Can you believe that?

I've been tagged for a literary meme, by Jason, over at Clarity of Night. Let's get this done, shall we?

1. Take the first five novels from your bookshelf.
2. Book 1 -- first sentence.
3. Book 2 -- last sentence on page 50.
4. Book 3 -- second sentence on page 100.
5. Book 4 -- next to the last sentence on page 150.
6. Book 5 -- final sentence of the book.
7. Make the five sentences into a paragraph.
8. Feel free to "cheat" to make it a better paragraph.
9. Name your sources.
10.Post to your blog.

Of course I'm arranging the rules to suit my fancy. My books are sorted alphabetically, which means that among my first five books are books in French, which is not going to help me or you. So... Not that long ago, I recommended several books, I'm using 5 of those now. I did change the tenses a bit so that the sentences would kind of suit each other, but asked for forgiveness beforehand, and that's really the only tweaking I did.

The library is cool and smells like carpet cleaner, although all I can see is marble.
Slater, affecting boredom, is waving to the witnesses. He believes my killer will be caught. This ghost has been summoned not by Lolita imitating Hermione, or the inscrutable twins disappearing into the night. That much I know.

Cast, in order of appearance:
The Time Traveler's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
My Life as a Fake - Peter Carey
The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
Atonement - Ian McEwan
Love Me - Garrison Keillor

You wanna play, tag yourselves in the comments, okay?

Hmpf

See, I'm in a bit of puddle (I had to think about this, as I always always always want to say "poodle", and I don't think I can cope with the hate-mail).
Life is kind of pretty good to me these days. I don't want to jinx myself, but it kinda is. All financial trouble aside, which I brought onto myself anyway, all singleness aside, which I suspect those three assholes in their car last week would say I brought onto myself as well: one of them digged me after all, this might have been my chance!, all looking-for-a-job-in-another-country-not-working-out situation aside - oh yes, you might not be aware of that, but a hospital (I've obviously been applying left, right and center) out in Middle of Nowhere, USA, is currently reviewing my criminal record; however, I've been strongly advised not to take the job should I be offered it: it is the US, granted, but Middle of Nowhere does not have any appeal whatsoever; all that aside, then, I'm generally feeling pretty good.
My problem is, I can't write* when I feel good. And quite rightly, too! Nothing to rant and rave about, nothing to scream obnoxiously in silence about (yeah, I'll let you ponder this one), no names to call anyone... No wonder, really.
Sure I could talk about the fact that I've been having several bad hair days in a row and that, honestly, it's getting quite tiresome, but that's hardly my nails and knuckles, is it? And I've done that already. Or I could post an untimely rant about buses and metros that's been sitting in my drafts for ever, but I don't even know why I'm keeping it, it's that bad.
So should I decide to be happy-ish (first, I really don't want to jinx myself, and second, come on, if I actually said I was happy, I'd probably get struck by lightning, but, having decided once and for all that I'm not dying before I'm married**, I am not taking any chances...), which would lead to my abandoning this here site and the umpteen stories that I've started and not finished? Or should I go for the doomed wannabe writer attitude, shuffling forlornly while lamenting the unfairness of it all?
I'm not asking for suggestions for (un)happiness, by the way. Just vocalizing my puddle. And yes, I'll let you ponder this one too.

* Yes, OK, I am physically able to write, but I'm putting even myself to sleep.
**Re-reading this, I realise I might have stumbled upon the secret of eternal life...

Goodness, you're all so literal...

I wasn't really drunk or hungover (shhh, my workmates* might be reading...!), I was a bit tired, is all. From all that hard work I've been doing these past couple days. Is all. Really. Honestly. I mean, you trust me, right**?
Well, I'm glad we cleared that right up.
Because... I have a bit of an announcement to make. A bit. Nothing major. But still. (And yes I have decided to speak in fragments today. Because. I. Can.)
OK. So. If you remember, a while past, I mentioned a new site, called Voice of a city, a new "collective" blog written by people in Paris for English-speaking people who might want to visit but haven't yet booked their ticket and are looking for added incentive (ooh, proper sentence). No, I'm not the added incentive, hold your horses right there, bucko. But. I'm in! Yes, I'm tooting my own horn, so what?! I.Am.In!
OK, you're dying for a url, now, right? No can do, I'm afraid. I know. This is mental torture at its best, and it shouldn't be allowed, and someone call the police. But it's. Not. My fault. (What, you thought I had dropped the fragments? My, you just don't know me at all, do you?) We're still in the Beta testing phase (I love the techie talk, it's like I've been using it my whole life, no?) so not just now. But you know what they say. The longer the wait, the better the date. Or. Something...

On the other hand, I could also tell you about that so-called horror movie I'm watching right now. And that, believe you me, would definitely qualify as torture. Thomas Calabro. Surely that's enough torture right there? Oh, OK. Well, in that case. They Nest. You asked. So bad. Sooooo bad. Oh my god. So bad. They paid people to do that movie. So bad.

* Nah, don't worry, only the good ones do. Hi! Oh. Boss. Hi...
** What do you mean, no??

I think I might be in denial

Drunk on a school night, nice.
Hungover on a school morning, not so.
Coffee, lots.
Metro, arrrgh.
Work, oh pooh.
Music, mmmm, nice.

Ouh la la

Today is my first day at work.
I know. Scary, isn't it?
It's OK, it's only for 3 weeks, but it still means I have to be up and productively active straight away (well...) instead of faffing about for a couple hours after falling from bed as I've been doing so far. I still faf about, it wouldn't be a workweek morning if I didn't, just less. But it's hard.
I don't know how I'll handle the rush hour people on the metro, maybe I'll turn into the commuter from hell due to lack of practice? Retrospectively, the metro ride was smooth. People don't look happy though.
I don't know how I'll handle having coworkers again, should I ask them if they want a coffee or bark at them to go get me one? Retrospectively, I was asked if I wanted one. Twice. I think they remember me well.
The good thing is I know everyone in the office.
The bad thing is I know everyone in the office.
Och well, we'll see. If you don't hear from me again within the week, you'll know that I was driven crazy by structure and organisation. I got used to not having either very quickly. And now of course it's hard to get used to having either again.

Culture!

Every now and again, I have to do this, i.e. write a completely useless (not to say bad) review of something very cultural that I have attended.
Today, I give you... Richard III. Yes, I spent a whole afternoon in a very crowded theatre, watching Billy Boy's tragedy, sitting elbow to elbow with Claudia Cardinale, to whom I totally forgot to mention that I was completely available these days, should she need a younger version of herself for a biopic of some sort. Oh well.
OK, so I'm not a younger version of Claudia Cardinale, I am just living in my own little Murano glass bubble. And?
It doesn't change the fact that Richard III as directed by Philippe Calvario is really brilliant, even despite the "slight" liberties that said Calvario has taken with the costumes (Japanese samurai kimonos, stunning, and other more controversial stuff, to me anyway) and even with the text sometimes (which had me in all sorts of befuddlement as I wondered what exactly the point was of changing a word, or adding a lame French cultural reference), but I hear it's very in, this.
Also, the soundtrack was really... interesting. Yes, a soundtrack. I know. I was surprised too. But once it started, I really couldn't dispute the legitimacy of Marilyn Manson's cover of Sweet Dreams. Or of the drums intro of Queen's We Will Rock You.
Acting was flawless (mostly, anyway), and even though I'm not a big fan of Philippe Torreton, I have to admit that his Richard was impressive. Oh, OK, let me a bit particular. "My kingdom for a horse" might have been said better, but one line, who am I to say anything? Nobody, apparently, that's who, because the friend to whom I spoke my mind in no uncertain terms afterwards (judge by yourselves: "I thought his rendition of "My kingdom for a horse" was a bit lame." I don't mince my words, right? Oh dear, I hope nobody overheard) had in fact found it sounded very true. Oh well.
In any case, they'll soon be on tour across France, so if you have 3 hours and 40 minutes (...) that you just don't know what to do with, I suggest you go and seat yourself in a red plush seat and take a long look at the evil that power hunger can bring.
If you're not in France, well, I don't know, go watch Wallace and Gromit in the Curse of the Were-Rabbit. That's very very good too.

