Restaurant Chartier and Chez Jeanette

I had read about Restaurant Chartier on my favourite site of all things Parisienne, "Do it in Paris." It featured in their cheap weekend guide. And it was PERFECT.

I ate leeks dripping in a white viniagrette, followed by steak tartare and fresh "steak frites", followed by a baba au rhum and creme chantilly for dessert. N began with a country terrine, same for main and an ile flottant for dessert. We shared a karaf of the house red.

The building was gorgeous, somewhat like an old railway station (I think it may well be just that) with incredibly high ceilings, ornate mirrors, so many tables and brass luggage racks above the tables to place your coats and bags on (when everyone wears a "doudoune", a doona jacket, coat storage becomes a serious business...). The order is written on your table cloth and the waiters are all in black with full length white aprons. The food is cheap and arrives promptly. (Ordering a raw meal helps, I'm sure. Although the ladies next to us received their cooked meals just as fast.)

And as I ate my steak tartare, lavishly soaked in worsterchire (please, spelling someone?) and drank my second (third?) glass of wine, in the oh-so-french surrounds I felt completely a laise. I was exactly where I needed to be at that very moment. My dessert, meanwhile, was quite an introduction to the French favourite, Baba au Rhum.

It's basically a large brioche, soaked in brown rum and served with a generous swirl of whipped cream. I had confirmed with the waiter that I did indeed like rum, and boy did he take that to heart. Every mouthful postively squelshed with rhum. And I loved it. Loved. It.

This was followed by a noisette (macchiato) on the way to our next stop, C's house for farewell champagne. Then, we accompagnied C and her South American friends to Chez Jeanette for second dinner. N and I shared a house specialty, the duck pie. And boy, was that worth eating a second dinner for. Rich but not overwhelming, crispy but not dry, the salad fresh but not undressed. This time the bistro was noisy and crowded- hence why the five of us squeezed into a booth-side table meant for two. But, being French, the staff were most understanding and fully supported our intimate dinner arrangement. (Melbourne waiters would not be so kind about stacking customers one on top of the other.) The walls were tiled and the walls mirrored. And yet again, as the choruses of 50's and 60's rock and roll music caught my ears, and the duck pie disappeared one forkful at a time, and my wine glass emptied and re-filled itself I thought: I am happy. At this very moment, I am completely happy. I wouldn't be anywhere else, with anyone else.

And I'm glad, that in someway, I was able to recognise and share the moment. Because too often those moments happen without me realising. But not tonight.

Mmmm, squelchy rhum brioche.....

Warm and fuzzies

Do you ever have those times where you can actively recognise, that at THAT particular moment you are completely happy? I had one of those this evening. And it's no coincidence it happened in a restaurant. Two, actually. In fact, the whole day was relatively peaceful and easy going, but it was only over dinner that I could actually name the sensation running through me: contentment.

My day involved a 15 month old who didn't want to take his morning nap, but after dressing him, feeding him warm milk and biscuits, a little play and giving his room a heating turbo-charge he was good to sleep. While giving Little J second breakfast I too had breakfast- two cups of tea and some speculos (really yummy gingerbread-style flavoured biscuits that the Frence are big fans of.) Then, with him down for a nap, I browsed my newspaper and then hunted for a suitable banana bread/cake recipe. Any mention in the review of it being "dry" and I was outta there. This family take their TIME eating cakes, so those helpful "great when microwaved and spread with butter" comments were no good to me. I needed "moist", "sensational" "disappeared the moment it hit the table." My recipe of choice ended up including brown sugar, and I substituted the buttermilk for creme fraiche. Perfect. (I may also have subsituted an apple for the third banana....)

And then, right on school pick up time, I got told Madame and Monsieur would be meeting up with us at the school and we would all be going home together and after that I was free to go home. I couldn't believe my luck- I was shooed out of my pen at 5.30pm!

I called N and suggested we disappear off to dinner at an actual restaurant. So we did....

