek punctured, pick up my drugs, among an actual crowd of people, at 9:00ish p.m. on a Saturday (I thought they were all there for methadone**). And hop back in the cab, off we go rolling into the sunshine to the police station. He parks in front of it, gets out, we wait in the car, he comes back five minutes later, smiling, it's done, we drive away.
Uh? Whatever.
*It's three days later and I'm still not better.
** By the way, some of you are here because of this page http://www.aspma.com/term/methadone-withdrawal-symptoms.html. Care to explain?
20 juin 2005
Some anti-climax
Tony.T has once more expressed it better than me.
I'm completely depressed to be back (from being back?) from my holiday, which was fantastic, sunburn and leprosy-ridden back notwithstanding, and although a couple of interesting (to me anyway) things happened, I can't seem to be able to put them down properly in pseudo-writing.
So I'll just visit y'all and comment (or lurk if I can't think of anything intelligent to say or if I realise it's not intelligent before I hit the post button) for a while.
Plus it's way too hot in Paris right now, and not a pool or a beach or a couple of drop-dead gorgeous guys in swimming trunks, with light-coloured eyes and a fantastic smile, in sight, no blasting music within earshot, no elderly couples criticising the food begging for a good smacking anywhere around, and so much laundry to attend to that really, count your blessings. I could have ranted and unashamedly felt sorry for myself.
Ooh wait, I'm doing just that.
I'm completely depressed to be back (from being back?) from my holiday, which was fantastic, sunburn and leprosy-ridden back notwithstanding, and although a couple of interesting (to me anyway) things happened, I can't seem to be able to put them down properly in pseudo-writing.
So I'll just visit y'all and comment (or lurk if I can't think of anything intelligent to say or if I realise it's not intelligent before I hit the post button) for a while.
Plus it's way too hot in Paris right now, and not a pool or a beach or a couple of drop-dead gorgeous guys in swimming trunks, with light-coloured eyes and a fantastic smile, in sight, no blasting music within earshot, no elderly couples criticising the food begging for a good smacking anywhere around, and so much laundry to attend to that really, count your blessings. I could have ranted and unashamedly felt sorry for myself.
Ooh wait, I'm doing just that.
15 juin 2005
Luxury
Sun, beach, pool, and a team of people on crack to entertain you at all times of the day... It's good. In a very strange, I-hope-I'm-not-doing-it-again-anytime-soon-because-I'm-just-too-young-for-this kind of way.
People here are absolutely lovely, and smiling, and funny... And I do love the fact that in Tunisia, "random storm showers" (?) translate into a hot and sunny - if ever so slightly overcast - day...
I'm burnt to a crisp, so I guess that'll teach me to go to a sunny country without my skiing outfit, and I'm generously letting my back take a breather lest I spontaneously combust and before I go back to turning an ever-deeper shade of prune.
I hope you're doing good, I'm just dandy myself.
People here are absolutely lovely, and smiling, and funny... And I do love the fact that in Tunisia, "random storm showers" (?) translate into a hot and sunny - if ever so slightly overcast - day...
I'm burnt to a crisp, so I guess that'll teach me to go to a sunny country without my skiing outfit, and I'm generously letting my back take a breather lest I spontaneously combust and before I go back to turning an ever-deeper shade of prune.
I hope you're doing good, I'm just dandy myself.
12 juin 2005
Untitled
This is because I was told in capital letters to write some more fiction. I'm not sure I should, after this.
First date. First date! Excitement, butterflies buzzing around in her stomach, hours-long preparation, dressing, undressing, re-dressing, screaming in frustration, giving up. Oh well. He had asked her out, had he not? He wasn'’t expecting Cameron Diaz.
She'd come back to hers alone, fully intending not to screw up this time: he'd laughed at her jokes. He'd also said he'd call her, and he'd looked keen. He wasn't particularly good-looking, but he had the most incredibly winning smile, corny as that sounded, and that was all she needed, really, someone who smiled like life was good, like she was funny, like he wasn't going to hurt her. And that certainly was a welcome change after the pain James had put her through, both during their time together and after she'd decided that she was maybe worth a little bit more than that. Maybe, mind, but that maybe had been all the possibility she'd needed.
Oh come on, they'd been out THREE whole bloody days ago now, why wasn't he calling her? Had he had second thoughts? He'd had second thoughts. Obviously, he'd had second thoughts. He'd realised that she wasn't that funny, she wasn't that interesting, she certainly wasn't that good-looking, and she wasn't worth a second try. Should she have asked him up? She should have asked him up. Well, of course she should have asked him up, they weren't pimply teenagers anymore, that's what happened at their age, you went on a date, if it went well, you asked him up, if it didn't, you went Dutch. Bloody hell, was she going to screw up every bloody time?
______
He couldn't believe he'd asked her out. He couldn't believe she'd said yes, for that matter. Oh well, crunch time now, and she hadn't phoned to cancel. He'd half expected her to. Something about her attitude said she didn't really need anybody.
Well, that had gone well! He'd wanted to kiss her, and he'd hoped she would ask him up, although he was kind of glad she hadn't. Plus, when he said he'd call her, she hadn't replied with the "No, I'll call you" that he was dreading. Surely that was good.
Except there he was now, still wondering if it was too early to phone. Typically, Jon and Nick were not helping. And what if she said it wasn't a good idea? He'd be in for a good ribbing then. That'd teach him blabbering about a girl after a first date. But maybe Nick was right. Maybe he shouldn't wait too long. Yet again, as Jon had said, it was only one date, and he hadn't made any promises. "I'll call you" didn't really mean anything. Even if that felt alarmingly like chickening out.
_____
- Hello?
- Hi, it's Bruce. Is this a good time?
I'm gone now. Honestly.
First date. First date! Excitement, butterflies buzzing around in her stomach, hours-long preparation, dressing, undressing, re-dressing, screaming in frustration, giving up. Oh well. He had asked her out, had he not? He wasn'’t expecting Cameron Diaz.
She'd come back to hers alone, fully intending not to screw up this time: he'd laughed at her jokes. He'd also said he'd call her, and he'd looked keen. He wasn't particularly good-looking, but he had the most incredibly winning smile, corny as that sounded, and that was all she needed, really, someone who smiled like life was good, like she was funny, like he wasn't going to hurt her. And that certainly was a welcome change after the pain James had put her through, both during their time together and after she'd decided that she was maybe worth a little bit more than that. Maybe, mind, but that maybe had been all the possibility she'd needed.
Oh come on, they'd been out THREE whole bloody days ago now, why wasn't he calling her? Had he had second thoughts? He'd had second thoughts. Obviously, he'd had second thoughts. He'd realised that she wasn't that funny, she wasn't that interesting, she certainly wasn't that good-looking, and she wasn't worth a second try. Should she have asked him up? She should have asked him up. Well, of course she should have asked him up, they weren't pimply teenagers anymore, that's what happened at their age, you went on a date, if it went well, you asked him up, if it didn't, you went Dutch. Bloody hell, was she going to screw up every bloody time?
______
He couldn't believe he'd asked her out. He couldn't believe she'd said yes, for that matter. Oh well, crunch time now, and she hadn't phoned to cancel. He'd half expected her to. Something about her attitude said she didn't really need anybody.
Well, that had gone well! He'd wanted to kiss her, and he'd hoped she would ask him up, although he was kind of glad she hadn't. Plus, when he said he'd call her, she hadn't replied with the "No, I'll call you" that he was dreading. Surely that was good.
Except there he was now, still wondering if it was too early to phone. Typically, Jon and Nick were not helping. And what if she said it wasn't a good idea? He'd be in for a good ribbing then. That'd teach him blabbering about a girl after a first date. But maybe Nick was right. Maybe he shouldn't wait too long. Yet again, as Jon had said, it was only one date, and he hadn't made any promises. "I'll call you" didn't really mean anything. Even if that felt alarmingly like chickening out.
_____
- Hello?
- Hi, it's Bruce. Is this a good time?
I'm gone now. Honestly.
Questions, questions
I'm away again, but this time, I'm coming back with a tan. Yay!
I know, I'm overdoing this catching-up on lost holiday time, now. I'll be away for a week: off to Tunisia with a friend, with the lightest bag I've ever taken with me.
We'll be arriving in Hammamet at about 2:00 a.m. tonight, so I'm expecting the same kind of surprises as Adamant was describing in Athens..., things you can't guess from the brochure and when you do notice them, it's just too late. But we don't care, we'll be in the sun, toing and froing between the pool and the beach, along with half of Germany's pensioners.
Chances are I won't be able to update at all during this time. I'd like to ask somebody to blogsit for me, but that would just be pretentious, wouldn't it.
Anyway. You all have a fantastic week while I miss you a lot, alright?
In the mean time, I have a couple questions I'd like answers to (I just love leaving prepositions at the end of my sentences - such a rebel), and I would probably show long-lasting gratitude if you provided said answers (and one confirmation, really).
1. Why is it that at rush hour, you can wait forever for a bus, but at 10:30, you'll see three empty ones, each one hot on the (w)heels of the previous one?
2. Why, after Star Wars and the Anakin/Padme age debacle, did Sin City think it would be all right for Bruce Willis to be, and I quote, "pushing 60" at the beginning of the movie, which in all logic means he's pushing 68 at the end, without it showing at all, and with a little bit of an inconsistency re his wife...? (if you answer this, don't spoil anything for those who have to wait till September (!) to see it, please)
2b. While we're at it, can you explain Josh Hartnett? Careful again with the potential spoilers. e-mail me (address in the sidebar).
3. I've just escaped a re-run of The Equalizer, which prompts me to ask: who in their right mind would name their child Edward when their last name is Woodward? And why did nobody protest?
4. Isn't Johnny Bravo an excellent show? I might be in love.
5. What is that Thomas Vinterberg "Dear Wendy" movie? (can't be bothered looking into IMdB, I'm THAT lazy just now)
6. mysfit and monkey 0 need your help. What does FCL stand for?
7. For those of you who've seen The Interpreter, what did you think? For those of you who are interpreters or translators (ahem), isn't the following dialogue just fantastic?
Tobin Keller: How do you feel about him?
Silvia Broome: I don't care for him.
Tobin Keller: Wouldn't mind if he were dead?
Silvia Broome: I wouldn't mind if he were gone.
Tobin Keller: Same thing.
Silvia Broome: No it isn't. If I interpreted gone as dead I'd be out of a job, if dead and gone were the same thing there'd be no UN.
I know, I'm overdoing this catching-up on lost holiday time, now. I'll be away for a week: off to Tunisia with a friend, with the lightest bag I've ever taken with me.
We'll be arriving in Hammamet at about 2:00 a.m. tonight, so I'm expecting the same kind of surprises as Adamant was describing in Athens..., things you can't guess from the brochure and when you do notice them, it's just too late. But we don't care, we'll be in the sun, toing and froing between the pool and the beach, along with half of Germany's pensioners.
Chances are I won't be able to update at all during this time. I'd like to ask somebody to blogsit for me, but that would just be pretentious, wouldn't it.
Anyway. You all have a fantastic week while I miss you a lot, alright?
In the mean time, I have a couple questions I'd like answers to (I just love leaving prepositions at the end of my sentences - such a rebel), and I would probably show long-lasting gratitude if you provided said answers (and one confirmation, really).
1. Why is it that at rush hour, you can wait forever for a bus, but at 10:30, you'll see three empty ones, each one hot on the (w)heels of the previous one?
2. Why, after Star Wars and the Anakin/Padme age debacle, did Sin City think it would be all right for Bruce Willis to be, and I quote, "pushing 60" at the beginning of the movie, which in all logic means he's pushing 68 at the end, without it showing at all, and with a little bit of an inconsistency re his wife...? (if you answer this, don't spoil anything for those who have to wait till September (!) to see it, please)
2b. While we're at it, can you explain Josh Hartnett? Careful again with the potential spoilers. e-mail me (address in the sidebar).
3. I've just escaped a re-run of The Equalizer, which prompts me to ask: who in their right mind would name their child Edward when their last name is Woodward? And why did nobody protest?