Homework

Now you people are just doing this to me. Tagging. Meme tagging. This time, it's Flare and the Five Thing Meme, where you're meant to say 5 random things about yourself.
Here goes, then.
1. I was a politics freak when I was 7. I loved everything politics. I loved to listen to politicians, I loved that I could recognise them and remember their names, I loved that I could understand about 1% of what they were saying, I don't know. I just really liked politics. And then it passed.
2. As of last evening, I've been stalked 5 times in my life. Stalked as in wondering how exactly it's going to finish. Each time as bloody terrifying, although flattering in a "listen, I really appreciate that you or your buddy find me to your liking, but really, it's late, I'm walking alone on a not so populated street, and I'm pretty sure that if you attempt anything, I will have to hurt you. Hopefully I'll manage to anyway. And it will hurt me more than you in the end but it's for your own good, you understand. And stop telling me that you/your pal really dig(s) me, I don't care" way. Fucker. That's two fuckers in one week. Two too many.
3. If I had any real talent, I could be... Bette Midler. I love both acting and singing. OK, so I'd probably turn out to be the less-something-something Jessica Simpson. And believe me, I'm so not trying to flatter myself here.
4. Sometimes I think so much that I can't actually think. Does that make sense?
5. I can bend only the top knuckle on all my fingers. Freaky. Love it. That and the knuckle cracking will ensure that I suffer greatly in my old days, à la James Coburn. That's all right though, I've just made a sentence that contains both James Coburn and me.

You want to tell us random things? Tag yourself in the comments.

A dilemma

Note to my neighbours: listening to a panpipes instrumental version of Celine Dion's My heart will go on will never ever ever be OK around here. Ever. The fact that Celine Dion's voice cannot be heard is definitely a good thing, but don't think it makes it OK, it doesn't.
Plus it's panpipes. Plus it's Titanic. Plus plus plus...
Anyway. So 9:15 yesterday morning, someone in the building or its immediate vicinity had a craving for a panpipes version of My heart will go on and on and on and on. 9:15, people. I'm barely on my fifth cup of coffee, and definitely not ready for that kind of crap yet.
I stayed in and closed the windows. Should I have resorted to violence? I'm only asking because my first reaction would be to say I'm opposed to violence in that case: see, I think violence should be an end in and of itself, not a means to an. If I had used it then, sure I probably would have felt great joy at trashing their sound system or whatever it is you call those big machines that make sound through little pinholes, but the violence cycle would have started as a way to eradicate the sound that was attacking my delicate ears, not because I had a sudden urge to use brute force and make my neighbour cry. So I don't know. What was I supposed to do? What? What?

Pfft

So, we're on to the final phase of the WorldCup and Ireland isn't. Sorry about that, and thank you for keeping Switzerland at bay. Maybe someday we'll repay the favour (I wouldn't hold much hope, though).
Yes, soccer - the Americans among you can now run away screaming -, or football, as it's known around our part of the world, and really there was no reason to change the name. Now, I don't know shit about football, and I'm about to show it rather gloriously. But nature abhors a vacuum, and I have bugger all else to talk about, plus I have two football-related pet peeves.
First. I like Domenech, I really do. Everybody in France has been slagging him off, but I stick by my opinion: I like the guy, and I certainly hope that he'll show all the nay-sayers wrong. The whole thing reminds me of 1998, in fact, when the whole country (except me, of course) had united against Aimé Jacquet. Then we won and all was forgiven/forgotten. I'm wondering if the journos and football fans aren't doing it to Domenech for good luck now, after the 2002 fiasco.
Second. Zidane. He's a brilliant player, of course he is, but come on. Nobody seems to see just how blatantly wrong it is that he's become so indispensable. You can't depend on just the one player, people, it's a team sport! Granted, he's the team leader, but he's 33! If you made me run on a field for 90 minutes, I'd die wheezing after 90 seconds tops. And I'm only 32!
OK, so maybe that isn't a show of good faith, and yes, he scored first today, but he wasn't particularly convincing against Switzerland, and he's not in great shape these days, and he'll be a year older next year, what do you think he'll be doing? Cheerleading from the sidelines, I bet. And I'll be expecting nasty laughs in my face in June-July if it turns out I was wrong.

Ooh I'm glad I got that off my chest. I'll go back to talking rags and lipsticks now.

I have heroes

Cereologist: One who specialises in investigating crop circles.

I am amazed at human ingenuity. So two clever pensioners think "wey-hey, let's have a bit of fun, shall we, and pretend that aliens have mowed (or whatever) circles in the wheatfields and see how everyone reacts".
Which I think is brilliant on its own, as a prank, as a plot, as anything. Guys, I salute you.

But then somebody came and was even more clever. Somebody saw right through them and said "oo ooh, I'll invent me a new job and pretend that's exactly what I study! Surely, gullible as they are, people will fall for it!"
And now it's today's word on Wordsmith.org.

Some people deserve to rule the world, I tell you.

Open letter

To the fucker who nearly ran me over today,

Dear Mr. Fucker,

When the bus stops right before a crossing, there's usually a good reason, considering Parisian bus drivers are not exactly known for their indolent driving. Now, I understand that due to the bus, you might not have been able to see the light, but I'll give you a hint. If pedestrians are crossing the street in droves right in front of you, if the bus has stopped, and if cars are zooming across said crossing transversally to you, chances are the light is red for you. That's your cue to stop. Not, repeat NOT, to press the bloody gas pedal. Let's have a little practice, you and me. Gas - right; brakes - middle. Got that? Gas - right. Brakes - middle.
The fact that you cannot see that the light is red will never ever ever mean you're right in the eye of the law or of your insurance company; and I suspect that, considering the car you have, you don't want to increase your premium any.
I am single, childfree, and jobless, and you could almost say I have no real prospects right now, but those are no reasons why I should just be an easy target and stand there to let you drive over my unattached body.
Also, when I almost die of fright because you stop millimeters from me and I look at you disbelievingly, it is not a good idea to try and stare me down. A simple hand up, meaning "sorry, or whatever", would have sufficed. The fact that you tried to stare me down made me want to yank you out of your death machine and shake you until the walls of your brain collapsed. You see, that's the difference between you and me: I thought about it so I didn't have to stop at the last second.

Don't hesitate to contact me should you need any more driving/avoiding-to-kill-people lessons. I can also provide you with a list of driving schools, which I have no doubt would be delighted to have your custom for a while.

Yours sincerely, xoxo, etc.
anne, your almost dead victim

Untitled

Second picture from the top here.

Mark was running. He'd been running for a while now.
He didn't know if running was going to bring him answers, but at least, focusing on his breathing kept him from thinking, and he'd done way too much of that lately. It was time he acted. Of course, action could mean decision, choice, responsibility, and he wasn't sure he was quite up to that yet. Better to run and exhaust himself that way than to think of things he could do, things he wanted to do, but things he was scared shitless of doing.
OK, so maybe running wasn't quite as efficient as he'd hoped in preventing the same train of thought he'd been following since he'd met her. Don't. Think about her.
The road was too easy, that was the problem. Mark suddenly veered into the cornfield on his right. The cornstalks were high, slapping his face as he ran. He had to find a rhythm. Breathe, run, swat the stalks out of his way, breathe, run, swat, breathe, run, swat.
Good, that seemed to be working.

Mark suddenly heard a rumbling noise, and felt the ground vibrating. Shit. Harvest, or something equally annoying. A tractor was apparently coming his way. If the guy on the tractor - hopefully there was a guy on the tractor, otherwise his indecisiveness would seem the least of his trivial worries in a few minutes - spotted him, he could be in a world of trouble. Trespassing or some such. Mark had no idea if private-property laws applied to cornfields by the side of a public road.

