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.

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.

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!

Gloating

Gloating, I tell you.

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?

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.

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?

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.

Photo album: friends, alcohol, sport, culture - all the right ingredients of a successful holiday (and some good weather too!)

Wish you were here...! I'm having a fab time despite the weather... axxx 

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...

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.

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.

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.

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?

Help!

I got nothing.

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!

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.

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".

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.

Nous avons le regret de vous informer que votre compte d'eBay a été suspendu pour des raisons de sécurité.
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

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.
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.

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...

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)

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.

Forgotten (time) Machine

It's his birthday today, so you could, like, go and wish him a happy birthday, if you were nice.
Couldn't you?
And then, while you're there, you could probably read all the beautiful stuff he writes and ask him to write more?

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.

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.