4. Isn't Johnny Bravo an excellent show? I might be in love.
5. What is that Thomas Vinterberg "Dear Wendy" movie? (can't be bothered looking into IMdB, I'm THAT lazy just now)
6. mysfit and monkey 0 need your help. What does FCL stand for?
7. For those of you who've seen The Interpreter, what did you think? For those of you who are interpreters or translators (ahem), isn't the following dialogue just fantastic?
Tobin Keller: How do you feel about him?
Silvia Broome: I don't care for him.
Tobin Keller: Wouldn't mind if he were dead?
Silvia Broome: I wouldn't mind if he were gone.
Tobin Keller: Same thing.
Silvia Broome: No it isn't. If I interpreted gone as dead I'd be out of a job, if dead and gone were the same thing there'd be no UN.
11 juin 2005
Meme'd. Again.
Brian in Sweden has tagged me with a movie meme. After long deliberations, I've decided to forgive him because he told me jokes yesterday.
Total Number of Films Owned: 27 on DVD, about 50 on tapes, most of which were recorded from TV (yes, I still own a VCR - but then it did take me about 5 years to get a toaster).
Last Film Bought: Either West Side Story or La Meglio Gioventu.
Last Film Watched: The Interpreter. Are we talking at the movies or on DVD? Because that would be, I'm not sure, Shadow of a doubt, maybe.
Five Movies that I Watch Frequently or Mean Something to Me: I don't know, I haven't watched movies frequently for a long time now. And be grateful for small favours, because among the ones I do remember watching frequently is a small gem called Dirty Dancing (I was 15, give me a break!), even though there are real goodies: The Sure Thing, Ferris Bueller's Day off, Rio Bravo (well... not much to say against this one, have you?), Lost in Translation. I'll have to watch Sin City again, does that count as frequently? Actually, La Meglio Gioventu means something to me too. Woah! I can't believe I was forgetting Zoolander. Well, there you go. Deleting the older proposals, that means we're clear of Dirty Dancing.
I'm still not tagging, because I'll only inflict a meme on those who want them.
Is it OK if I don't hyperlink the titles either? It is Saturday morning...
Total Number of Films Owned: 27 on DVD, about 50 on tapes, most of which were recorded from TV (yes, I still own a VCR - but then it did take me about 5 years to get a toaster).
Last Film Bought: Either West Side Story or La Meglio Gioventu.
Last Film Watched: The Interpreter. Are we talking at the movies or on DVD? Because that would be, I'm not sure, Shadow of a doubt, maybe.
Five Movies that I Watch Frequently or Mean Something to Me: I don't know, I haven't watched movies frequently for a long time now. And be grateful for small favours, because among the ones I do remember watching frequently is a small gem called Dirty Dancing (I was 15, give me a break!), even though there are real goodies: The Sure Thing, Ferris Bueller's Day off, Rio Bravo (well... not much to say against this one, have you?), Lost in Translation. I'll have to watch Sin City again, does that count as frequently? Actually, La Meglio Gioventu means something to me too. Woah! I can't believe I was forgetting Zoolander. Well, there you go. Deleting the older proposals, that means we're clear of Dirty Dancing.
I'm still not tagging, because I'll only inflict a meme on those who want them.
Is it OK if I don't hyperlink the titles either? It is Saturday morning...
10 juin 2005
It can't all be about me, that's boring
Hey. Let's change the rules.
One of my friends is in the hospital right now, giving birth to her first child. That has me in all kinds of turmoil, elation, joy, fear for her, etc. I can't concentrate on anything really. I'm here all day, as I'm supposed to be doing the housework (before I go on vacation for a week, but more on that soon).
So...
Why don't you talk to me instead?
Plus, that'll give me an opportunity to know my lurkers, who keep coming to this site (thank you) but have never given me a name to put on an IP address... If you're shy, just leave a name. Or a joke. I could do with a joke, I haven't heard one in a while.
Come on, you know you want to.
Or else I'll have another go at fiction. Now, you don't want that, do you.
YAY! (as in update)
It's now 2:15, I'm just back from a night out with the girls, I had a text message that I couldn't read till now (dead battery): it's a girl, and both mummy and baby are fine. Thank you for bearing with me and for wishing them well.
One of my friends is in the hospital right now, giving birth to her first child. That has me in all kinds of turmoil, elation, joy, fear for her, etc. I can't concentrate on anything really. I'm here all day, as I'm supposed to be doing the housework (before I go on vacation for a week, but more on that soon).
So...
Why don't you talk to me instead?
Plus, that'll give me an opportunity to know my lurkers, who keep coming to this site (thank you) but have never given me a name to put on an IP address... If you're shy, just leave a name. Or a joke. I could do with a joke, I haven't heard one in a while.
Come on, you know you want to.
Or else I'll have another go at fiction. Now, you don't want that, do you.
YAY! (as in update)
It's now 2:15, I'm just back from a night out with the girls, I had a text message that I couldn't read till now (dead battery): it's a girl, and both mummy and baby are fine. Thank you for bearing with me and for wishing them well.
09 juin 2005
People were wrong
Wrong, I say.
Little bit of context. Last year, at a month's interval, I twisted (or sprained, not sure) my right ankle twice. It hurt like a bitch, not to mention the fact that falling on your face, while you're walking like the world's your oyster, has a knack for making you feel über ridiculous, and tends to indicate that the oyster has gone way past its best-before date.
The thing is, both times, I was wearing flip-flops. So most of my friends, instead of showing the commiseration and concern I was entitled to expect, pointed and laughed at me, advising me to get a crash course in walking (that unintentional pun is mine, thank you), and change shoes for orthopedic ones rather than trying to be trendy.
My osteopath asked me if everything was alright in my life, because "you know what they say, right, you twist your ankle, but are you really twisting your ankle?". I have to admit that he had a point. Each time, right after making a complete arse of myself, I did cry for help. Sob for help even. I got help the first time, as I had fallen from my pedestal right in front of a restaurant and the waiters rushed to my rescue, and I nearly killed everybody who'd surrounded me the second time, because they weren't helping, they were just smothering me. Apart from my niece, the little gem, who stood there looking scared that my ankle might explode, it was swelling so fast.
But I'll admit that I myself was a bit apprehensive of wearing flip-flops after that.
Well. Let me say it again, people were wrong. Why, just today, I had to run for the bus, because you just never know when they're going to go screeching into the horizon, AND I was wearing flip-flops, AND I was on the phone. The moving picture of a catastrophe in lurking.
HA! I sauntered gracefully onto the bus, and wasn't even out of breath. That rules flip-flops out of the equation, methinks.
However, both times, the first one right before, the second time the day after, I ran into Laurent Lucas, in two very different areas of Paris. Coincidence? I don't think so.
Little bit of context. Last year, at a month's interval, I twisted (or sprained, not sure) my right ankle twice. It hurt like a bitch, not to mention the fact that falling on your face, while you're walking like the world's your oyster, has a knack for making you feel über ridiculous, and tends to indicate that the oyster has gone way past its best-before date.
The thing is, both times, I was wearing flip-flops. So most of my friends, instead of showing the commiseration and concern I was entitled to expect, pointed and laughed at me, advising me to get a crash course in walking (that unintentional pun is mine, thank you), and change shoes for orthopedic ones rather than trying to be trendy.
My osteopath asked me if everything was alright in my life, because "you know what they say, right, you twist your ankle, but are you really twisting your ankle?". I have to admit that he had a point. Each time, right after making a complete arse of myself, I did cry for help. Sob for help even. I got help the first time, as I had fallen from my pedestal right in front of a restaurant and the waiters rushed to my rescue, and I nearly killed everybody who'd surrounded me the second time, because they weren't helping, they were just smothering me. Apart from my niece, the little gem, who stood there looking scared that my ankle might explode, it was swelling so fast.
But I'll admit that I myself was a bit apprehensive of wearing flip-flops after that.
Well. Let me say it again, people were wrong. Why, just today, I had to run for the bus, because you just never know when they're going to go screeching into the horizon, AND I was wearing flip-flops, AND I was on the phone. The moving picture of a catastrophe in lurking.
HA! I sauntered gracefully onto the bus, and wasn't even out of breath. That rules flip-flops out of the equation, methinks.
However, both times, the first one right before, the second time the day after, I ran into Laurent Lucas, in two very different areas of Paris. Coincidence? I don't think so.
08 juin 2005
It's not even in se7en
NightFly, on his (sorry...!) first visit to these parts yesterday, hit the nail right on the head and asked me if I was a consummate liar. I said yes, of course. But I'm not sure. Of course I am a liar, I wouldn't be writing this if I weren't (can't see the logic? Tough. I certainly can't explain it.).
I'm just not convinced I'm consummate about it.
I can tell you this much: I think I'm good.
I used to do stage-acting, have I told you that? I quit a few years ago, because of multiple reasons, first and foremost the fact that I thought I wasn't particularly good at it anymore.
And then I took my life in my own hands, changed a few things around, quit my job, and bam! it seems my acting ability has now come back.
I was spending a lovely evening with some friends a couple weeks back, and psychic handicaps were mentioned (one of said friends is a therapist). Somebody cracked a joke, because that's what we do when we're together, we crack jokes. Never-ending fun. Anyway, once that joke was cracked, I felt the urge to just pretend to cry, say that it was cruel to make fun of the pain some people (i might have said "we") are going through and bla bla bla. Which of course I'm convinced is true, except come on, it's Saturday night, we've had a couple... there's no need for PC anymore. So I quaver and burble and. I suddenly have to stop, because if I don't, I will be crying.
And everybody in the room has suddenly gone quiet, thinking they really have hurt me and my feelings. It took me about 5 minutes to make them understand that no, really, I was just faking it and I didn't really have a psychic handicap. Let me reassure you, it didn't kill the party, but the mere fact that I'd faked it made them question the "not having a psychic handicap" part, and I'll admit that believing I suffer from a psychic handicap is not after all so ridiculous.
Second case in point, even sillier.
Last Saturday, at some point, somebody mentioned George Clooney. For what reason, I honestly can't remember. I do remember however casually barging into the conversation saying something to the effect that I'd bumped into him on Rue de Rivoli, and gone talk to him and he was lovely and funny and very approachable and he'd given me his e-mail address. I slipped into character effortlessly obviously, but still, they tried to trip me, and never could. Being good fun (...) but not pathological (really) about it, I eventually told everyone that it wasn't true. Except one girl to whom I never got round to admitting it. For all I know, she still believes it now. George, if you read this, make me say the truth, for once. Contact me.
I'm just not convinced I'm consummate about it.
I can tell you this much: I think I'm good.
I used to do stage-acting, have I told you that? I quit a few years ago, because of multiple reasons, first and foremost the fact that I thought I wasn't particularly good at it anymore.
And then I took my life in my own hands, changed a few things around, quit my job, and bam! it seems my acting ability has now come back.
I was spending a lovely evening with some friends a couple weeks back, and psychic handicaps were mentioned (one of said friends is a therapist). Somebody cracked a joke, because that's what we do when we're together, we crack jokes. Never-ending fun. Anyway, once that joke was cracked, I felt the urge to just pretend to cry, say that it was cruel to make fun of the pain some people (i might have said "we") are going through and bla bla bla. Which of course I'm convinced is true, except come on, it's Saturday night, we've had a couple... there's no need for PC anymore. So I quaver and burble and. I suddenly have to stop, because if I don't, I will be crying.
And everybody in the room has suddenly gone quiet, thinking they really have hurt me and my feelings. It took me about 5 minutes to make them understand that no, really, I was just faking it and I didn't really have a psychic handicap. Let me reassure you, it didn't kill the party, but the mere fact that I'd faked it made them question the "not having a psychic handicap" part, and I'll admit that believing I suffer from a psychic handicap is not after all so ridiculous.
Second case in point, even sillier.
Last Saturday, at some point, somebody mentioned George Clooney. For what reason, I honestly can't remember. I do remember however casually barging into the conversation saying something to the effect that I'd bumped into him on Rue de Rivoli, and gone talk to him and he was lovely and funny and very approachable and he'd given me his e-mail address. I slipped into character effortlessly obviously, but still, they tried to trip me, and never could. Being good fun (...) but not pathological (really) about it, I eventually told everyone that it wasn't true. Except one girl to whom I never got round to admitting it. For all I know, she still believes it now. George, if you read this, make me say the truth, for once. Contact me.