"Hey!"
Shit. He just wasn't catching a break, was he? He contemplated continuing to run, pretending he hadn't heard. Then he envisioned his own body in a tractor-trampled mess, stopped running and turned around. The sun was extremely hot, he hadn't realised. He was covered in sweat. Mark shielded his eyes as he looked up to the driver who was approaching at a leisurely speed. Maybe there wouldn't be trouble.
"What do you think you're doing? These are delicate, you know. What if you ruined any?"
"Sorry, sir. I don't think I did, though. I was careful."
"Yeah, sure you were. Running like a maniac across my field, I'm sure you took very good care of my corn. You in trouble?"
"No! Not at all", Mark chuckled "I'm just trying to... escape my thoughts. If that makes sense."
Oh good, now he sounded like a pretentious city boy. That was going to help.
"Yeah well, couldn't you use the wood further up? It's dense, you'd have plenty to swat at. And stop thinking."
Mark looked at the man on the tractor. Seventy-ish, laugh lines, and a very kind look in his eyes.
"Hey, listen, I'm sorry about the corn, if I... broke any, I'll pay. It's just... I'm... Ugh. Sorry. I'll... go now."
"Yeah. Try that, and I'll be seeing you running in circles tomorrow. You're pretty far in, y'know, I doubt you'll find your way back. Hop on."
Mark hesitated a second.
"Oh, come on. Never wanted a ride on a tractor, city boy? I'll drop you at the road. Besides, it gets lonely up here, I could use the company for a while. You tell me what it was that was so appealing about the corn. Earn your wreckage a little bit." The man smiled.
Mark hoisted himself up on the seat. Tight, but comfy. The man let him have a little bit more sitting space.
"Lionel", the man said, extending his hand.
"Oh, um, how do you do, sir, I'm Mark".
Lionel laughed.
They drove in silence for a while. The field was beautiful from above. Like a sea of green leaves and yellow foam. Oh god. He had to stop. Thinking. Ever.
"So. Don't mind me asking, but seeing as you potentially ruined some of my plants there, I sure would like to know what it is you're running away from. Hmmm?"
"Oh, just... this and that, you know. Annoying thoughts. Hey, that "city boy" shot. That stung a little. That obvious?"
Lionel let out great peals of laughter. It was a perfect soundtrack to the whole scene. Oh dear lord, stop thinking!
"Y...", he started laughing again, "yeah... The whole 'running' thing screams city around here. Y'know?"
"No, I don't, actually. I'm just here on a whim. I took the first bus for a week-end-in-the-country thing. Stopped randomly. I don't think I could even tell you where I really am staying."
"You must have stopped at Dyersville, that's the closest from here. Still. Quite a while you've been running, here."
"Yeah. I feel it."
The silence wasn't uncomfortable.
"So, you don't wanna say. That bad?"
"Oh", Mark chuckled self-consciously, "no, it's... really silly actually. Boy meets girl, boy can't get girl out of his head, boy decides to run to stop thinking. Simple."
"Yeah, cause running will definitely help you make the right choices, eh."
"Uh, no, it's just... I don't... Yes. I don't want to make choices. I don't want to take a risk. I don't want to end up biting the dust. Do you often do that?"
"What?"
"Play shrink to people you find running in your field?"
"Yeah. Corn doesn't pay that much, you know. I had to diversify. Psychology is as good a way as any, I guess." Lionel laughed again. "Don't be silly. You're here, you need to talk... You talk, I listen, is all. Here's the road. You wanna keep running away, or you wanna keep an ol' man company?"
"Oh. Oh. Um, I'll be happy to stay. If you don't mind."
"Yeah, I do, but what can I say, I'm all about other people."
They laughed. It felt strangely natural, to be sitting there with a man he'd only just met. Mark knew then he was going to tell him the whole thing. He knew he was going to listen to what the old man had to say. Hell, he knew he wanted to listen. He was so glad he'd taken that bus. He was even gladder he'd hopped off where he had.
Not thinking. Sometimes that was key.

Let us reflect...

... upon the brevity of life, especially for an ashtray that crashes at my place. No pun intended, but it's really rather appropriate considering that it plunged to an untimely death this afternoon, causing an ear-shattering noise and quite a few shards.
I suppose it is only fair that it should go out with a bang, considering I loved it to bits. It was a beautiful glass ashtray, round and smooth.
I'm sad. I might even quit smoking now, but I'm not sure, I have other little ashtrays who need my full attention, even though or especially now that they have lost their more beautiful brother.

Rereading that, I should really stop smoking. I'll probably end up alone, or with cats, lots of cats, same difference, and I'll burn to death in a freak accident involving my friend the bottle of vodka, a lit cigarette and a broken ashtray. I can tell. Unless I'm certified and put away for the good of society, not to mention to avoid harming myself and/or others.

That's a distinct possibility.

Yay for lovely evenings

And pooh for all the cleaning that ensues.
A couple of friends came over for dinner and a movie last night - I'm considering watching the second part of La meglio Gioventu without them, they were so funny. If I ever give you one piece of really useful advice, let it be this one: don't watch a sad-ish drama with funny people because that is bound to be somewhat counterproductive. Lacrymal glands need practice, and tears do not stream down my face when I laugh my ass off. My ass doesn't fall off either, mind you, and more's the pity.
Oh, also, white wine (Californian, mesdames-messieurs, my first foray into America's vineyards), yes. Mead? Not so much. I had an unopened bottle of mead in my fridge, so we decided to try it. Anyone wants a three-quarter full bottle of mead? And no, mead isn't just something out of Harry Potter. But now, I wish it were.
And that translation is still there, lurking and taunting "you'll never finish me, you'll never finish me". No, not before I do the washing-up I won't. But once that's done, I'll be kicking your anorexic and botoxed TV-show ass. Yes, I know - hope, anyway - that asses don't get botoxed, call that... poetic licence.

Or soy sauce? Is soy sauce bad for you?

And this time, I shall mention it straight away, lest I forget to part with that valuable piece of information. I love soy sauce. Probably as much as I love cumin seeds. I might have spontaneously decided today to stop buying salt and use exclusively soy sauce. I'm not completely sure though, because it's hard to know when you're taking such a momentous decision on such short notice, isn't it? I mean, who can tell that it's actually a decision, and not an "ooh, let's taste the wind" moment... ew. Did I mean test? I might have meant test. Rewind. I mean, who can tell that it's actually a decision, and not an "ooh, let's test the wind" moment?
Not me, that's who. Who can say that I won't be craving salt in a couple days, when I'm not even sure if I want short or long nails? That's more manageable as a day-to-day situation, and yet, guess what... I'm lost! I had long nails until this morning. Not Florence Griffith-Joyner long, but you know, girlie long. After a couple repetitive mistypes on the translation from hell (apparently, I make my own hell: I was praised for my thoroughness and told - at the same time! people manage to juggle job-changing decisions in a split second, why can't I choose between salt and soy sauce? Hmmm? - to not bother and go for quick and easy), I decided that it was all the nails' fault and trimmed them. A lot. I feel I have to say a lot, because in my mind, trimmed means a little. Well, no. In that case, it was a lot. And of course there have been as many mistypes since then. And now I miss my nails. And they're going to take for ever to grow back, and we'll be back at square one.
So maybe I should just buy both soy sauce and salt. But it feels like a cop-out.
Or I could say I keep salt for the guests.
Oh yeah, before you go all "but what are you talking about, soy sauce is sweet!", it's the salty soy sauce I like. Sweet, not so much. Well, I do like it, but I'm never sure if I like the salty one better.
Oh god.

When is eating cumin seeds eating too many cumin seeds?

OK, people, I've now finally understood something vital for the rest of my career (heh, I said career), life, happiness. I am blatently disorganised when working from home. You could probably call it a disgrace. I prefer to say it's... not quite well thought out yet. Or ever. Really, I shouldn't be fooling myself here, and I certainly hope I'm not fooling any of you.
See, one of my friends phoned me when I was at my parents'.
Her: "We have this TV show-related thing to translate. Wanna do it? Well. Part of it?"
Me, shrieking down the phone: "Ooh, ooh, do I get to meet him, do I get to meet him?".
Her: "No. Wanna do it?"
Me: "Oh. OK. How many words, what's the deadline?" (Notice how professional I can be? Blink, and you'll miss it.)
Her: "11,000 words, due in 10 days. Don't think it's easy."
Me: "Excellent. And I'm so not thinking it's easy."
Me, inside of my own head, where only my other me's can hear me: "So easy! I'll have done that in no time! Ha ha ha! And the world will be mine! Ah ah ah!"

Oh how the world laughs now. Mainly at me. Also because it turns out it won't have to be putty in my hands, and it's a hysterical, relieved, nervous little chuckle. But mostly at me. And the bugger is loud.

