Last week's news.

Last Thursday was meant to be a quiet night - the first time in over a week that I spent at home, with just a quick stop off at the launderette and at Monoprix for a bottle of wine and some chocolate, and then lots of time to sort out all I needed to sort out before going home. If only. On the metro on the way home I asked Susan if she wanted to join me for dinner and watching Happy Feet. She agreed and we set off to do the important wine buying stuff. Those of you who know Susan will have noticed that she has been wearing a rather attractive sling on her right arm as a result of slipping on wet stone and fracturing her elbow last Sunday. Thursday was the turn of the ankle as she again slipped, this time breaking her flip flops and making her ankle swell to the size of..well, a very, very big ankle. I went running back into Monop to ask the sleazy security guard for help (which hurt me as much as Susan's ankle was hurting her!) and he came and carried her back inside, having made sure she hadn't actually fallen IN Monoprix and might, therefore, want to sue him.
A nice, helpful man who happened to be passing offered to call the pompiers. This brings me on to something totally French and illogical which I've been wondering about since I arrived here 3 years ago. The emergency services. In England, if you have a problem you call 999, you ask for the service you want and these people come to you as quickly as possible. This system operates perfectly well in many countries around the world, the only difference being the number you call. In France, however, there is no specific number to call for help. There are several numbers and no-one seems really sure which one to call and when. The nice, helpful FRENCH passer-by, for example, was nice enough and helpful enough to stop, but he didn't know what number to call, and asked us for advice! In fact, generally people call 18 which is the pompiers (firemen) , who arrive in an ambulance (?) and, in our particular case, didn't really seem to know much first aid. Not great when called to a medical emergency. It took 3 of them ten minutes to decide which inflatable splint to put on Susan's ankle and then another 5 minutes to take it off again and exchange it for the other one. In their defence, they were very funny and kind to her, and cute, although they did make us shout "Allez les bleus!" before starting the ambulance for the 50m ride to the nearest hospital! I still don't know whether we called the right number or if we could have had an efficient paramedic appear from somewhere, it all worked out in the end - Susan's ankle turned out not to be broken, just badly sprained, and she's now resting at home for a long time. Four flights of stairs is a long way to go on your bottom with only one hand and one foot to help you!

Home sweet (rainy) Home.

Here I am again, back in Bradford. It turns out that the know-it-all French people who say it rains all the time in England are right. This morning it was 30degrees in Paris, and the train to the airport was almost twice that and filled with the usual assortment of beggars, accordion players who only know one tune and smelly, hairy Frenchmen who love to chat to young foreign girls. Fortunately I've done this trip enough times now to know which seat to choose, the exact angle to hold my book to see these dodgy men approaching without looking too interested, and the right volume to have my Walkman so I drown out their heavily accented English chat up lines. Having said all this, it's quite entertaining to watch them work their "charm" on other girls...

Last time I came home I was stopped by the security people and had all my hand luggage searched. Not only did they take every single thing out of my handbag, but they also contemplated the idea of unwrapping my sister's birthday present which I'd wrapped myself only a couple of hours before. Who knew a big tin box covered in maps and a giant pencil could look like a terrorist threat?! Today they were a lot more relaxed - didn't even ask if I packed the bag myself (I had, who else would do it for me?) and whether I wanted an aisle seat (I did) They did, however, ask if I had paid for my bag. Since when do you have to PAY to take luggage on a plane. I was lucky, because I can speak French they let me off, the people in front had to go somewhere else to pay for theirs, despite having just queued for over half an hour. We took off 20 minutes later than planned and I found myself sitting next to a girl I was at uni with. She studiously avoided me, to the point of going to sit in the empty seat in front of me, so I read my book and drank PG tips to prepare me for being back in Yorkshire. One of my favourite things about arriving home is that my Mum and Dad come to the airport to meet me and stand at the window in the café waving like mad things as I walk towards the passport control. Today there was a slight change in proceedings; my plane arrived at the same time as several others and so there were a lot of people heading down the corridor with me. Mum and Dad were so busy watching other people that they didn't notice me at all until I hammered on the glass right in front of them, much to the amusement of the man sitting beside them. But they were there and it's always lovely to see them.

So, back to the weather...basically it's raining. It's been raining for weeks apparently, and shows no sign of stopping. It's mid-July but seems like October. Enough said.

I have so many more things to tell about my week - films, dates, parties, lunches, riding in ambulances...but they'll have to wait. I'm hungry and Mum is cooking. Yum.

Sad Saturday.

The reason I was up and blog-creating at this time on a Saturday morning is because I was suddenly and rather unfairly woken up by water pouring through my bathroom ceiling yet again. Yes, I have 2 showers in my bathroom; one intentional, one not so intentional. It's a long story, but basically the flat above mine was renovated before Christmas, extremely badly, it now appears. Perhaps by a small child with a tool kit. Or one of the numerous dodgy companies specialised in ripping people off. Said dodgy company managed to smash the main water pipe in the flat so I also had a temporary shower in the kitchen. Now, several months later, we discover that they tiled directly onto a wooden floor, installed a shower tray without the use of a spirit level and nailed a toilet cistern to the wall, causing lumps of plaster to fall off into the corridor on the other side. All good. Shortly after these revelations I read an article in a free English language newspaper entitled "Leak? Pack your bags and run!" It went on to discuss the terrible reputation of plumbers here and horror stories of people who had a shower in every room. For a number of years. Yes, not days or even weeks. But YEARS. The latest news is that the owner of the flat above, having just spent a huge amount of money doing the flat up, is refusing to pay for repairs. Can't say I blame her but that's not helping me and my shower surplus.

On another sad note, I went to make myself breakfast today and realised that my milk has turned to cheese overnight (4 days before the expiry date) and that my emergency freezer bread supply has been used up and not replaced. (I clearly have only myself to blame for this.) So I had a banana and a cup of black coffee. Yum.

Once upon a time...

The time has come! Instead of spending my time faffing on Facebook or browsing blogs I'm going to write my own. I hope the people who read it will be either:

a) entertained
b) amused
c) jealous of my great life in Paris
d) reassured that their own lives are not so bad after all.

Happy Reading!