07 juin 2005
Status symbol
That's it. I'm now officially unemployed. I'm not sure though that I have really fattened the ranks of jobseekers, considering the sorry state of our economy right now (oh, by the way, have you heard that argument according to which companies would hire more if they could fire more easily? Call me thick, but I don't really get it).
Anyway. I arrived at the Assedic office (where you go to register as jobless) not a minute too soon this morning. Had I got there ten minutes later, the queue would have been two or three folds deep. Unreal. As it was, there were only 6 people ahead of me.
So I waited with my fellow parasites of society.
I have to say right now, it went extremely pleasantly. Quelle déception...! I was hoping for drama, shouts, tears, brain-dead and/or smug civil servants: that would have been proper, bloggable material.
Well, none of that. The staff was even pleasant AND helpful (unheard of!). Of course there was your usual queue dodger, who today chose my rank in the line (she can thank the fact that I was taking notes and couldn't afford violence to destroy my reputation as a moderate, even-tempered, sweet person. Plus, come on, one flick and she would have been down. Too easy). No, really, everybody was rather subdued, and if it wasn't for the standing, it was all very reminiscent of a doctor's waiting lounge, to which it is very close, I suppose: some waiting to be reassured, others expecting bad news, people coming in for a routine check of things, and everybody knowing full well that whatever the outcome, there's not much they'll be able to do alone to change it.
And what a mixed bag of people it was. From the immigrant with a poor grasp of the language, to the "executive" (who, by the way, seemed to be the only people, yours truly included, who didn't know how to work the door), from the older guy (I feel for him), who senses that his working life has probably just passed away, to the student barely out of school, from those who bring a book (or a notebook) for the wait to the mother of two very cranky toddlers... Jobless of the world, unite.
Anyway. I arrived at the Assedic office (where you go to register as jobless) not a minute too soon this morning. Had I got there ten minutes later, the queue would have been two or three folds deep. Unreal. As it was, there were only 6 people ahead of me.
So I waited with my fellow parasites of society.
I have to say right now, it went extremely pleasantly. Quelle déception...! I was hoping for drama, shouts, tears, brain-dead and/or smug civil servants: that would have been proper, bloggable material.
Well, none of that. The staff was even pleasant AND helpful (unheard of!). Of course there was your usual queue dodger, who today chose my rank in the line (she can thank the fact that I was taking notes and couldn't afford violence to destroy my reputation as a moderate, even-tempered, sweet person. Plus, come on, one flick and she would have been down. Too easy). No, really, everybody was rather subdued, and if it wasn't for the standing, it was all very reminiscent of a doctor's waiting lounge, to which it is very close, I suppose: some waiting to be reassured, others expecting bad news, people coming in for a routine check of things, and everybody knowing full well that whatever the outcome, there's not much they'll be able to do alone to change it.
And what a mixed bag of people it was. From the immigrant with a poor grasp of the language, to the "executive" (who, by the way, seemed to be the only people, yours truly included, who didn't know how to work the door), from the older guy (I feel for him), who senses that his working life has probably just passed away, to the student barely out of school, from those who bring a book (or a notebook) for the wait to the mother of two very cranky toddlers... Jobless of the world, unite.
05 juin 2005
Er... come back, I wasn't joking!
Should I let the whole world (well...) know how neurotic I really am?
See, I've developed this thing - not quite OCD yet, but working on it - where I crack my fingers, my right-hand fingers, to be precise (I'm left-handed, and not taking any chances), every time I'm feeling stressed or sad or lonely or annoyed or murderously angry or scared of what the future really has in store for me.
So I start with the index finger, go on to the middle one and finish with the "ring" finger. I crack them with my thumb, in one nifty little move. Somehow, the feeling of the finger cracking combined with the sound of the finger cracking is soothing. (No, not really, but I thought if I'm going to come clean about my magic thinking, I might as well try and make it worth something. I could have gone with self-mutilation, but there was no way I was going to pull that one.)
And tonight, I was watching an episode of a series about, what do you know?, the love life, or lack thereof, of a 30 year-old girl in Paris, and at some point, something made me feel a little blue, or lonely, or identifying - anyway, I cracked my fingers. The middle one, rebellious little bugger that it is, didn't respond.
See, that shits me. When I want to feel sorry for myself (and you'll have to excuse me here, honestly, I'd started this in the privacy of my flat and wasn't going to share, but when things go wrong and you can't place the blame, someone still has to pay. In that case, I suppose it's you), I like it when things go smoothly. I either have a good cry (which I haven't had in a while because my lachrymal glands have been on an indefinite strike lately) or I crack my fingers, which is a lot more discreet and a lot less messy, and I think that is ultimately nice of me. So why? Why can't it be working? Why can't I get the stress-release that I crave (don't you dare) and crack my fingers properly?
Have I in any way offended my joints that they do not want to respond anymore to the little prodding that I give them every once in a while? Are they fed up with thinking ahead to those fantastic, osteoarthritis-ridden thirty years that I am preparing for them? Would they rather I bit my nails?
But I've done that already. My nails paid a heavy tribute to my nerves from as early as I can recall until I was 18 or 20. My hair did too. The price was not as high in its case, it was more a case of looking completely retarded while my fingers, seemingly of their own volition, would twist it around and around. And it usually unwound in completely random fashion, generally falling on my forehead, even if the strand I'd been torturing was starting right on the top of my skull. Nice.
If all else fails me, I guess writing it's going to have to be, eh: I told you, someone always pays. I'm just a teeny wee bit tired of it always being me-me-me.
Oh, and thank your lucky stars that it's not full-blown OCD (yet), because a programme on TV was showing some pretty horrid stuff the other day, which grossed me out actually, so I decided I'd stop short of clinically insane. Just short.
Ooh, listen, it's all fine again.
See, I've developed this thing - not quite OCD yet, but working on it - where I crack my fingers, my right-hand fingers, to be precise (I'm left-handed, and not taking any chances), every time I'm feeling stressed or sad or lonely or annoyed or murderously angry or scared of what the future really has in store for me.
So I start with the index finger, go on to the middle one and finish with the "ring" finger. I crack them with my thumb, in one nifty little move. Somehow, the feeling of the finger cracking combined with the sound of the finger cracking is soothing. (No, not really, but I thought if I'm going to come clean about my magic thinking, I might as well try and make it worth something. I could have gone with self-mutilation, but there was no way I was going to pull that one.)
And tonight, I was watching an episode of a series about, what do you know?, the love life, or lack thereof, of a 30 year-old girl in Paris, and at some point, something made me feel a little blue, or lonely, or identifying - anyway, I cracked my fingers. The middle one, rebellious little bugger that it is, didn't respond.
See, that shits me. When I want to feel sorry for myself (and you'll have to excuse me here, honestly, I'd started this in the privacy of my flat and wasn't going to share, but when things go wrong and you can't place the blame, someone still has to pay. In that case, I suppose it's you), I like it when things go smoothly. I either have a good cry (which I haven't had in a while because my lachrymal glands have been on an indefinite strike lately) or I crack my fingers, which is a lot more discreet and a lot less messy, and I think that is ultimately nice of me. So why? Why can't it be working? Why can't I get the stress-release that I crave (don't you dare) and crack my fingers properly?
Have I in any way offended my joints that they do not want to respond anymore to the little prodding that I give them every once in a while? Are they fed up with thinking ahead to those fantastic, osteoarthritis-ridden thirty years that I am preparing for them? Would they rather I bit my nails?
But I've done that already. My nails paid a heavy tribute to my nerves from as early as I can recall until I was 18 or 20. My hair did too. The price was not as high in its case, it was more a case of looking completely retarded while my fingers, seemingly of their own volition, would twist it around and around. And it usually unwound in completely random fashion, generally falling on my forehead, even if the strand I'd been torturing was starting right on the top of my skull. Nice.
If all else fails me, I guess writing it's going to have to be, eh: I told you, someone always pays. I'm just a teeny wee bit tired of it always being me-me-me.
Oh, and thank your lucky stars that it's not full-blown OCD (yet), because a programme on TV was showing some pretty horrid stuff the other day, which grossed me out actually, so I decided I'd stop short of clinically insane. Just short.
Ooh, listen, it's all fine again.
04 juin 2005
Starting over
How nice it is to have a tidy flat, clean clothes, squared accounts, and the prospect of a party in the evening.
Oh and internet's working again. That's nice too.
It's all coming together (and it's 2 a.m. in Honolulu, so this works. Have I finally got it right, monkey?).
I'm sending CVs out starting Monday, I'm just hoping something nice happens there too.
That's it. Have a lovely week-end.
Oh and internet's working again. That's nice too.
It's all coming together (and it's 2 a.m. in Honolulu, so this works. Have I finally got it right, monkey?).
I'm sending CVs out starting Monday, I'm just hoping something nice happens there too.
That's it. Have a lovely week-end.
03 juin 2005
There's no other case in her family
Went to see Star Wars yesterday.
Well.
I'm not sure what I thought of the movie, but I know I blew it with lots of people, with whom I'm sure I could have otherwise been friends (except for that couple who were sitting right beside me, because he was explaining lots of things to her, much as he would be, I'm sure, if they were in the privacy of their own home - I mean, there are lots of things that I still haven't understood, like why did no one react to the preposterous fact that Anakin met Padmé when he was 4 and she was already 20, and then poof, he grows older, but she just... stays there and watches or something, but still, you didn't hear me talk about it with my friend during the movie, now, DID YOU?), *when we started practising the "vzeeoum", the "shhhhhhh" and the "Luke, I am your father". But hey, we thought it was funny.
Oh. Before you think I'm mad and once again accepting things from myself that I do not tolerate in others (like breathing sometimes). That little practising session? That was before and after. Not during.
* can you spot the beginning of that sentence? And John, what's a sentence?
Well.
I'm not sure what I thought of the movie, but I know I blew it with lots of people, with whom I'm sure I could have otherwise been friends (except for that couple who were sitting right beside me, because he was explaining lots of things to her, much as he would be, I'm sure, if they were in the privacy of their own home - I mean, there are lots of things that I still haven't understood, like why did no one react to the preposterous fact that Anakin met Padmé when he was 4 and she was already 20, and then poof, he grows older, but she just... stays there and watches or something, but still, you didn't hear me talk about it with my friend during the movie, now, DID YOU?), *when we started practising the "vzeeoum", the "shhhhhhh" and the "Luke, I am your father". But hey, we thought it was funny.
Oh. Before you think I'm mad and once again accepting things from myself that I do not tolerate in others (like breathing sometimes). That little practising session? That was before and after. Not during.
* can you spot the beginning of that sentence? And John, what's a sentence?
02 juin 2005
Oi, lightning, strike me!
Or something.
I don't think I've ever felt more... unproductive, uninspired and uncreative than since I quit my job.
Obviously, my metro commute, for all the foul talk that it triggered in me, was acting muse. Or maybe it was the tedium involved in part of my job description. Or maybe, just maybe, it was going out and seeing people?
I spent yesterday locked up at home, trying to work on a translation that my boss - sweet man - gave me to get me started on freelancing. Well I think it's safe to say now that I've tried that I badly need to clean up my act (and my flat) and get organised, or I'll never be an efficient, money-making, hard-talking freelancer. Which is in any case fine by me, I've always said I needed to be around people to function properly, or as properly as is physically (and mentally goes without saying, but you know, just to be on the safe side...) possible with me.
Anyway, this wasn't particularly meant for me to mope, or in any way, shape or form convey some "oh she's feeling sorry for herself a-gain" kind of tone. I really meant it as a warning - which goes to show that try as I might, this writing gig is really way out of my league. You, my faithful readers, either need to consider taking me out of your favourite links, or will forever take the chance of misinterpreting this not-so-daily-anymore meaningless drivel.
Back to the warning that didn't dare show its true face. The translation is reaching completion. Watch out, people, watch out. Because I'll soon be living the life, walking the walk, talking the talk, and whatever else of which you can use the verb and noun in the same sentence*. Also, I'm going to have to spend hours at administrative and public offices, with lots of civil servants (and you know what they say about those in France. I usually try not to howl with the crowds, but when I signed up on Blogger, I think it involved selling a litle bit of my soul to the devil).