Untitled

Through the bars, Sam could make out a tiny rectangle of gray sky, with a dark blob in the corner. A rain cloud, she figured, considering the tap-tapping noise she had heard continuously for the past two hours. She could have done without the rain. Rainy days had a funny way of bringing her back to her first hours in the US, a full two years before.
She'd been eager, back then. She had barely been able to contain a childish scream of joy when the cabin crew had opened the aircraft door. She was in New York! Who cared that it rained, that the temperature was 53°F., she didn't even know what that was in Celsius - although, judging by the way people were dressed, she should have taken a jacket. Who cared? She'd made it to New York City. The place where she would start over. That was the plan and she fully intended to carry it out. She'd joined the flow of passengers into the terminal, with a tiny apprehensive pinch in the stomach when the police booth came into view. She couldn't stop the apprehension. She'd been waiting for this moment for so long, she'd die on the spot if there was a hitch.
Right in front of her in the queue, a family with a lot of pink was chatting away. The little girl was dressed top to toe in pink, with a pink Barbie suitcase, her mum was also dressed in pink and had her own pink suitcase, and her dad was wearing cream-coloured cords and a cream-coloured denim jacket. Sam couldn't see his shirt, but she would have wagered her first monthly pay that it was pink. She'd have gagged if she was still back in Edinburgh. She wasn't, though: she was in NYC, and she felt very forgiving. The old lady right behind her was also very obviously relieved to be out of the plane. Something to do with her legs and her bloodflow, or the stuffiness of the carriage, or both... Sam tuned her out quickly.
Looking around, she saw several couples happily making out in front of everybody, all alone in the joy of being together again. Seeing them, she felt like chuckling quietly and crying at the same time. Chuckling because there was nobody waiting for her, and it actually felt really good to be that free, and crying because if he hadn't screwed up, Paul would have been with her.
What a twat. They'd been planning that trip, that exile, that second birth, for months together. They'd even tried to decide exactly what area of New York they would want to live in, and of course they hadn't agreed, she wanted Brooklyn, he was set on Soho. One thing was for sure, they were sharing the same dreams, it was only a matter of time before they all came true.
And then he'd cheated on her. And the arse had told her about it. Sam had been devastated. There was no fucking way he was going to New York with her now. But there was no fucking way he was going to live happily ever after with that tart either. Oh no. She'd never been so mad. Five years they'd been together! Five years! And he'd blown it.
Sam took a deep breath. Thinking about Paul wasn't going to help her get started in NY, now, was it? Especially where he was. Ew. Sam didn't want to think about that. She couldn't even believe she'd done it. How possessed had she been that she'd actually done it? How could she have even thought of doing it?
She had to stop remembering, though. It was the pretty-in-pink family's turn - bingo, dad's shirt was indeed flesh-coloured - and right after that, it'd be her. She got her passport out of her bag, opened it on the picture page, pinched it with the boarding pass and inhaled deeply. This was it.
She smiled at the police guy, handed in her papers, and waited. He looked at the passport, at her. Back at the passport on his tablet. Sam tried to still the shakes in her left leg. What was taking so long? The passport was valid! He picked up his phone. She panicked. Two armed, uniformed cops appeared as if out of thin air, grabbed an arm each and dragged her away screaming. Turned out there was a hitch, and she hadn't died. But a killed dream was not a pretty sight either.
After spending all of five hours in NYC, Sam'd been deported that same day. She'd been heavily medicated during the whole trial, but the psychiatrists had declared her sane, and she'd been rotting away in that cell in HM Prison since then. Rainy days were the worst.

It's official, I love smart people

Through them, and aren't they the epitome of smart? I found this, this, and this: revisited movie trailers, so you can imagine The Shining as a rom com, West Side Story as though it'd really been done by George Romero, and Titanic as a sequel to The Terminator. Or something. Although I do have reasons to believe that Titanic really was a scary movie, but I guess it's a matter of taste (haven't seen it, couldn't face the prospect. Plus I knew the ending, and that just spoilt the whole thing).

White rabbit, white rabbit, white rabbit

That is all.

Enough with the silly presents already!

All right, who's with me here, I've decided to create an association for the safeguard of taste in presents.
Here's what caused my seeing-the-light moment. In my parents' sitting-room, I was struck by a horrendous lamp, made from a conch shell, which I can only assume is real, stuck onto some other horrendous shell, which I can only assume is plastic.
It's ugly. There's really no other word to describe it.
While acknowledging its ugliness, my mum, touched by the intent, has decided to display it anyway. The thing is, the people who gave it to my parents have made it a habit of going on holiday and bringing back horrible souvenirs. Before you go and say I'm a heartless spoilt little brat, I do think it's the thought that matters, I do. It's just that I don't understand why my mum thinks we should be made to suffer by looking at it each and every day. Or why they should be made to suffer, more accurately. After all, I am only there one week every six months, if that.
Understand me: there's a horrible clock in the kitchen, a horrible lamp in the sitting room, a horrible vase (thankfully tucked away in a cupboard, but I have no doubt that the day my mum needs it, there won't be enough pleading for her to use a cut plastic waterbottle instead of The Vase), and I have a Barbara Cartland book. Need I say more?
Now, this goes for Mother's day presents too. If I ever have kids one day (which I doubt, look at me, I'm tottering on the brink of old age as I type, but let's pretend I might, for the sake of argument), they will be expressly forbidden to bring back curtain-ring frames, noodle necklaces, tin pen holders, generally covered in felt, and all that useless crap that every kid (yours truly included) from kindergarten to age 10 (no idea how this translates in your language/country/school system/head) brings home, once a year, without fail, eyes full of anticipating joy at the idea of the pleasure they'll be inflicting (and I use the word carefully) on their mum.
My niece, whom I love to bits, who is the cleverest 7-year-old girl on the face of the planet and maybe even this side of the galaxy, who is the most beautiful little thing around that same vicinity, sent me a postcard this year. The postcard is heart-shaped. Can you feel my pain? It's my bookmark now. Every time I open my book on the metro, on the train, in a café, anywhere, I think of her sending me a heart-shaped postcard. And I smile. And then I think of me actually using the heart-shaped postcard. And I wince.
Enough, I say!

No idea

For a title, that was.
It's a bit annoying, isn't it, this commandeering tone that Blogger takes? Title. Link. Font. Size. Papers. Body search. Oooh, body search.
Sorry, got a bit carried away here.
Honestly though, do you always have a title when you start a post? I don't. Or I do, but then I might change it because of all those tangents I go off on, and the title ends up bearing no relation to what eventually is the main topic of the post.
Which is not going to be the case today, obviously. Not because the title will be summing up the substantific marrow of this post, but because there is no title. And no substantific marrow, but that's something you've grown quite accustomed to by now, I expect? Cunning, or what? No title, no substantific marrow, you'd almost hope that there was no post, eh? No such luck, darlings, I feel creative tonight.
Listen, those of you complaining at the back, I was going to write about doctors and nurses, and not in that way, you pervs. So, which would you rather have? My errant lunacy and verbal diarrhea that you can quit any time and no one will be none the wiser (that whole fragment might display an appalling lack of structure, grammar, or vocabulary - or all three - but try typing in a foreign language with a keyboard that is not your own and no dictionary at hand, and then we'll talk), or a diatribe against doctors and their insensitive dealings with patients in pain? Diatribe which, need I stress, you'll feel compelled to read because if you stopped reading while I was pouring my heart out, you'd feel guilty - or worse, it'd bring you bad bad bad luck and your blog publisher thingamajig would be down for maintenance for ever and you would never be able to post ever again even though you'd been good all your life and this was a one-time-only lapse. Well, tough! That lapse was the one that mattered.
Or you can quit now because you're really scared that I am really mad (I am). It's all right either way. I lied, you see. Not about the blogging curse, that's not for me to say, the witch forbade me to give any details. No, I lied about the fact that I felt creative tonight. You didn't even suspect, did you? Boy, I'm good. Or evil, but that's a debate I'm not starting.

Ode to my bed

Bed.
I love you bed.
I miss you during the day
And when it's nighttime I never say nay.
Always my sleep you have guarded
Even when my attempts were thwarted.
You make me feel very cosy
And soon my eyes are all dozy.
Please make sure that I don't wake up
Because surely that'll have me worked up
And tossing and turning I like not
Even when it's you as my cot.

Come on. Applaud the effort, at least.
Then we all can have a snicker.