All that means I'll have plenty blog fodder to throw at you until you are nauseous. And I'll expect you to read it all.
Please.
* Oh, I was told that British schools don't teach proper grammar anymore, so instead of saying "verb", for instance, they'll call it "action word". Debate.
I don't think I've ever felt more... unproductive, uninspired and uncreative than since I quit my job.
Obviously, my metro commute, for all the foul talk that it triggered in me, was acting muse. Or maybe it was the tedium involved in part of my job description. Or maybe, just maybe, it was going out and seeing people?
I spent yesterday locked up at home, trying to work on a translation that my boss - sweet man - gave me to get me started on freelancing. Well I think it's safe to say now that I've tried that I badly need to clean up my act (and my flat) and get organised, or I'll never be an efficient, money-making, hard-talking freelancer. Which is in any case fine by me, I've always said I needed to be around people to function properly, or as properly as is physically (and mentally goes without saying, but you know, just to be on the safe side...) possible with me.
Anyway, this wasn't particularly meant for me to mope, or in any way, shape or form convey some "oh she's feeling sorry for herself a-gain" kind of tone. I really meant it as a warning - which goes to show that try as I might, this writing gig is really way out of my league. You, my faithful readers, either need to consider taking me out of your favourite links, or will forever take the chance of misinterpreting this not-so-daily-anymore meaningless drivel.
Back to the warning that didn't dare show its true face. The translation is reaching completion. Watch out, people, watch out. Because I'll soon be living the life, walking the walk, talking the talk, and whatever else of which you can use the verb and noun in the same sentence*. Also, I'm going to have to spend hours at administrative and public offices, with lots of civil servants (and you know what they say about those in France. I usually try not to howl with the crowds, but when I signed up on Blogger, I think it involved selling a litle bit of my soul to the devil).
All that means I'll have plenty blog fodder to throw at you until you are nauseous. And I'll expect you to read it all.
Please.
* Oh, I was told that British schools don't teach proper grammar anymore, so instead of saying "verb", for instance, they'll call it "action word". Debate.
31 mai 2005
The naughty meme
All right, I haven't posted anything for a couple days. So really I should write something now. Trouble is, it's past 2 in the bloody morning (and no, Monkey 0, not everything happens right now, I'm living proof), I have to get up in the morning (i.e. before noon) to work on a translation that has been bugging me for a while now, the European Constitution is now in French shambles, I've had an emotional evening, what with my ex-workmates throwing me a party and giving me champagne and presents (never a good combination), and forgotten machine and me have been having, well... a pissing contest, really. He's winning, I think. So really, right now, my brains aren't quite up to the task.
However, I got tagged. Again. By Nome, bless her. We've been through all that: if you too want to answer the questions below, say "tag!" in the comments.
Last Five Songs I Listened To:
- A lovely Russian poem whose title I can't remember over a guitar (one of my neighbours, and he's really good)
- Scar tissue (Red Hot Chili Peppers)
- Tutto va bene (Camille Baz Baz)
- Ca c'est vraiment toi (Téléphone)
- The jet song (West Side Story) - was in my head for a couple hours today, so I listened to it, sort of.
Last Five Movies I Saw:
- I heart Huckabees
- The Hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy
- De battre mon coeur s'est arrêté
- Million Dollar Baby
- The swap (technically, made for TV, but it kept me awake till the end, at 3.30 am, so that counts, right?)
Last Five Books I Read
- The sacred art of stealing (C. Brookmyre)
- A damsel in distress (PG Wodehouse)
- La maladie de Sachs (M. Winkler) - still reading
- Pirates, Bats and Dragons, a science adventure (M. Davis) - still reading
- Some book I borrowed from a friend but can't remember the title for the life of me (and yet I'm sure I enjoyed it)
Last Five Cultured Events Attended
- La vie parisienne (opérette)
- La crevette d'acier (concert)
- Love! Valour! Compassion! (theatre play)
- Went to the Portrait Gallery in Edinburgh...
- Heineken Cup final (Rugby) in Edinburgh (come on, rugby in Scotland, all part of the culture, isn't it?)
Last Five Masturbatory Fantasies
- I'm sitting at a potter's wheel and he looks like Patrick Swayze.
- He's using an ice cube while Joe Cocker is urging me to leave my hat on, and he looks like Mickey Rourke (then).
- I say "Hey Goose, you big stud. Take me to bed or lose me forever", and he looks like a combo of Tom Cruise, Val Kilmer, Anthony Edwards and... Tom Skerritt.
- He's videotaping me while I tell him sex lies and he looks like James Spader.
- My wrists are tied to the bed posts with white scarves, an ice pick can be seen in the background and he so doesn't look like Michael Douglas.
However, I got tagged. Again. By Nome, bless her. We've been through all that: if you too want to answer the questions below, say "tag!" in the comments.
Last Five Songs I Listened To:
- A lovely Russian poem whose title I can't remember over a guitar (one of my neighbours, and he's really good)
- Scar tissue (Red Hot Chili Peppers)
- Tutto va bene (Camille Baz Baz)
- Ca c'est vraiment toi (Téléphone)
- The jet song (West Side Story) - was in my head for a couple hours today, so I listened to it, sort of.
Last Five Movies I Saw:
- I heart Huckabees
- The Hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy
- De battre mon coeur s'est arrêté
- Million Dollar Baby
- The swap (technically, made for TV, but it kept me awake till the end, at 3.30 am, so that counts, right?)
Last Five Books I Read
- The sacred art of stealing (C. Brookmyre)
- A damsel in distress (PG Wodehouse)
- La maladie de Sachs (M. Winkler) - still reading
- Pirates, Bats and Dragons, a science adventure (M. Davis) - still reading
- Some book I borrowed from a friend but can't remember the title for the life of me (and yet I'm sure I enjoyed it)
Last Five Cultured Events Attended
- La vie parisienne (opérette)
- La crevette d'acier (concert)
- Love! Valour! Compassion! (theatre play)
- Went to the Portrait Gallery in Edinburgh...
- Heineken Cup final (Rugby) in Edinburgh (come on, rugby in Scotland, all part of the culture, isn't it?)
Last Five Masturbatory Fantasies
- I'm sitting at a potter's wheel and he looks like Patrick Swayze.
- He's using an ice cube while Joe Cocker is urging me to leave my hat on, and he looks like Mickey Rourke (then).
- I say "Hey Goose, you big stud. Take me to bed or lose me forever", and he looks like a combo of Tom Cruise, Val Kilmer, Anthony Edwards and... Tom Skerritt.
- He's videotaping me while I tell him sex lies and he looks like James Spader.
- My wrists are tied to the bed posts with white scarves, an ice pick can be seen in the background and he so doesn't look like Michael Douglas.
29 mai 2005
Blanche comme un cachet d'aspirine
I've been complaining for a while now that I'm as white as a sheet. Now, when I say for a while, it means ever since the sun started shining and it became completely unavoidable to wear skirts, dresses, flip-flops and all sorts of items of clothing that show so much more skin than you really wish they did when, like me, you're tan-impaired.
Turns out the solution was staring me in the face.
No, I'm not going to spend my entire and rapidly dwindling disposable income on self-tan lotion (I tried, and my legs are so pale it doesn't actually make a difference, plus I'm a bit scared of the streaks); neither am I likely to have a wing named after me in some tanning salon mansion because I'll have spent more there than Bono when campaigning for the cancellation of third world debt.
I'll just wear my sunglasses.
Is that clever or is that clever? And just how did I stumble upon such a simple yet efficient solution?
Well I simply noticed yesterday, as we were sprawled on a hill in the Buttes-Chaumont park with a couple of friends, a couple of girlie magazines, and a couple thousand other Parisians, that I looked borderline healthy through the lenses of my new trusty accessory. The difference a flick of the head makes was really quite stunning. One second, I'm golden (yes, golden). Flick of the head: I blind myself, I'm so white. Golden. Blind. Golden. Blind.
I did play at that for a while, until my friends grew a bit tired of my Rain Man impersonation, by which time my mind was made: from now on, my face is not going to be seen without sunglasses. I'll be saving a fortune on make-up.
Turns out the solution was staring me in the face.
No, I'm not going to spend my entire and rapidly dwindling disposable income on self-tan lotion (I tried, and my legs are so pale it doesn't actually make a difference, plus I'm a bit scared of the streaks); neither am I likely to have a wing named after me in some tanning salon mansion because I'll have spent more there than Bono when campaigning for the cancellation of third world debt.
I'll just wear my sunglasses.
Is that clever or is that clever? And just how did I stumble upon such a simple yet efficient solution?
Well I simply noticed yesterday, as we were sprawled on a hill in the Buttes-Chaumont park with a couple of friends, a couple of girlie magazines, and a couple thousand other Parisians, that I looked borderline healthy through the lenses of my new trusty accessory. The difference a flick of the head makes was really quite stunning. One second, I'm golden (yes, golden). Flick of the head: I blind myself, I'm so white. Golden. Blind. Golden. Blind.
I did play at that for a while, until my friends grew a bit tired of my Rain Man impersonation, by which time my mind was made: from now on, my face is not going to be seen without sunglasses. I'll be saving a fortune on make-up.
28 mai 2005
Untitled
I'm feeling a bit like a fraud with this, but it's nice to pretend, isn't it?
She keeps looking at the big hand on the clock. She can't concentrate. Time is just not on her side today. When is the bell going to ring? And she has so much to plan, still! The games she will bring, the toys she will bring - not the same thing, she's been trying to explain this one for ever to her parents. Toys you can play with on your own, games are better when there's several of you. The clothes she will bring, because well, you never know when Aurélie will have her birthday thing, and if she does while she's still in the area, she'll have to take that princess dress. Pink with tiny sequins, it's just so very beautiful. And her dad keeps saying that she's the prettiest little girl in the world in it. Oh, and she has to think of the music she will take for the car. You don't want to be stuck in holiday-going traffic with only your parents' musical choice for you. Uh-uh, no you don't.
Anyway. Another ten lines of this "match figures and words" stupid activity and she'll be done. Yay! Two months of freedom! Oh and she'll have so much fun as well, this time. Not like last year, when things were not exactly clear. Her dad was always grumpy, her mom always looked like she'd been crying, it wasn't the best holiday. Something to do with "you're going to have a little brother or sister. You happy?" and then not mentioning it at all ever. Apparently, the baby had decided not to come after all. She had wondered if it was because of her, but her mum and dad had crossed their hearts that no, it was just... And she knew she was nice too, so really it couldn't be because of her. She knew she would have to share her toys and all, but that was OK as long as she knew they were hers in the first place. Of course it must be a sister, boys can be so... annoying.
But it will be better to have a sister next year: she'll be seven then, she'll know how to take care of a baby.
10 and ten. Finished. Yay!
She keeps looking at the big hand on the clock. She can't concentrate. Time is just not on her side today. When is the bell going to ring? And she has so much to plan, still! The games she will bring, the toys she will bring - not the same thing, she's been trying to explain this one for ever to her parents. Toys you can play with on your own, games are better when there's several of you. The clothes she will bring, because well, you never know when Aurélie will have her birthday thing, and if she does while she's still in the area, she'll have to take that princess dress. Pink with tiny sequins, it's just so very beautiful. And her dad keeps saying that she's the prettiest little girl in the world in it. Oh, and she has to think of the music she will take for the car. You don't want to be stuck in holiday-going traffic with only your parents' musical choice for you. Uh-uh, no you don't.
Anyway. Another ten lines of this "match figures and words" stupid activity and she'll be done. Yay! Two months of freedom! Oh and she'll have so much fun as well, this time. Not like last year, when things were not exactly clear. Her dad was always grumpy, her mom always looked like she'd been crying, it wasn't the best holiday. Something to do with "you're going to have a little brother or sister. You happy?" and then not mentioning it at all ever. Apparently, the baby had decided not to come after all. She had wondered if it was because of her, but her mum and dad had crossed their hearts that no, it was just... And she knew she was nice too, so really it couldn't be because of her. She knew she would have to share her toys and all, but that was OK as long as she knew they were hers in the first place. Of course it must be a sister, boys can be so... annoying.