Get on the pavement, all of you

I'm saying this for your own good: you see, until yesterday, I hadn't driven a car (or anything else, for that matter) in over a year.
Well. Well well well, even. Let's just say it was high time I was behind a wheel again, and leave it at that.
Or not.
For one thing, I have no sense of orientation. At all. None. Sad sad sad stuff. So I may have to make a very abrupt and sudden right at a half-second's notice. Bad, right?
For another thing (?), I love love love to drive but have no sense of how to actually handle a car. Bad, right?
Also, I'm a sore loser in this particular instance, so everything that goes wrong while I drive is the car's fault, not mine (like the clutch and gearshift making bizarre sounds as I go into second gear? Not. my. fault.). Oh no. Which tends to drive (no pun) my dad up the walls as we're on our way to and back from the hospital. Bad, right?
See? A dire situation.
Oh, lie by omission. It's not quite as dire as I make it out to be. I nearly made a friend today. As I was parking - in reverse, because nothing scares me - at the hospital, I noticed a woman was looking my way, showing not a little worry. My window was open, so I smiled and said "It'll be fine, don't worry." And went on to park with a number (not over 10, though, don't be petty) of swerves and reverses and ahead again and back, and... (I have no idea what the actual vocabulary for driving is, can you tell?) but parked the car beautifully. Beautifully.
After nearly fighting with my dad as well. Oh yes. So I stormed out of the car and lit up a cigarette while he went on to my mum's room, and the woman goes "I didn't mean it to sound mean, OK? But I thought you were backing straight into that car there..."
No worries, darling, so did I.

Feels like growing down

Funny. Conflicting feelings have been preying on my mind since I've arrived at my parents. Most of them I remember having when I was a wee girl, and France was a holiday country. When a cornfield was a whole world of possibilities. The mountains, the sun, the blue sky, a cool breeze - that was all I needed to imagine a future life that would see me happily settled around this place. I remember feeling like that, and thinking that everything was so very fleeting: after all, I was only there for the summer holiday.
Oh how people change. I wouldn't want to go back there for longer than a week, now. Hell, even a week seems too long.
It has however struck me that the scents, the light, the colours, the houses, the whole landscape that is my parents' village have induced the same kind of feelings this time. The "worldful" of possibilities feeling, which I quite like, I have to say, even when tinged with the tiniest bit of nostalgia for a moment that is already passing.
Or maybe I'm full of crap and kidding myself. Wouldn't put it past me.

The best laid plans of mice and men... or not

You know how sometimes you really want to see people, and you really want to do something specific, and it's just great because it all fits in?
Last night was not one of those nights.
I'd talked two friends into going out for a drink, even though they had planned to go see Dead Man as one of them had never seen a Jim Jarmusch film, yet - I love disrupting plans. Then again, their plans had been disrupted way before I came barging in, as both guys were in fact supposed to be on a plane to Istanbul tonight but decided against it when they found out that the chartered plane belonged to a company with a long history of incidents, an airline which has been blacklisted in the UK and many other countries, but strangely enough not in France yet. So they cancelled at the last minute, spontaneous little devils that they are. Needless to say, I'm now religiously following the news to see if they were right or not to back out on what could have been a fabulous week-end. But that's just because I'm evil.
We opted for a small bar with an even smaller pool table. Of course it would have to be smaller to fit in, but what I meant was... oh forget it.
We had agreed to meet at 8:30. The bar being a 7.5 minutes' walk from my flat (and I walk slowly), I thought leaving at 8:22 would be fine. (Hey, I learned today that according to Freud, neuroses stem from frustration. Funny, no?) Wrong again! Coming down the stairs, I heard my groundfloor neighbour, a little old lady who lives alone and likes to speak when she sees people. Right there, I knew my timing was screwed. It was all worth it, though. Apparently, there's a giant monstrous leak in the basement. Woo-hoo! It's just never-ending, this, isn't it? I need to change countries badly, now, if only so I can get rid of this troubling bit of brick and mortar.
Managed to extricate myself from a plumbing talk that was threatening to take all evening, rushed at breakneck speed (aye right, walked leisurely, more like) to the bar, only to find my friends standing with their heads hanging low: bar is no more! No more pool games at a moment's notice! Honestly, what is the world I live in coming to?

Ego is one tricky bugger, innit?

So tonight was our umpteenth meeting of the flat-owners-who-are-oh-so-unhappy. Some useful meeting that was.
Upshot, upshot! I hear you clamour with the fidgeting that rightfully belongs in this kind of situation. Well, let me put it quite bluntly and proudly, we stood our ground and quite adamantly decided that, although it is the managing agency's fault that the building is falling to pieces, we are in fact going to pay for everything anyway. We will however make the adequate and necessary tutting noises when sending the checks in, just so somebody on the street or in the post-office knows that we're very disapproving of said agency's workshy attitude. Because that's the kind of people we are: proud, adamant, and disapproving. And let it be known.
So. Now that this earth-shattering conclusion has been duly laid to paper, let's get to the real findings this meeting has enabled me to come up with. First - and foremost really - there are in fact two em-ing and er-ing neighbours. The famous one, and another woman, who, to her credit?, only does it when she's addressing more than one person at the same time, or when she's decided to speak because it was important that her voice be heard, but hasn't, before piping up, found out what exactly it was that she was going to say.
Second - and foremost also, on second thoughts - it was a study in psychological leadership. And the results are this (I'm not sure yet whether there are several results or not, hence the cunning use of both singular and plural). Apparently, when you want to have the upper hand in a heated discussion, be it about paying extortionate fees or pregnancy, the thing to do is to raise your voice. Preferably if you don't know what it is exactly you're going to say, or if your vocabulary is comprised of a ginormous amount of er's and em's. Or both. Both works fine too. And if another lady speaks quite loudly too, not because she wants to be heard, but simply due to the fact that her parents (or brother - brothers can be extremely useful like that) never told her to turn it down a little, or maybe she's just a little deaf in one ear and I'm being unfair - in any case, get three girls to speak louder and louder at the same time, and well, it doesn't get much better than that, if you ask me!
Ah yes. Other finding. If you were absent from a previous meeting, but want to retain a certain competitive advantage, keep using the loud voice and start resorting to fallacious arguments that are bound to get discarded or disproved by those people who did, in fact, waste a previous evening. Then (and that's when I admitted defeat in advance for all future shows of bad faith that I may have been tempted to try, because there is no way I could have ever won), in one spectacular reversal, go "yes! exactly! that's exactly what I'm saying!". You haven't lost face and may now go on to more essential suggestions and advice.
Now, in case you're wondering if I may have been one of the loud-speakers, er-ers and em-ers or unbelievably skillful orators, I was busy stuffing my face with sweets. For two reasons. First, I needed the sugary comfort, and second, it so happens that, by sticking my jaws together, gummy bears tend to prevent me from blurting out things that I'm bound to regret during endless rides up elevators that are way too cramped for small talk.
Yes, you may also say it's cowardice.
Or boredom.

Good things come in threes

And I can't fucking wait.
New man, new job, new life. That would about cover it.
For now, I hate it to break it to myself, but it's bad bad bad.
So one of my best friends has left (and her boyfriend has made it safely across the border, so that's comforting), my building is getting some long overdue works that are literally going to cost me an arm and a leg (and I'm wasting one more evening tonight debriefing about some meeting or other - but is it going to mean that I pay less? I think not), and my mum is back in the hospital next week, so I'll be spending next week at my parents'.
You remember that excellent, excellent line by Rachel in Friends? "There's rock-bottom, then fifty feet of crap, then me"? Sounds about right.
No actually, that sounds like the crappiest self-pitying line I've ever heard. Or uttered. And hey, let's face it, I've uttered a few. Whatever happened to that "I'm a new person" bla de blah theory? I can't even stick to one puny resolution? Shame on me. You're allowed to castigate me - only, be nice.
Oh yeah, and autumn starts tomorrow. AUTUMN! Where did the summer go?

Alive and kicking

Jim Kerr, of Simple Minds fame, was on French TV on Saturday.
That was me quite chuffed, until I realised he bears quite the uncanny resemblance to my former flatmate in Sydney. And boy did that uncanny resemblance bring back some memories.
Let me tell you about my flatmate from Sydney. Let's call him John. Quite a handy generic name, since it also happens to be his real name.
John advertised a room in a building that was within walking distance of my workplace, and he also happened to be working for the Olympic Games.
Now, if there ever was a bad move on my part, that probably was it. Pun intended. Do not, ever, move in with a guy that you don't know but works for the same employer. Ever. Especially if you were also offered a room in one of your favourite areas of Sydney by the cutest potential flatmate you could hope to meet. Sometimes I wonder when exactly I'll stop making stupid choices and even more stupid decisions, and what exactly pushes me to make these choices and decisions. Oh yes, I know. The smell in the bathroom. Anyway.
John was 48, divorced, single, and a slob. Don't get me wrong, I can be a slob too (and I can be a great slob, believe you me), but I do like to keep my slobbiness to myself. John looked set on achieving a new record re the slob level that could be achieved by one single individual in a flatshare.
He could cook though, and that was part of the problem. Cooking for him was a spiritual and artistic experience. The Jackson Pollock Food Experiment. So cook he would (and to do him justice, what he cooked was usually pretty good, except when he decided to make yoghurt. That was both nasty and disturbing.), and then, exhausted by his creativity and culinary prowess, he'd leave the dishes to fester. And he'd drop food on the carpet when eating and never ever ever pick it up. Slob.
There were times when I dreaded coming home because I just didn't want to see him, his oblivious smile, his oblivious looks, his crumbs...
Oh shit, he might have ruined the whole Simple Minds thing for me, now.