But it will be better to have a sister next year: she'll be seven then, she'll know how to take care of a baby.
10 and ten. Finished. Yay!
27 mai 2005
Gloating
Gloating, I tell you.
Thanks to Fence, and the Star Wars horoscope, I've just found out I'm Princess Leia.
Gloating.
Thanks to Fence, and the Star Wars horoscope, I've just found out I'm Princess Leia.
Gloating.
Gaaah
I'd just started a long post about how, after the company party last night, and everyone being super nice to me, I'm entertaining potentially lethal second thoughts on my resignation. This however cannot, will not, is not tolerated around these parts.
Joke, anyone?
Joke, anyone?
26 mai 2005
Self-centered stuff
I've been hit by a meme by Adamant. Just as well, because I didn't have a clue what I would write about BUT, before you go and hit me too, he's allowed because when he gets published, I get to translate his book. Hurry, Daisy.
Also, I'm supposed to tag three of you with it. However, I'm not good with rules, so please tag yourselves in the comments. The first three get to go. And oh well, if you really want to do it and you're at a disadvantage because of the time difference, consider yourself tagged too.
Three names I go by: Anne, Anne-Claire (don't ever call me that though), merdeuse (my brother, what can I say)
Three screen names that I have had: Pauline, Denise, la Crieuse (I hope stage counts)
Three things I like about myself: my sense of humour, generosity, tolerance
Three things I don't like about myself: my sense of humour (sometimes you know, just not funny), generosity (sometimes you know, just corny slap-me-into-some-sense annoying), touchiness
Three parts of my heritage: Corsican, Italian, Extra-Terrestrial (a few people have asked me what planet I come from, I just haven't investigated that far yet)
Three things that scare me: flying beasties, plumbing problems, skiing
Three of my everyday essentials: coffee, laughter, people
Three things I am wearing right now: socks, tee-shirt, glasses (picture of sexy, I'm telling you)
Three of my favorite bands or musical artists: Dean Martin, Nappy Roots, Living Colour
Three of my fave songs: (I'll try to be coherent) Love rears up its ugly head (Living Colour), Sholiz* (Nappy Roots), Son of a preacher man (Dusty Springfield)
Three new things I want to try in the next 12 months: DIY, parachute jumping, the USA
Three things I want in a relationship: love, laughter, trust
Two truths and a lie: I was saved by banana trees in a car crash once, I was saved from screaming fans by the make-up girl after a theatre performance, I was saved from five policemen by a taxi driver once
Three physical things that attract me to the opposite sex: hands, eyes, smile (in no particular order)
Three things I can't do without: humanity, laughter, music
Three of my fave hobbies: reading, watching movies, vegging out with friends
Three places I want to go on vacation: the whole world, the moon, Mars
Three things I just can't do: be nasty** (it's true too, and sooooo frustrating sometimes), drill a hole into a wall, win the lottery
Three kids' names: Sue Ellen (isn't that criminal? because it was used in France), J.R., Bobby (I can't think of names that I really love or hate)
Three things I want to do before I die: restore a house, stop smoking, live on a beach somewhere
Three celebrity crushes: what, only three? I'm known for unbelievably many - George Clooney, Jean-Baptiste Martin, Christopher Brookmyre (you know what they say about making a girl laugh, just imagine what it's like if you make her laugh when she's on her own in a plane/train/crowded subway)
* By the way, if someone can explain the lyrics to me, I'll be forever grateful - I know, I love a song that I don't in fact understand: that's just the tip of the iceberg.
** So if you feel I was mean to you once, you can safely chalk it up to ill-advised sarcasm or badly used language.
Also, I'm supposed to tag three of you with it. However, I'm not good with rules, so please tag yourselves in the comments. The first three get to go. And oh well, if you really want to do it and you're at a disadvantage because of the time difference, consider yourself tagged too.
Three names I go by: Anne, Anne-Claire (don't ever call me that though), merdeuse (my brother, what can I say)
Three screen names that I have had: Pauline, Denise, la Crieuse (I hope stage counts)
Three things I like about myself: my sense of humour, generosity, tolerance
Three things I don't like about myself: my sense of humour (sometimes you know, just not funny), generosity (sometimes you know, just corny slap-me-into-some-sense annoying), touchiness
Three parts of my heritage: Corsican, Italian, Extra-Terrestrial (a few people have asked me what planet I come from, I just haven't investigated that far yet)
Three things that scare me: flying beasties, plumbing problems, skiing
Three of my everyday essentials: coffee, laughter, people
Three things I am wearing right now: socks, tee-shirt, glasses (picture of sexy, I'm telling you)
Three of my favorite bands or musical artists: Dean Martin, Nappy Roots, Living Colour
Three of my fave songs: (I'll try to be coherent) Love rears up its ugly head (Living Colour), Sholiz* (Nappy Roots), Son of a preacher man (Dusty Springfield)
Three new things I want to try in the next 12 months: DIY, parachute jumping, the USA
Three things I want in a relationship: love, laughter, trust
Two truths and a lie: I was saved by banana trees in a car crash once, I was saved from screaming fans by the make-up girl after a theatre performance, I was saved from five policemen by a taxi driver once
Three physical things that attract me to the opposite sex: hands, eyes, smile (in no particular order)
Three things I can't do without: humanity, laughter, music
Three of my fave hobbies: reading, watching movies, vegging out with friends
Three places I want to go on vacation: the whole world, the moon, Mars
Three things I just can't do: be nasty** (it's true too, and sooooo frustrating sometimes), drill a hole into a wall, win the lottery
Three kids' names: Sue Ellen (isn't that criminal? because it was used in France), J.R., Bobby (I can't think of names that I really love or hate)
Three things I want to do before I die: restore a house, stop smoking, live on a beach somewhere
Three celebrity crushes: what, only three? I'm known for unbelievably many - George Clooney, Jean-Baptiste Martin, Christopher Brookmyre (you know what they say about making a girl laugh, just imagine what it's like if you make her laugh when she's on her own in a plane/train/crowded subway)
* By the way, if someone can explain the lyrics to me, I'll be forever grateful - I know, I love a song that I don't in fact understand: that's just the tip of the iceberg.
** So if you feel I was mean to you once, you can safely chalk it up to ill-advised sarcasm or badly used language.
25 mai 2005
Home again
That was the longest trip back. I left my friend Lilith at 9:45 in the morning and arrived home at 9 p.m. For a one-and-a-half-hour train journey and a one-and-a-half-hour flight.
The rest was spent in metros, taxis, airports and stations. With one companion of choice though: Christopher Brookmyre. He's a fantastic crime writer from Scotland, with a great sense of humour and I basically love him (intellectually oviously).
So Christopher Brookmyre, if you ever stumble upon this, please get in touch, because a couple of your books have already been translated into French but I'm willing to sacrifice the rest of my life to do the others*. There, that's out now.
Oh yeah, because I'm now officially out of work. Last week was holiday, now it's your basic jobless status. Another couple of days (I do need to recuperate from the jet-lag, you know) and I'll start flooding the world with my CV (résumé for the US-born among you) and hope for the best, but basically if you live in an English-speaking part of the world and you know of someone looking for a French-speaking translator/editor... or something (I'll stoop to coffee-bringer if it means bringing it to George Clooney or Christopher Brookmyre or Stephen King)... don't hesitate to either send them my way or send me theirs... mucho appreciated...
Why English-speaking? Well, no idea, but it all started when I was 11. And since then, it hasn't changed. I mean, come on, I was chatted up by a charming 21-year old on Saturday, and that hasn't happened to me in France since I was... 20 probably (and it was charming, even if it was a case of the Mrs Robinson syndrome, you cheeky monkeys).
There is something about the English language that makes me feel home and actually calms down the raging madwoman in me. Kind of. Come on, I put my credibility on the line everyday when I type something down here, there's got to be something strong at work.
OK, I evidently can't really write properly right now (my brain is atrophying after a week of doing nothing, how quick is that???), so next post will be a meme I was tagged with by Adamant.
* Actually, let's not be too literal on that sacrifice thing, shall we?
The rest was spent in metros, taxis, airports and stations. With one companion of choice though: Christopher Brookmyre. He's a fantastic crime writer from Scotland, with a great sense of humour and I basically love him (intellectually oviously).
So Christopher Brookmyre, if you ever stumble upon this, please get in touch, because a couple of your books have already been translated into French but I'm willing to sacrifice the rest of my life to do the others*. There, that's out now.
Oh yeah, because I'm now officially out of work. Last week was holiday, now it's your basic jobless status. Another couple of days (I do need to recuperate from the jet-lag, you know) and I'll start flooding the world with my CV (résumé for the US-born among you) and hope for the best, but basically if you live in an English-speaking part of the world and you know of someone looking for a French-speaking translator/editor... or something (I'll stoop to coffee-bringer if it means bringing it to George Clooney or Christopher Brookmyre or Stephen King)... don't hesitate to either send them my way or send me theirs... mucho appreciated...
Why English-speaking? Well, no idea, but it all started when I was 11. And since then, it hasn't changed. I mean, come on, I was chatted up by a charming 21-year old on Saturday, and that hasn't happened to me in France since I was... 20 probably (and it was charming, even if it was a case of the Mrs Robinson syndrome, you cheeky monkeys).
There is something about the English language that makes me feel home and actually calms down the raging madwoman in me. Kind of. Come on, I put my credibility on the line everyday when I type something down here, there's got to be something strong at work.
OK, I evidently can't really write properly right now (my brain is atrophying after a week of doing nothing, how quick is that???), so next post will be a meme I was tagged with by Adamant.
* Actually, let's not be too literal on that sacrifice thing, shall we?
I'm not a megalomaniac
The pictures below are not evidence of my big-headedness (is that even a word?), they're just meant to stop me worrying about photos of me being posted. Ah the insecurity...
Now everybody will know what I look like and that's that.
Now everybody will know what I look like and that's that.
24 mai 2005
23 mai 2005
The end is near
OK, so I lied. I was wrong. It doesn't always rain in Scotland. It actually was sunny for a couple hours on Friday and most of the afternoon on Sunday. I do have photographic evidence, but I suspect it will get to you at about the same time the card does, so I'll probably be back by then.
You have to understand my frustration at this rain thing. I have spent the last 10 years of my life telling everyone that no, it doesn't always rain in Scotland, that it is bordering on libellous to spread such blatantly unfounded rumours, that I've stayed there for two years and can well remember the days of sunshine and warmth (and not because they were few and far between, stop it right now). So coming here for my first holiday in donkey's years (?) and seeing rain, cold and clouds as a daily feature has made me feel a little betrayed.
But hey, it's all forgotten now.
I have also found internet cafés galore. Well, I did see 2. I'm still using Lilith's computer, though. Much more fun.
Oh, and I have found another reason to be annoyed... Did you know that in Edinburgh, not only do they have pigeons, as in any other self-respectful city, but they also have seagulls? Both, sometimes at the same time at the same place. The horror. The horror.
I have also found a reason to be afraid. Very afraid. I have spent half of my stay sharing my space with a maniacal cat that pees on everything you inadvertently leave lying around on the floor. Thankfully, I had been properly warned. So I spent half of my stay maniacally looking over my shoulder to check that I hadn't left anything lying around on the floor.
OK, on to the positive, then, you party poopers you.
I spent Saturday evening in the pub, and that was the best evening out I've had in a long time. And that does say something, as I've had more than a few lovely evenings lately.
I went to Murrayfield on Sunday to see the Heineken Cup final (yeah, apparently, that's what the European Cup is called). Two French sides. Because we, my dearies, are good. Not good enough to score a try in the whole bloody game, but good nonetheless.
And I met Alan on Friday! Turns out second time's a charm too. It was really short (lunch time, he was working) but a lovely time I had. And it was sunny too. He told me he'd post a photo of this up on his site, and I will ask you kindly not to judge me by it. Remember my hair went through a very harsh trauma recently, and I haven't had a chance to get a tan. Plus I'm so much cuter in the flesh*.
Normal service will be resumed very shortly.
* Alan, don't...
You have to understand my frustration at this rain thing. I have spent the last 10 years of my life telling everyone that no, it doesn't always rain in Scotland, that it is bordering on libellous to spread such blatantly unfounded rumours, that I've stayed there for two years and can well remember the days of sunshine and warmth (and not because they were few and far between, stop it right now). So coming here for my first holiday in donkey's years (?) and seeing rain, cold and clouds as a daily feature has made me feel a little betrayed.
But hey, it's all forgotten now.
I have also found internet cafés galore. Well, I did see 2. I'm still using Lilith's computer, though. Much more fun.
Oh, and I have found another reason to be annoyed... Did you know that in Edinburgh, not only do they have pigeons, as in any other self-respectful city, but they also have seagulls? Both, sometimes at the same time at the same place. The horror. The horror.
I have also found a reason to be afraid. Very afraid. I have spent half of my stay sharing my space with a maniacal cat that pees on everything you inadvertently leave lying around on the floor. Thankfully, I had been properly warned. So I spent half of my stay maniacally looking over my shoulder to check that I hadn't left anything lying around on the floor.
OK, on to the positive, then, you party poopers you.
I spent Saturday evening in the pub, and that was the best evening out I've had in a long time. And that does say something, as I've had more than a few lovely evenings lately.
I went to Murrayfield on Sunday to see the Heineken Cup final (yeah, apparently, that's what the European Cup is called). Two French sides. Because we, my dearies, are good. Not good enough to score a try in the whole bloody game, but good nonetheless.
And I met Alan on Friday! Turns out second time's a charm too. It was really short (lunch time, he was working) but a lovely time I had. And it was sunny too. He told me he'd post a photo of this up on his site, and I will ask you kindly not to judge me by it. Remember my hair went through a very harsh trauma recently, and I haven't had a chance to get a tan. Plus I'm so much cuter in the flesh*.
Normal service will be resumed very shortly.
* Alan, don't...
19 mai 2005
Bonnie Scotland
I'm trying to type with a qwerty keyboard, I haven't done that in over 5 years... It's the little differences, right?
Well, talking about the little differences, forget all that crap you've been told about driving on the other side of the road. That's simple. The way their traffic lights work, now that's complicated... And there are all the little details.
Just imagine you're on holiday, you're thinking of enjoying a long lie-in, and revelling in the non-too-christian thought that your friend might be going to work at the crack of dawn in the morning, but you'll be snuggling in the sofa waiting for... nothing really, but just because it's this: nice. And then karma turns around and bites you where it hurts. At 6 a.m., the sun's shining like it's 10:00 in any other NORMAL country. But you don't really care, because it's shining, and gorgeous, and you just want to embrace the world and it looks like just the day to do it...
Then, at 9:30, it starts clouding up. At 10, it's spitting. It doesn't stop ALL day. Save for the occasional bona fide shower. Actually, it looks like it's not going to stop for the whole time you're there...
Which turns out to be a good thing, because you finally get around to buying the umbrella you've been direly missing. And it's very pretty too. And it was cheap because there's always a sale on somewhere.
You walk 2 1/2 hours in the spitting rain, looking at stuff, but let's face it, in the spitting rain, you're just looking for a nice place to have a cuppa or something and given that most of your addresses and telephone numbers are in your e-mail, you're desperate for an internet cafe. Well let me tell you right out. You don't find one. So if you're thinking of going cold turkey on this sweet blogging addiction, I suggest you pay a visit to lovely Caledonia*.
You finally get to see Hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy. Before everybody else at home obviously. It's very good. Maybe not quite as good as the book, but it's well worth a giggle or ten.
You forget that there are indeed other countries in the world, because they just never mention them on the news.
You look for bins on the street. Because they're cracking down on litter big time in Edinburgh. But you don't really find that many. Once more, you think of giving up another addiction, cigarettes. But...
You see smokers. Lots of smokers. You feel like there are a lot more smokers in Scotland than there are in France. Which is a bit strange considering the absolutely amazingly shockingly high prices of cigarettes.
You also see pubs. Nice pubs. Pubs mean liquor. Liquor makes you feel warm. You forget about the cold and the spitting rain. You really enjoy - again - the whole Scottish experience. You're happy you're back for yet another tan-free holiday. Even though you fear you might have caught pneumonia.
*It's true, I'm at my friend Lilith's place right now. She's like my own Internet cafe, and she's offered me a bargain price. She's ace.
Well, talking about the little differences, forget all that crap you've been told about driving on the other side of the road. That's simple. The way their traffic lights work, now that's complicated... And there are all the little details.
Just imagine you're on holiday, you're thinking of enjoying a long lie-in, and revelling in the non-too-christian thought that your friend might be going to work at the crack of dawn in the morning, but you'll be snuggling in the sofa waiting for... nothing really, but just because it's this: nice. And then karma turns around and bites you where it hurts. At 6 a.m., the sun's shining like it's 10:00 in any other NORMAL country. But you don't really care, because it's shining, and gorgeous, and you just want to embrace the world and it looks like just the day to do it...
Then, at 9:30, it starts clouding up. At 10, it's spitting. It doesn't stop ALL day. Save for the occasional bona fide shower. Actually, it looks like it's not going to stop for the whole time you're there...
Which turns out to be a good thing, because you finally get around to buying the umbrella you've been direly missing. And it's very pretty too. And it was cheap because there's always a sale on somewhere.
You walk 2 1/2 hours in the spitting rain, looking at stuff, but let's face it, in the spitting rain, you're just looking for a nice place to have a cuppa or something and given that most of your addresses and telephone numbers are in your e-mail, you're desperate for an internet cafe. Well let me tell you right out. You don't find one. So if you're thinking of going cold turkey on this sweet blogging addiction, I suggest you pay a visit to lovely Caledonia*.
You finally get to see Hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy. Before everybody else at home obviously. It's very good. Maybe not quite as good as the book, but it's well worth a giggle or ten.
You forget that there are indeed other countries in the world, because they just never mention them on the news.
You look for bins on the street. Because they're cracking down on litter big time in Edinburgh. But you don't really find that many. Once more, you think of giving up another addiction, cigarettes. But...
You see smokers. Lots of smokers. You feel like there are a lot more smokers in Scotland than there are in France. Which is a bit strange considering the absolutely amazingly shockingly high prices of cigarettes.
You also see pubs. Nice pubs. Pubs mean liquor. Liquor makes you feel warm. You forget about the cold and the spitting rain. You really enjoy - again - the whole Scottish experience. You're happy you're back for yet another tan-free holiday. Even though you fear you might have caught pneumonia.
*It's true, I'm at my friend Lilith's place right now. She's like my own Internet cafe, and she's offered me a bargain price. She's ace.
16 mai 2005
Up, up and away
Hello hello. I'm away for a week. I know how you lot are, forgetting about me as soon as my back is turned, so I've left a wee post below for your perusal. I'll try to keep this here site updated on an irregular, probably hung-over, basis, but you understand I can't promise anything. I'll send you a card. Take care, and come back soon!
I love to be a star
Suzanna Danna sprung five questions on me on Thursday, which I have endeavoured to answer in truthful fashion. Hmmm.
1) The most incredible sound you have ever heard. Where were you and how did it make you feel? Please describe it (make note to use the word "lusty").
I'm not sure if you mean the most incredible sound that made me feel lusty? (See there, use of lusty? Check.)
There are so many! It depends if it's an incredible sound in a nice way. If it is, my niece laughing, when she was a baby. She'd laugh in the abandoned, completely uncontrolled way that babies have, going up and down the scales in random fashion but always melodically, that you just need to hear to know that at that precise moment, they're blissfully happy.
If it's incredible in a scary or depressing way, a plane flying low. That scares me witless. The sound of it, growing in intensity as it grows in volume (not sure you get the nuance, there, but I do: volume's pretty straightforward, intensity in Anne-speak is how it goes through you, the feeling you have that you're hearing it through your brain or chest, or stomach), that all-filling, eardrum-shattering air-piercing and engine noise, that has me whimpering like a dog in a storm. Quite literally actually, as I could go so far as to hide under a table.
I guess the oddest thing though was once, when I was at my parents' house, watching TV on my own late at night. All of a sudden, a baby wailed. Right outside the door of the house, which is up a flight of stairs. My heart stopped. I mean that. I went to check, thinking shitohshitohshit I'm a mother and I didn't even know it. It was a bloody cat in heat.
2) Do you like beets?
God no. Well, I say god no, but if I have to eat them, I will. There is one recipe that my mum makes that I can bear. Beet and boiled potatoes salad, and sometimes she'll add cornichons. That's... edible.
3) On a scale from one to ten, rate your nostrils. And then tell why.
I don't like my nose, but I don't think it's horrible. So it would probably get a 5 or a 6. My nostrils would get 7, I think. They have the courtesy of being symmetric, they're both of the same size, not too big (you can't really see what's in them, which is nice), not too small (I can breathe through them no problems, which is nice also). I'd like them to be a little bit more defined, more "aristocratic" if you will. As it were, they're a tad too proletarian. But hey, so am I, so I guess it's all fair. (I took a close-up picture of them to make sure both the rating and the description would be unbiased, how thorough am I?)
4) If you could have a movie written about you whether it be fantasy or reality would you play yourself or have somebody play you? What would the movie be called and if you hired an actor, who would it be?
That's a tough one. I always wanted to be an actress. One of those good ones who's not too well-known so I would enjoy my privacy while earning a living from my acting. I did a lot of stage acting and then I realised I would never earn a living from it. So would I grab the one chance that is offered me to act and show the world what I can do or would I decide against it in a show of modesty quite unlike me really? I don't know. I think I'd go for somebody else, just for the thrill of seeing someone be me. Although if they do get an Academy Award™ for their performance, they'd better have me on stage with them as I'll have a few people to thank too. The movie could be called "She dreams a little". And, in keeping with the title, Katharine or Audrey Hepburn would have been just fine. As they're not available due to irreconcilable agendas, I guess the casting director will have a little bit extra work.
5) What is your favorite vacation spot? And who would you like to take with you there... tomorrow?
I don't have a favourite vacation spot, can I change to ideal? I'll take that as a yes.
Tomorrow, my ideal vacation spot would be somewhere sunny where there's nothing to do except make love to the sun all day long. I need that badly, so badly in fact that I'm seriously contemplating the purchase of some self-tan lotion. Of course, tomorrow I'm also flying to Scotland for a week's holiday. Which goes to prove nothing really, but I just thought I'd clear that right out. My boyfriend would be a great complement. A boyfriend. Some guy I just met. Whatever. I'm obviously meeting girlfriends in Edinburgh. (That "she dreams a little" title? I think I have a point.)
My ideal vacation though, if there was time to plan it, would be - still with El Hombre - to revisit the places where I have lived. I would really love to go back to Algeria and Cameroon, to see what's become of some of the places and show him where it is I grew up. But I swear I'm not obsessed.
The Official Interview Game Rules:
1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying "interview me."
2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different.
3. You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
1) The most incredible sound you have ever heard. Where were you and how did it make you feel? Please describe it (make note to use the word "lusty").
I'm not sure if you mean the most incredible sound that made me feel lusty? (See there, use of lusty? Check.)
There are so many! It depends if it's an incredible sound in a nice way. If it is, my niece laughing, when she was a baby. She'd laugh in the abandoned, completely uncontrolled way that babies have, going up and down the scales in random fashion but always melodically, that you just need to hear to know that at that precise moment, they're blissfully happy.
If it's incredible in a scary or depressing way, a plane flying low. That scares me witless. The sound of it, growing in intensity as it grows in volume (not sure you get the nuance, there, but I do: volume's pretty straightforward, intensity in Anne-speak is how it goes through you, the feeling you have that you're hearing it through your brain or chest, or stomach), that all-filling, eardrum-shattering air-piercing and engine noise, that has me whimpering like a dog in a storm. Quite literally actually, as I could go so far as to hide under a table.
I guess the oddest thing though was once, when I was at my parents' house, watching TV on my own late at night. All of a sudden, a baby wailed. Right outside the door of the house, which is up a flight of stairs. My heart stopped. I mean that. I went to check, thinking shitohshitohshit I'm a mother and I didn't even know it. It was a bloody cat in heat.