OK, after a quick check, I'm happy to report that no, he hasn't.

Sunday in sunny Paris

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

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

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

A tale of two ages

Ah, flatwarming parties. You're eighteen. You've just moved out from the parental home, you've moved on to bigger, better things, and you've invited all your friends. They've brought some friends of their own, which you didn't know, but that's all right, all that shit your parents used to say about "the more, the merrier"? Seems it's true after all. The party's going to be great. You know that. The music is great. It's extremely loud, just as it should be, and it's great. The booze is flowing like there's no tomorrow so who cares if we all end up in a coma? Everybody's shouting, everybody's singing, everybody's having a hell of a good time.

It's now 2:15 a.m. The party is in full swing. Your old neighbour is cursing you, your spawn, and their own offspring. She's just put earplugs in for the first time in her life. At least, she already had them, and they're funky coloured. But still. It's a funny feeling, sensing one's heart beating inside of one's own skull. She's feeling connected to you in some way, now. Surely that music you're listening to is pulsing inside your throat in much the same way.

Morning is going to come soon. Much sooner than you expect. Her tapes will then be blaring out some unspeakable 80's tunes.
You'll be sorry.

And she's at it again...

OK, emotional roller coaster notwithstanding, I'm temporarily back to my cynical, unpleasant and generally nasty self - aren't you lucky?
It's Friday, today (I know, I shouldn't break it to you so bluntly, but I said I was back to nasty), so in honour of all of you working your butts off all over the place while getting ready for the week-end (for the sake of argument, we'll pretend you're all working hard), I'll be writing crap for a bit. And won't that be a welcome change from the consistently high level we've gotten used to over the past months?
Well, what do you know! That's it. I've run out.
Of course, I could talk about the fact that I do, in fact, have the Dirty Dancing soundtrack and usually listen to it wearing nothing but striped socks with the individual toes sewn in them, but that could be construed as a personal attack, not to mention the fact that it'd be a blatant lie. I'm not telling which part is a lie, though.
Or I could wax extremely violent on the subject of building managing agents (or whatever you call those incompetent buggers that strip you of your cash and do nothing to justify it) but I believe I've done that already.
Or I could ask you, at the back, trying to disappear into your seat, to come up and say hi and tell me a story, but we both know that's not going to work.
Alternatively, you could tell me honestly, no lying, no pretending, no trying to please me, which one of the Avengers girls you really did prefer.
You could also vote on whether or not I should get another goldfish, considering that the first one lasted 6 months and that I was devastated when it went belly up. Yes, devastated about a fish with the concentration span of a... goldfish. Oh. My. Gawd. I've just realised. You English-speaking people have really got it all sussed, haven't you?
Hey, can you tell me when you're fed up? Because I'm running out of steam, brain matter and cigarettes all at the same time here, and it's really quite messy. Oh, you've been for quite a while? Good.

Moving on

One of my very best friends is moving to Brussels this morning. It's a big career move, and as scary as it might feel to her, it'll all be great once she's settled. Everybody says Brussels is a great city. I have no doubt that it'll be fantastic, and she'll enjoy it immensely.
Her boyfriend is going on Saturday, with all of her clothes and stuff, and they'll be gradually moving over. They're getting married at the end of October so it'll be easier.
Now, if you'll allow me to be self-centered, I'll tell you something. I feel like shit right now. There'll be no more last-minute Japanese restaurant and DVD evenings, no more endless phone talks - even though (or because) we live(d) 10 minutes away from each other, no more beers in the middle of the afternoon. It'll all have to be planned now.
It's hell to stay behind; I want to move on too.
I'm taking her to the station now. It's a start, I guess.

How to save half the world, and not even get a lousy tee-shirt for it

Something pretty horrible nearly happened the other day, which reminded me of something pretty horrible that could have happened a couple years back - which remembering also showed me that I have a propensity for mixing people, places and events up when remembering, but I'll endeavour to make all that clear and structured, so you can judge for yourselves the level of ungratefulness the world has sunk to.
Also, we can all agree right from the start that really that kind of convoluted first sentence serves absolutely no purpose and that I should really try and write properly, but alas, we do know that's wishful thinking, don't we.
So let's proceed.
I was having lunch with a friend last week, and I'd just bought a gas cartridge to refill one of my lighters (please feel free to give me the proper technical vocab) - and a beautiful lighter it is, too, car-shaped, with a hood that slides up and a "rigid" flame. Love it. Anyway. At some point, I proceeded to refill my lighter. Which I did. But that's when the man in him took charge.
"Oh, come on, that's not filled half enough. Let me do it."
And off he goes, pumping gas into the lighter. Which is already full. So one pump of the thing and gas starts spraying all around.
"Oh. Oh it seems it was full after all." Yes. I do know how to refill a lighter, thank you.
"OK, let me light it, see if it works." No. No, I don't think you want to do that.
"Huh? Why?" Why? Because gas is all around you, and if the flame goes off, so might you.
"Oh shit. Oh shit. I hadn't thought of that. Oh shit." Yes. Let me do the thinking for you.
The guy is going to England for a year. I'm not sure he'll make it - all that driving on the wrong side and all...
So that's one guy saved. Which swiftly brings me on to the entire restaurant saving I did.
Three years ago, I think it was, a work dinner was organised, a team-building thing, and everything went well, the restaurant was nice, the food was lovely, candles on the table, and now you see where this is going.
Paper napkins, candles, and a draft from the door.
We were about to leave, when suddenly (I love this. Everything was going smoothly, when suddenly... They were about to kiss, when suddenly... She was bursting to go to the loo, when suddenly...)
So we were about to leave, and this was a team dinner, remember, so there were quite a few of us, and the door was opening and closing while everybody was Indian-filing through it, and the flame was getting closer to the serviette, and you know how it is, what woman wants, god wants, so the flame got the serviette...
And the whole place would surely have gone up in flames! Were it not for my god-like reflexes. In half a second (or ten), I had found a phone-box, changed into my blue stockings and red cape and extinguished the blazing inferno. With little shrieks interspersed here and there, because all super-woman that I am, I am first and foremost a girl.
"Anne, what are you doing, setting fire to the table?"
See?

A cultural moment

And there aren't that many of those around these parts, eh.
I saw Io Non Ho Paura today. It's a brilliant, brilliant Italian movie about two kids who have to deal with adults, poverty, and violence in 1978's southern Italy. I can't tell you much more than that because I don't want to ruin anything. It's based on a book by Niccolò Ammaniti (which I was told is great), and I was dragged there by two Italian-speaking and -loving friends. Why dragged? Because I have displayed a long-standing prejudice against all things Italian, especially (but not exclusively) Italian cinema. A prejudice which both girls have endeavoured to annihilate, but what can I say, old habits die hard, and even after seeing La Meglio Gioventù, even after seeing Buongiorno, Notte, even after seeing Respiro, Nuevo Cinema Paradiso, or Il Postino, and despite my love for Marcello Mastroianni and Vittorio Gassman, every time I hear "do you want to come see such or such Italian movie?", I cringe.
Needless to say, so far, every time I've given in and gone along, I have been shamed in my dislike. All these movies are perfect in many ways, and I cannot recommend La Meglio Gioventù enough. And now, I couldn't do justice to Io Non Ho Paura if I tried. So I'll abstain, but you have to promise you'll see it. Promise?

The meme that dare not speak its name

Got tagged. By Suzanna. Of all people. She makes even a meme interesting and then she tags people with it, like it's possible to go after her. Oh well. Let's get this done and my street cred over with, shall we?

id•i•o•syn•cra•sy
1. A structural or behavioral characteristic peculiar to an individual or group.
2. A physiological or temperamental peculiarity.
3. An unusual individual reaction to food or a drug.

List five of your own idiosyncrasies and then tag five friends to do the same.

Phew. Where do I even start?