2) Do you like beets?
God no. Well, I say god no, but if I have to eat them, I will. There is one recipe that my mum makes that I can bear. Beet and boiled potatoes salad, and sometimes she'll add cornichons. That's... edible.
3) On a scale from one to ten, rate your nostrils. And then tell why.
I don't like my nose, but I don't think it's horrible. So it would probably get a 5 or a 6. My nostrils would get 7, I think. They have the courtesy of being symmetric, they're both of the same size, not too big (you can't really see what's in them, which is nice), not too small (I can breathe through them no problems, which is nice also). I'd like them to be a little bit more defined, more "aristocratic" if you will. As it were, they're a tad too proletarian. But hey, so am I, so I guess it's all fair. (I took a close-up picture of them to make sure both the rating and the description would be unbiased, how thorough am I?)
4) If you could have a movie written about you whether it be fantasy or reality would you play yourself or have somebody play you? What would the movie be called and if you hired an actor, who would it be?
That's a tough one. I always wanted to be an actress. One of those good ones who's not too well-known so I would enjoy my privacy while earning a living from my acting. I did a lot of stage acting and then I realised I would never earn a living from it. So would I grab the one chance that is offered me to act and show the world what I can do or would I decide against it in a show of modesty quite unlike me really? I don't know. I think I'd go for somebody else, just for the thrill of seeing someone be me. Although if they do get an Academy Award™ for their performance, they'd better have me on stage with them as I'll have a few people to thank too. The movie could be called "She dreams a little". And, in keeping with the title, Katharine or Audrey Hepburn would have been just fine. As they're not available due to irreconcilable agendas, I guess the casting director will have a little bit extra work.
5) What is your favorite vacation spot? And who would you like to take with you there... tomorrow?
I don't have a favourite vacation spot, can I change to ideal? I'll take that as a yes.
Tomorrow, my ideal vacation spot would be somewhere sunny where there's nothing to do except make love to the sun all day long. I need that badly, so badly in fact that I'm seriously contemplating the purchase of some self-tan lotion. Of course, tomorrow I'm also flying to Scotland for a week's holiday. Which goes to prove nothing really, but I just thought I'd clear that right out. My boyfriend would be a great complement. A boyfriend. Some guy I just met. Whatever. I'm obviously meeting girlfriends in Edinburgh. (That "she dreams a little" title? I think I have a point.)
My ideal vacation though, if there was time to plan it, would be - still with El Hombre - to revisit the places where I have lived. I would really love to go back to Algeria and Cameroon, to see what's become of some of the places and show him where it is I grew up. But I swear I'm not obsessed.
The Official Interview Game Rules:
1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying "interview me."
2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different.
3. You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
14 mai 2005
Untitled
This is an attempt at fiction. I did that because jenn see first said that I should write something, "dammit" and then she went and posted these pictures on one of her sites. I'm not sure I should actually post this, but considering the hairdresser this morning ruined my head (and I'm not exaggerating), I figure my street cred is past blown now.
Eric had always thought that Italo Calvino's The baron in the trees was a masterpiece. Ever since he'd read that book, he'd been in awe of that kid who'd thrown it all away, on a whim, a tantrum really, and then had stuck it. That's what he, Eric, missed. Resolve. Iron will and willpower that said "you may laugh, but I'll show you. And you'll be sorry". But he was weak. He liked self-indulgence. Anything that required the pseudo-sacrifice of his freedom to choose, anything that necessitated a show of consistency, well he was bound to tire of it and give it up altogether. That's why once he'd started smoking, he'd never stopped, that's why even though he was really good at track and field, he'd never actually competed, that's why he had never fully lived up to his potential, which his mum went so far as to say he'd flushed, pure and simple.
The thing is, he just didn't expect it to be done to him. So when Rose had finally snapped that life with him was "so not what I'd dreamt about. I fucking deserve more than someone who will always, always, always choose his peace of mind over his satisfaction, never mind mine or someone else's. I've had it Eric, it was nice for about 5 minutes, then it was stale, now it's just plain mouldy", well, it had come as a bit of a shock.
Not that he'd tried to plea with her. Too much hassle, you understand.
And then one day, walking around Rutgers Gardens, he stopped at the saucer magnolia. Couldn't that be his tree? Couldn't that be the place where he told the world "See? I chose something, and then I stuck with it." So he climbed it. Climbing a tree, which he hadn't done in aeons, reminded him of his childhood. Of the times when he actually cared about stuff which, even though it might not have been the most important stuff to many grown-ups, to him meant a lot. Maybe seeing all his interests derided and belittled by too many self-important adults had turned him into the mental slob he was now.
At the top, he could see forever. For old times' sake, and makeshift revenge, he gave the world a little slap on the wrist.
He jumped.
Eric had always thought that Italo Calvino's The baron in the trees was a masterpiece. Ever since he'd read that book, he'd been in awe of that kid who'd thrown it all away, on a whim, a tantrum really, and then had stuck it. That's what he, Eric, missed. Resolve. Iron will and willpower that said "you may laugh, but I'll show you. And you'll be sorry". But he was weak. He liked self-indulgence. Anything that required the pseudo-sacrifice of his freedom to choose, anything that necessitated a show of consistency, well he was bound to tire of it and give it up altogether. That's why once he'd started smoking, he'd never stopped, that's why even though he was really good at track and field, he'd never actually competed, that's why he had never fully lived up to his potential, which his mum went so far as to say he'd flushed, pure and simple.
The thing is, he just didn't expect it to be done to him. So when Rose had finally snapped that life with him was "so not what I'd dreamt about. I fucking deserve more than someone who will always, always, always choose his peace of mind over his satisfaction, never mind mine or someone else's. I've had it Eric, it was nice for about 5 minutes, then it was stale, now it's just plain mouldy", well, it had come as a bit of a shock.
Not that he'd tried to plea with her. Too much hassle, you understand.
And then one day, walking around Rutgers Gardens, he stopped at the saucer magnolia. Couldn't that be his tree? Couldn't that be the place where he told the world "See? I chose something, and then I stuck with it." So he climbed it. Climbing a tree, which he hadn't done in aeons, reminded him of his childhood. Of the times when he actually cared about stuff which, even though it might not have been the most important stuff to many grown-ups, to him meant a lot. Maybe seeing all his interests derided and belittled by too many self-important adults had turned him into the mental slob he was now.
At the top, he could see forever. For old times' sake, and makeshift revenge, he gave the world a little slap on the wrist.
He jumped.
13 mai 2005
Anne vs. Jason
This title cracks me up. I'm my most understanding audience.
For me, Friday the 13th means good luck, not that I'm particularly superstitious (well, I am, in a silly girly way, not - for a change - like a screaming nutter). So in a couple hours, I'll be playing French Loto, because (I've been saying this for ever now, won't somebody take my CV?) I'm without a job tonight, and I'll need unlimited funds to support my unbelievably high standards. And 15 million euros, well, it's a start, innit?
So, are you spending today locked up at home, for fear that something bad might happen, or are you out trying to seize all the opportunities that today of all days might have to offer?
For me, Friday the 13th means good luck, not that I'm particularly superstitious (well, I am, in a silly girly way, not - for a change - like a screaming nutter). So in a couple hours, I'll be playing French Loto, because (I've been saying this for ever now, won't somebody take my CV?) I'm without a job tonight, and I'll need unlimited funds to support my unbelievably high standards. And 15 million euros, well, it's a start, innit?
So, are you spending today locked up at home, for fear that something bad might happen, or are you out trying to seize all the opportunities that today of all days might have to offer?
12 mai 2005
11 mai 2005
Once upon a time...
... there was a wonderful princess and writer, whose birthday it was that very day.
You hop on over and wish her a wonderful day and lots of other very wonderful things, or else.
Scoot!
You hop on over and wish her a wonderful day and lots of other very wonderful things, or else.
Scoot!
Million dollar man
Just seen Million dollar baby.
Suffice it to say that a/ I'm not taking up boxing anytime soon; b/ it started when I was five or six, he's 75 in three weeks, but I still loooooooove him; and c/ thank god I'd thought of taking tissues.
Suffice it to say that a/ I'm not taking up boxing anytime soon; b/ it started when I was five or six, he's 75 in three weeks, but I still loooooooove him; and c/ thank god I'd thought of taking tissues.
10 mai 2005
First time's a charm
I met my first blogger on Saturday. Brenda was holidaying in Paris for a couple weeks, and we managed to meet just before she left. She was here with her mum, so I prepped myself to be nice and polite and not smoke, and then I met them, and it just wasn't an effort at all. They are lovely and I'm all chuffed we managed to meet.
She was the first, so I might have been a little gauche, and you ask her how it really went from her point of view, but if you're ever in Paris and I'm still around (more on that at some point), I'd be happy to go for a drink. Especially now that we stumbled upon this lovely little tea shop (worry not, if you're looking for alcohol, I also have a few addresses up my sleeve). But don't expect me to play tour guide: she'll tell you, I'm useless; in fact, I got lost on my way back. Kidding you not.
This might be the exact reason why I started this blog thing. Being French, living in France, with French-speaking French friends, I really wanted to move back to an English-speaking environment. I still do, but the wanting is less difficult to bear now that I get to "speak", read and live in English vicariously through you lot.
So I really want to thank you all for popping over here every once in a while and commenting (and yes, that extends to all of you people who apparently come here regularly but never comment, because much as I would love to know who you are, I also thrive on the attention...), and enabling me to have pseudo (or not)-conversations in English.
To be completely honest, and I am NOT fishing for compliments, I don't quite understand what it is that draws you here (as we've already ascertained that I do not, in fact, ride scooters in a thong so you are never getting a picture of this), but I quite like the fact that I have some sort of pen-pals the world over.
That's it for the naff, Melanie-Hamilton-when-she-was-9 kind of post. Normal, nasty service will be resumed as soon as I get normal, nasty access to a computer and inspiration deigns paying me a visit. Well... "I can't think about that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow".
She was the first, so I might have been a little gauche, and you ask her how it really went from her point of view, but if you're ever in Paris and I'm still around (more on that at some point), I'd be happy to go for a drink. Especially now that we stumbled upon this lovely little tea shop (worry not, if you're looking for alcohol, I also have a few addresses up my sleeve). But don't expect me to play tour guide: she'll tell you, I'm useless; in fact, I got lost on my way back. Kidding you not.
This might be the exact reason why I started this blog thing. Being French, living in France, with French-speaking French friends, I really wanted to move back to an English-speaking environment. I still do, but the wanting is less difficult to bear now that I get to "speak", read and live in English vicariously through you lot.
So I really want to thank you all for popping over here every once in a while and commenting (and yes, that extends to all of you people who apparently come here regularly but never comment, because much as I would love to know who you are, I also thrive on the attention...), and enabling me to have pseudo (or not)-conversations in English.
To be completely honest, and I am NOT fishing for compliments, I don't quite understand what it is that draws you here (as we've already ascertained that I do not, in fact, ride scooters in a thong so you are never getting a picture of this), but I quite like the fact that I have some sort of pen-pals the world over.
That's it for the naff, Melanie-Hamilton-when-she-was-9 kind of post. Normal, nasty service will be resumed as soon as I get normal, nasty access to a computer and inspiration deigns paying me a visit. Well... "I can't think about that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow".
09 mai 2005
Osamanne
Please excuse this lame title, but I'm pissed off.
My eBay account, which I opened yesterday, was suspended overnight. For fucking safety reasons. I was trying to buy a present. Can anybody tell me what in a comedian's DVD poses a threat to security?
It was my first go on it. I don't think I'm going back. Not that I'm allowed to anyway, being the great public enemy that I now am.
I've replied to the e-mail asking for details. I can't believe this.
Oh and I had another e-mail saying that my bid was cancelled. Wankers.
Anyway. I won't have access to a computer for the better part of today - don't complain, because I might not even have access to a chair. Let that not deter you from posting lots of interesting posts that I will be reading with great interest in the evening.
I'm off to deal arms now.
My eBay account, which I opened yesterday, was suspended overnight. For fucking safety reasons. I was trying to buy a present. Can anybody tell me what in a comedian's DVD poses a threat to security?
It was my first go on it. I don't think I'm going back. Not that I'm allowed to anyway, being the great public enemy that I now am.
Nous avons le regret de vous informer que votre compte d'eBay a été suspendu pour des raisons de sécurité.The jist of this is I am made to feel like a potential terrorist, as I might cause a financial loss (my bid was $12) or implicate (?) eBay's responsibility. So I'm not allowed to use eBay in any way (and they do say it twice) - but I'm supposed to pay all fees when applicable.
En effet, comme indiqué dans le paragraphe 9 de notre charte, nous pouvons envoyer un avertissement, suspendre temporairement ou indéfiniment le compte d'un membre si nous pensons que l'activité de celui-ci peut causer une perte financière ou engager notre responsabilité légale, la votre ou celle de nos utilisateurs.
Nous pouvons également appliquer cette sanction si nous sommes incapables de vérifier ou d'authentifier n'importe quelle information vous concernant.
Sachez que vous n'êtes pas autorisé à utiliser le site de quelque manière que ce soit, et ce pendant toute la durée de cette suspension.
Veuillez noter que la suspension de votre compte vous interdit d'utiliser eBay de quelque façon que ce soit. Cela inclut l'ouverture d'un nouveau compte.
Une telle suspension ne vous dispense pas du paiement de toutes les commissions dues à eBay.
Nous vous remercions de votre compréhension.
Cordialement,
L'équipe d'eBay
I've replied to the e-mail asking for details. I can't believe this.
Oh and I had another e-mail saying that my bid was cancelled. Wankers.
Anyway. I won't have access to a computer for the better part of today - don't complain, because I might not even have access to a chair. Let that not deter you from posting lots of interesting posts that I will be reading with great interest in the evening.
I'm off to deal arms now.
06 mai 2005
Story crossing, episode 8
The banzai cat at The Grin Without a Cat has posted a new instalment, with more new characters, which Lucretia has added to her Story Crossing blog.
Who's next? I'm wanting to name names here...
Who's next? I'm wanting to name names here...
My brains are in tatters
It seems the pressure of seeing the new girl want to absorb the entire contents of my head, combined with the fact that I can't post and/or comment as I really want, has taken its toll on whatever inspiration I might have had to begin with. What you see right now is an oh-so-lame attempt at filling blank space. So I thought, well, why not talk birthdays and anniversaries. Plenty of those around today.
So.
Happy birthday, Tony. Heck of a present you got, too. We call that a cadeau empoisonné.
Happy anniversary, Jacques. 10 years this week-end. Wow. Who'd have thought, huh?
Happy anniversary, Jean-Pierre. 3 years in power, and all you got was free-falling ratings and a lousy tee-shirt.
Happy birthday, George. Yummy as ever.
And a really happy 60th, armistice. You've never looked so young.
In me-me-me news, I've been out every single night this week. I'm exhausted. I might have me a little nap later in the day.
Went to the cinema yesterday evening, to see De battre mon coeur s'est arrêté, apparently based on Fingers. 'Tis very good, even though I'm not a fan of Romain Duris.
And, on the way to the movies, I almost exposed way too much of me. Background picture. Yesterday, I met a friend in the afternoon. Wearing a flimsy skirt and flip-flops. It was kind of cold, so I decided to quickly go back home and get some proper shoes and a jacket before going to the picture. As I was waiting for the bus, I called one of the friends I was meeting to let them know I might be leetle late. She said it was fine, she was just out of her flat and she could pick me up with the scooter.
"Well, I'm wearing a skirt... D'you reckon I'd be all right?"
"You know, everything's OK with me. You can wear nothing but a thong if that's what makes you tick. Might be a little cold though."
My friends are this: aces.
(and yes, I did steal that line from the Duck)
So.
Happy birthday, Tony. Heck of a present you got, too. We call that a cadeau empoisonné.
Happy anniversary, Jacques. 10 years this week-end. Wow. Who'd have thought, huh?
Happy anniversary, Jean-Pierre. 3 years in power, and all you got was free-falling ratings and a lousy tee-shirt.
Happy birthday, George. Yummy as ever.
And a really happy 60th, armistice. You've never looked so young.
In me-me-me news, I've been out every single night this week. I'm exhausted. I might have me a little nap later in the day.
Went to the cinema yesterday evening, to see De battre mon coeur s'est arrêté, apparently based on Fingers. 'Tis very good, even though I'm not a fan of Romain Duris.
And, on the way to the movies, I almost exposed way too much of me. Background picture. Yesterday, I met a friend in the afternoon. Wearing a flimsy skirt and flip-flops. It was kind of cold, so I decided to quickly go back home and get some proper shoes and a jacket before going to the picture. As I was waiting for the bus, I called one of the friends I was meeting to let them know I might be leetle late. She said it was fine, she was just out of her flat and she could pick me up with the scooter.
"Well, I'm wearing a skirt... D'you reckon I'd be all right?"
"You know, everything's OK with me. You can wear nothing but a thong if that's what makes you tick. Might be a little cold though."
My friends are this: aces.
(and yes, I did steal that line from the Duck)
04 mai 2005
Withdrawal symptoms
Sheesh! I haven't been able to post for... one whole day. How did you cope? I know I hardly did.
All that because there's a new new-girl. If you don't know, I'm leaving my job in a couple weeks, give or take... a couple weeks. So somebody new is taking over. Most of my time, that's what she's taking over.
Anyway. I have a bit of time now, so let's use it, shall we?
To be honest, there wasn't much to be blogging home about yesterday*, until the moment I finally decided I'd had enough and was calling it a day. Packed my stuff, said goodbye to everyone, opened the door to my evening of freedom. Stopped dead.
Smoke. Smell of burning.
Shit. I'm going to die in the workplace, a workplace I intend to leave soon, and I'm not even married.
Close the door with me still on the inside of it. Tell everyone in the office there might be a little bit of a fire.
Cue a little bit of emotion. No tears, no panic, mind. Just "Ooh, shall we call the firemen, then?" with much trepidation and quavering.
Well. I smelled the fire. It's only natural that I should call the firemen, no?
So I do. Dial the much-fantasised-about 18. Listen to the disc (a disc! you call the firemen because you're about to die single and they play a disc!) and get through to a very helpful guy. Tell him what's what. They're on their way. Yay! (oh come on, there are a few lives at stake here, it's not all about men in uniforms. Hmmm.)
We open the door again, just to check that the building hasn't turned into The towering inferno yet.
There is a cigarette. Smouldering in an ashtray. That just might be the point of origin. Of the smoke.
Shit. Again.
So I call again. Because we can't be sure. They're on their way anyway, just to check. They. Are on. Their way. Three trucks, full of hunky Paris firemen.
But now I'm feeling guilty. There are three of us smokers in the office. That cigarette might well be mine. So really there's no pleasure watching them mill around. Just the guilt.
Shit.
* That's a crock if I ever heard one.
First, I took a tumble down a flight of stairs. Calm down, woman! I'm still alive.
Then, we got caught in the second tropical rain-storm in Paris in a week, and we ran like you'd have been proud of. Yes, that sentence displays a striking lack of grammar, but hey, when you can boast a mixed-gender, all white, and rainy remake of "Bad Boys", do you care about grammar? I didn't think so.
Third, my niece called me and told me she loved me. No, not in so many words. What she said was "Yay! Mum says we're spending a week's holiday in Paris with you in August! I get to go to EuroDisney again!" But I understood the sentiment without her having to actually say it because she's modest that way.
All that because there's a new new-girl. If you don't know, I'm leaving my job in a couple weeks, give or take... a couple weeks. So somebody new is taking over. Most of my time, that's what she's taking over.
Anyway. I have a bit of time now, so let's use it, shall we?
To be honest, there wasn't much to be blogging home about yesterday*, until the moment I finally decided I'd had enough and was calling it a day. Packed my stuff, said goodbye to everyone, opened the door to my evening of freedom. Stopped dead.
Smoke. Smell of burning.
Shit. I'm going to die in the workplace, a workplace I intend to leave soon, and I'm not even married.
Close the door with me still on the inside of it. Tell everyone in the office there might be a little bit of a fire.
Cue a little bit of emotion. No tears, no panic, mind. Just "Ooh, shall we call the firemen, then?" with much trepidation and quavering.
Well. I smelled the fire. It's only natural that I should call the firemen, no?
So I do. Dial the much-fantasised-about 18. Listen to the disc (a disc! you call the firemen because you're about to die single and they play a disc!) and get through to a very helpful guy. Tell him what's what. They're on their way. Yay! (oh come on, there are a few lives at stake here, it's not all about men in uniforms. Hmmm.)
We open the door again, just to check that the building hasn't turned into The towering inferno yet.
There is a cigarette. Smouldering in an ashtray. That just might be the point of origin. Of the smoke.
Shit. Again.
So I call again. Because we can't be sure. They're on their way anyway, just to check. They. Are on. Their way. Three trucks, full of hunky Paris firemen.
But now I'm feeling guilty. There are three of us smokers in the office. That cigarette might well be mine. So really there's no pleasure watching them mill around. Just the guilt.
Shit.
* That's a crock if I ever heard one.
First, I took a tumble down a flight of stairs. Calm down, woman! I'm still alive.
Then, we got caught in the second tropical rain-storm in Paris in a week, and we ran like you'd have been proud of. Yes, that sentence displays a striking lack of grammar, but hey, when you can boast a mixed-gender, all white, and rainy remake of "Bad Boys", do you care about grammar? I didn't think so.
Third, my niece called me and told me she loved me. No, not in so many words. What she said was "Yay! Mum says we're spending a week's holiday in Paris with you in August! I get to go to EuroDisney again!" But I understood the sentiment without her having to actually say it because she's modest that way.
03 mai 2005
I ain't no coward
I woke up to the sound of the rain during the night.
And then I heard whispers. In my flat.
I live alone.
That was kind of scary.
But I got up and investigated.
In my nightie.
I'm still wondering what exactly I could have done if there had been somebody in here with me.
That would have been fun.
And then I heard whispers. In my flat.
I live alone.
That was kind of scary.
But I got up and investigated.
In my nightie.
I'm still wondering what exactly I could have done if there had been somebody in here with me.
That would have been fun.
01 mai 2005
Unrequited love
It's mating season among pigeons too, you know.
I spent the afternoon with a friend, lolling on a terrasse and walking about, enjoying the sun... whatever you do on a Sunday in the city.
We were looking for a(nother) much-deserved break from all this strolling around, and we happened upon a little park where benches were free of any behinds. And in Paris, benches are a much sought-after commodity, especially on a Sunday when the sun is most definitely out and the weather is summer-like. Anyway, we parked our butts to enjoy this lovely lovely glace we'd just bought from this lovely lovely place (for those of you who live in Paris and those of you who want to visit, it's Cacao et Chocolat, in the 6th) and we watched male pigeons courting female pigeons. This is not a parable. We really did look closely at how pigeons go about pulling.
Well, it's not much different from us after all. They'll inflate their pecs. They'll prance around. They'll stalk. They won't take no for an answer. And then, when the female finally decides that oh, what the feck, maybe they are nice and do have a great personality when better known, they'll pretend they're not interested and play hard to get.
It's sweet to see that really, boys will be boys.
I spent the afternoon with a friend, lolling on a terrasse and walking about, enjoying the sun... whatever you do on a Sunday in the city.
We were looking for a(nother) much-deserved break from all this strolling around, and we happened upon a little park where benches were free of any behinds. And in Paris, benches are a much sought-after commodity, especially on a Sunday when the sun is most definitely out and the weather is summer-like. Anyway, we parked our butts to enjoy this lovely lovely glace we'd just bought from this lovely lovely place (for those of you who live in Paris and those of you who want to visit, it's Cacao et Chocolat, in the 6th) and we watched male pigeons courting female pigeons. This is not a parable. We really did look closely at how pigeons go about pulling.
Well, it's not much different from us after all. They'll inflate their pecs. They'll prance around. They'll stalk. They won't take no for an answer. And then, when the female finally decides that oh, what the feck, maybe they are nice and do have a great personality when better known, they'll pretend they're not interested and play hard to get.
It's sweet to see that really, boys will be boys.
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