I have a rare disease, myositis ossificans (are you suitably impressed?). Which means that every time I fall on or hit my left thigh, I run the risk of getting yet another piece of bone on my thigh muscle. To make things even more idiosyncratic, notice how they say it seldom appears before the first decade of life? I got diagnosed when I was 7. And of course, if I fall, it will mostly be on my left side, because life would just be no fun otherwise, would it? I have two or three more ossifications now (they took out the first one when they saw it, because it was so rare (I love showing off) then that they didn't know it was ill-advised), maybe more, but I wouldn't know because I haven't had a catscan or MRI for three years now. Really what this means is that there are things I physically can't do because it either hurts like mad or is very uncomfortable, but as the last specialist I saw said, "Advil helps? Oh good, I'll give you a prescription". No more serious than that.

That's actually a good one to go on from. I hate going to the doctor's. But I will always imagine I have the worst disease. And no, I don't actually qualify as a hypochondriac as when I do in fact suffer from something, I will not go to the doctor's for fear that it will be really serious, so I'll end up minimising it. My one-before-last thigh catscan was really a case in point. For various reasons (mostly because I'd misread something), I was convinced I had developed cancer, so I was dreading the results, especially as the radiologist (?) scared the shit out of me (silly woman with no patient skills at all). Except of course I hadn't. So now that I know it's not cancer, who cares that everybody said I should watch it? What I don't know can't hurt, right? And I don't really want to know that my 3-inch bit of new bone is now 4 or 5.

Still on health, then. I have malaria (is that idiosyncratic?). I think you can get rid of it after a while, and as I left Cameroon 14 years ago, maybe it's gone from my bloodstream now, but it means two things for me: first, nobody will accept my blood because they don't want to transfuse potentially diseased blood, which is comforting somehow (they will take platelets though, except it takes something like 3 hours so I have to make time for it. Which is not too much of a problem these days, eh). Second, at the end of fall, without fail, I'll feel like shit for a week or two in the evening (and only in the evening, and not every evening - now that has to be idiosyncratic?), with fever, shivers, headaches and stuff like that. But I've never had a bona fide malaria attack since I left - touch wood, because it's not pleasant.

Despite my thigh, I love going for walks in complicated bits of scenery. Honestly, I do. I'd love to be able to climb mountains, but my thigh makes that impossible (and hurray for not even having to make up excuses). So I like to scramble and stuff, but I have as much confidence in my legs (and myself) as I have chances of ever meeting George Clooney (which, granted, is previous-me now, but he may as well still be useful). So I'll walk and potter about and blah, but every time, every time I say, there will come a moment when I get stuck in a very dangerous (in my mind anyway) spot and just go: "That's it. Not going anywhere now. Call the helicopters." Every time. My friends are sick of me.

The last one is blogging-related. I don't tag. (But do tag yourselves in the comments.)

Untitled

- Come on, hun, we'll be late.
- Muuum! Don't call me hun. I'm not a hun.
- Sorry, Greg-o-ry. Hurry up anyway, we'll be late.
Laura didn't like having to take her son grocery shopping with her. It was always a struggle not to buy him this or that, always prodding him to hurry up, always asking him to stop dawdling, always threatening him to... Woah, that man was carrying a lot of water!
- Gregory, hurry UP! Ow!
That hurt like a bitch. A trolley hadn't stopped before hitting her right on the back of the ankle.
- Oh sorry, miss...
That lady had an awful lot of bottles in her trolley. No wonder she'd had trouble braking.
Laura noticed several other people whose arms were loaded with cases of bottled water, soda, beer... Odd. There had been no heatwave warning in the news, it had even drizzled slightly in the morning.
It seemed that this family had bought nothing but drinks. Laura was starting to get worried now.
Without even knowing why, she grabbed Gregory and said:
- Come on, I forgot to get water. You'll help me carry some, yes?

Hurray...

... for champagne and 1940s movies!
That sounds horribly snob when I say it like that, doesn't it? OK, let me explain. A bunch of us were meeting for an apéritif yesterday evening, at a lovely bar, L'Ave Maria, which just happens to serve very nice cocktails, for a very reasonable price (honest - but they're reasonable for Paris, all right?). These cocktails are mostly Latin American, caipirinhas, mojitos and such. But me, I don't like rum. Yes, snicker all you want, I don't. Except in hot milk when I've a cold.
So I went for the champagne-based ones. I had (and everyone else went along - and agreed retrospectively that it was quite the best choice) what is rather enticingly called Agua de Bora-Bora. Champagne, vodka, kiwi, mango and rose. Bliss. Slightly intoxicated bliss, but bliss all the same.
And then I left them to go to some friends' place, because we were having a catching-up-with-American-pop-culture party, with the first three episodes of Desperate Housewives on TV. And lo and behold, there was champagne there too!
Where do the 1940s movies come in, then? I can sense your befuddlement. Is she that drunk that she thinks Desperate Housewives is a Mankiewicz classic?
No, silly. I received the Philadelphia Story DVD today (my brother's b'day present). Could that day have got any better? (First one who says I could have received a job offer gets shot on the spot. Tipsy and happy, but alcohol may have violent side-effects.)

It's always like that, isn't it?

I've had a fantastic day, done stuff that needed to be done, talked to friends, had a friend pay me a surprise visit in the afternoon, and I love surprise visits, de-painted my toe-nails, only to paint them again tomorrow, but you know how it goes, basically had a nice, stress-free day. I was even looking forward to Ireland-France in the evening.
And then I offered to help a friend proof-read his dissertation because he needs to hand it in on Friday and he's not quite finished yet. So we're doing things in a bit of a rush. 80 pages of accounting mumbo-jumbo. Oh joy. I've only just finished.
To think I was hoping to tell you about that literary evening I attended on Tuesday. All cultural and cultured, it was.
Or I could have told you about the supermarket that's re-opened all refurbished and brand new at the end of the road. Because my life is not only governed by the literary, it's also very much anchored in reality. It's a nice supermarket.
Or I could have bent your ear some more about music, as today was my very own Scotland revival - only meaning that I listened to Simple Minds, and to a tape I recorded in my student days in Aberdeen, on my radio-cum-tape-player alarm clock, and it's full of gems. Full, I say.
Oh well. Next time, eh? I'm off to bed now.

Music... makes the people... come together

... or not.
My cleaning frenzy has, as always, led me to listen to my (gasp) tapes. Tapes, I say. Those things we stopped using over 10 years ago? That'll give you an idea of what, er, music I've been dancing to for the past three-four days.
We're talking stuff during whose listen (however ungrammatical that sentence might be...) you can hear the actual tape unsticking itself from itself and unspooling. Oh the fun. Pity sometimes that sound does not entirely cover the music I then thought fit to record. I can't name any of the stand-alone stuff I taped, I'm afraid, because you'll probably all start booing me at the same time, and it'll be so loud I'll hear it from here. It's so bad it's not even good anymore, that's how bad it is.
Most of it I'm still happy to have, however, and everytime I listen to it, I think I should really get the CD's (Hot Chocolate, OMD, that kind of thing. Yes, OMD.). But some of it. Oh my. You wouldn't wish those songs on your teenage child's bully. Also, some of it still makes me cry over the same bloody guy as 15 years ago, as well, so maybe I should really just trash them, but you know what they say, right, once a sentimental fool, always a moron.
Incidentally, it's music that made me realise that I was indeed turning into my parents, the first time I said, listening to some "modern" stuff, "oh man, music was so much better in my days". Scary really, considering what I've just admitted to. It's true though, isn't it, not much better has been done than what was on those first compilation tapes we got as "gosh what are they into now?" type presents. Which is scary too. When I listen to what they call soul or R&B right now, I can't help thinking of Otis Redding and Aretha Frankling, not of Mariah Carey and whoever else is on a loop on MTV these days.
And while we're on the subject of music, albeit tengentially... is it the only way that I'll ever be a rebel? My complex personality (not that I'm flattering myself, here, me is complex) has always been attracted to the most various musical styles, without the slightest inkling as to what their inherent melodic, innovative or otherwise, qualities or flaws might be.
Music grabs me by the insides, and that's pretty much how I judge it. If you see me fighting the urge to smile the biggest, naffest smile you've ever seen, usually contending with a maniacal laughter, you can tell I'm enjoying the music. And I do cry every now and again, but it means the same thing. Told you me was complex. Hence, "enjoying the music" simultaneously means Dean Martin, Nappy Roots, Eminem, Rimsky-Korsakov or Edith Piaf. And I remember... when I used to go to work... I was usually not wearing combats and a tee. Even though I'd have loved to. Nothing trendy, nothing saying "power to the executives", but, you know, your classical unnoticeable girl on her way to work. Except I'd be going crazy inside as Nappy Roots' Sholiz came on in my headphones.
How I love schizophrenia.

Bad person - the defense side

Go read that (go on, I'll wait).

Now, allow me to tell you a little story.
Once upon a time, there was a French girl who lived alone in her Parisian flat, where really she had to fend for herself against all the nasty jumping and flying insects that invaded her home on a daily basis.
One night, she went to bed and started reading her book. Suddenly, she spotted a grasshopper on her ceiling. She thought nothing of it; after all, it was only a wee thing, barely an inch long. She turned off the light at the end of the chapter and went to sleep.
As if on cue, the grasshopper started inching its way onwards until it was right above the girl's head. It seemed to be acting weirdly, as if remotely controlled, with erratic moves and lots of stops and starts. The girl moved in her sleep. She turned on her side. Her ear was now in full sight of the grasshopper, offering itself as an ideal landing ground.
Once the target was locked, the grasshopper dropped right into the girl's ear!
The girl swatted lightly at her ear, oblivious of the danger. At the sudden movement, the grasshopper stopped moving. From its mandibles a worm slowly exited, making its way deep inside the external auditory meatus*, until it came to rest against the eardrum. It rested a while there, and then, with vibrations that could only be described with outlandish, alien even, wavelengths, started brainwashing the girl. The latter, by now deep in sleep, was putty in its... rings.
She got up in a sleepwalking daze, walked to the nearest bridge - quite a long way away -, jumped into the Seine river and drowned herself: the worm's evil spawn could now live and thrive!

My hoover deserves a medal.

This new me thing is getting out of control

See, I was going to to throw my whole self into a rant. Because I'm fed up with seeing only gorgeous girls, really very pretty (I'll grant them that), but overly made up, and are they anything but pretty? I'm scared shitless that this is the model my niece will grow up with. Those girls say nothing except that to succeed in life - in life - you need to be first and foremost aesthetically pleasing, that none of your actual qualities, talents, skills, matter. It shits me to no end to think that people are basing their assessment of others purely on how they look. And I'm fed up with the fact that everytime I go out, I see everyone wanting to look like someone else and I'm stuck with me. I like to think that I'm a good girl inside, but it almost never fails that I end up feeling like a three-legged duck. (And of course this would have been a show of bad faith, but it would have been my rant.)
But I won't. Because I have cleansed my flat. Cleansed. As in used everything under the sun for proper housework, broom, brush, hoover, mop, wipes, the whole shebang.
I have even devised a programme for cleansing a flat. Go at it in a couple days at least. I know it's a long time, but I'm not saying you should spend the whole two or three days cleaning. For instance. Hypothetically. The first day, tidy up, sort the papers, throw away the old magazines that you keep because you keep saying you'll get to them, but, deep down, you know you won't, don't you? Throw away. Bin. Trash. Consider it therapy. Get rid of all the stuff that's holding you back... I should write a self-help book.
Once that's done, you'll want to do the rest.
Anyway, now, the dust has been eradicated, stuff has been moved to the basement (the basement! That place gives me the willies just to think of it, because the first time I went there with a friend, he was absolutely convinced he'd seen somebody, and on our way out he was afraid we might be about to lock him inside that damp, dank, dreaded place! And I went on my own this time!), the furniture has been moved, I am now sleeping on the other side of the bed, that's how moved the furniture has been, the floorboards have been scrubbed and a very synthetic, albeit not unpleasant, odour of wood is now permeating the flat, the bathroom belongs in a show flat, the kitchen... the kitchen... I could almost cook now.
And for a perfect finish to a not so bad day, considering, the insider has helped me polish off an application letter for a job in New York. We're taking over the world.
So really, a rant would have been just... unfair. But I'm keeping it for later. Just in case.

The end of an era

I'm officially over George Clooney. I know, I said that a while back, Jeff Goldblum had suddenly appeared and I'd seen the light blah blah. But did you honestly believe that? Cause I'm not sure I was completely convinced. And I hadn't seen him (George) in quite a while. So really who was I to tell? Supposedly, I'm me so I should know, but if I really knew what I'm thinking, saying, doing... well, let's just say my life would be slightly less of a... something. I can't even finish a sentence, ya think I know where my sexy-actor loyalties lie?
Anyway. He is (or was) in Venice for the Mostra, and will soon be (or is) in Deauville for the festival (honestly ocean and sea (or canal) side (I never got that Venice geography right (I've never been (but I know I will go one day (when, you know, I'm in a... relationship thing)) so it's understandable)) towns for movie festivals, this man has a hard life (did you think I was never going to finish that sentence? (and stop using parentheses?))) so he was being interviewed by the newsanchor on France 2, one of the French TV channels. One of my friends actually called me to tell me he was going to be on. I'm so pathetic that my friends call to tell me George will be on the telly.
Well, not anymore, people! He did nothing for me this time. Nuttin'. Not one tingle of the belly, not one "ooh he's gorgeous" (OK, maybe a tiny one, but honestly, nothing to write a blog post about), not one "mmm I'd so like to try and have his babies". If anything, I found him slightly smug. Who am I and what have they done to me?
So. That got me thinking. Do I really like Jeff? I'm not sure. He's one sexy bugger, granted, but really, do I like him? Honestly? No. If anything, he's actually a little smug too.
Do I need a new idol? Or should I start living in reality?

And that's when I realised I was really a bad person

For so long I've pretended I was good... I really wanted to believe that.
It turns out I'm selfish and bad. Rotten to the core.
Case in point.
Yesterday, I went to bed at my usual time these days, around 2:00 a.m (it is kind of relevant).
I set my glasses down on my bedside table, grabbed Harry Potter (yes, I'm a grown woman and I read Harry Potter. No, I don't think it makes me look cute. Yes, I enjoy the story. Now if I may proceed?) and started reading. My eyes, however challenged, spotted a blurry smudge on my ceiling. A big blurry smudge. On my ceiling. A big blurry smudge on my ceiling, not too far from right above my head, really.
Now, my eyes may be challenged, but I'm not a complete cretin yet. A big blurry smudge on my ceiling, when there was no big blurry smudge a couple hours before that, can only mean one of two things. Either there's a leak from the upstairs flat, which sounds very unlikely considering above my bedroom is another bedroom, or there's some sort of vile insect planning to take my life and use my body to advance insect science.
Keeping my unfocused eyes trained on the big blurry smudge, I blindly got my glasses back and, mustering all the courage I could er... muster, I looked. A huge grasshopper was doing aerobics on my ceiling. Huge. Enormous. Like, one inch long. That is a whole one inch more than what I can handle in a sane, adult, mature manner.
It was all I could do not to phone my dad and tell him to drive the 600 km to Paris to come and rescue me. (Yes, I know, I said it was the winged creatures of the invertebrate realm that did it for me, but really - jumping, flying, same difference, at this point.)
[Commercial break - is the suspense killing you?]
Having decided against phoning my parents, I started thinking. Well. Not so much thinking as blabbering inside my own head. (Oh, by the way. How do you cope??? Two minutes into hearing my own voice, and I was already annoyed. Dearie me, people, you'll never cease to amaze. Anyway.) By now, it was about 2:10. It was getting late, by normal people's standards. I thought I could handle this reasonably, and went to fetch some loo paper. My plan was: climb on the bed, stretch my arm, wipe the bastard against the ceiling, paint in the morning. Ha ha ha.
I do not reach the ceiling. In fact, even standing on three pillows, I still do not reach the ceiling. Save actually dislocating my shoulder, and using the now free arm as a pole, there was no way I was going to get the intruder. I remembered Adamant's advice from last time, and went to fetch the kitchen roll. The kitchen roll, I'm afraid, was nearly empty, and I could see pretty early on that I wasn't going to get anywhere with it. Plus, I didn't want to throw it repeatedly against the ceiling (I knew I was going to fail the first time, you see), for fear that one, the grasshopper would fall in my hair, and two, I would end up waking the neighbour.
Heh.
I stood on the bed for a while, then, thinking oh what to do what to do. Which after a while turned into "No you can't." "Anne, you can't do that, it's late." "Anne, don't do it." "Anne, you cow, you're gonna do it, aren't you?"
And I went to get the hoover.
Bad, bad person.