Home, James

Return to Paris

Oxsted, as I discovered the following morning, is a stunning, storybook example of the English countryside. Lush, rolling, verdant green hills dotted with red and goldren trees and inky green hedges. Postman Pat, Thomas the Tank Engine, and all those other English tales make sense all of a sudden.

I listened to the tealady on the train platform sharing the local gossip with another customer. It was nice to be able to understand it all, instead of just hazard a guess. I bought an English newspaper to entertain me on my return Eurostar to Paris.

I boarded the Eurostar and found someone sitting in my seat. One seat had been double booked 10 times on my way over, so I was immediately concerned. Happily, the interloper was just keeping his friend company.

My mother always asks me, whenever I take a trip, whether I sat next to anybody nice (she means anybody male-nice). This time, I did; Gino and I chatted for 314 kilometres. And I never did get to read that English newspaper...

London...Sunday morning

Toute Seul

Sunday morning I was on my own to tour the V&A Museum. Knowing how enormous it was, the only part I was absolutely determined to see was the Fashion and Textile exhibit. It was suitably impressive, however the dark, preservative lighting made reading all the tiny plaques difficult. (I will blame alcohol for nothing.) The building itself was gorgeous, and the café is definitely the most glamorous museum café I've ever eaten at. (Not that I make a habit of eating at museum cafés, they're normally so sterile...)

I passed the grey afternoon touring the three levels of Anthropologie with my cousin, gossiping and idly flicking through knitwear, coats, quilts, crockery, scented candles, doorknobs....a little bit of all our favourite things.

Sunday night I caught the regional train south of London to stay with Blondie at her aunt's house in the country for the night. I walked in to a large, warm kitchen full of cooking aromas. Stewed beef, bechamel sauce, freshly hulled strawberries....I felt at home.

For the second time that weekend I showered in a carpeted bathroom. Which, to an Australian seems strange (on so many levels) but was oh so practical over there. Climbing dripping wet out of the shower and into the steamy bathroom, cool tiles are the last place I want to put my freshly warmed tootsies.

Like in Paris, my bedroom was in the eaves of the house. This house, however, is seven-bathrooms, two-painos and one enormous Argre stove big. Which meant that I actually had a proper ceiling height and no fear of bumping shoulders with my roof as a rolled over during the night.

London....Chicago

Pop! Six! Squish! Uh-uh! Cicero! Lipshits!

My introduction to Chicago was at a school vocal concert. Heaven only knows how a group of 16 year old girls convinced our conservative staff to let them sing some of Broadway's raunchiest songs, but they did and I was hooked. Ever since, I've been a sucker for the musical (I may have been known to perform a hairbrush rendition on occasion...) But this was much, much better than me and my hairbrush. The cast were all incredibly strong, and the theatre small enough that our R-row seats were ideal. Using the little opera glasses almost made the stage shrink. Blame the alcohol, blame the caffeine, blame my addiction to broadway musicals, I'm pretty sure I bopped in my seat the entire show. I would have hated sitting next to me. Except, I was me, so I had a BALL!

Blondie and I exited to London drizzle, so we tuk-tukked our way back to the bar to finish the evening with more dancing and, shock horror, cocktails, with my cousin. Leaving a show, especially a musical, can often leave you feeling flat, or a little lost as to what to do with all the energy you've just been zinged with. I now have the solution- go dancing! Roll those stockings down, rouge those knees, drink that aspirin and Shimmy shimmy shake until your garters break...

London...Saturday evening

Let. Me. Off. The. Bus. N-O-W!



I'm not typically prone to hysteria, but inching down Oxford Street on the bus just about turned me into the crazy Australian lady who bangs her head through bus windows. No matter that I was stuck inside a London icon, the red double decker; I was looking at my watch so often I'm sure it looked like a nervous tic. I was trying to make it to Reagent Street to fly around an amazing shop that was only in New York and London (Anthropologie), then march onto Piccadilly Circus to buy discounted tickets, in time to see a matinée on West End, so that I'd bounce into happy hour in Soho with my cousin.....not having a phone so that I could change my arrangements on the fly was making me demented!

Despite my nervous watch tic, Blondie was calm, collected and very patient. I know people say that patience is a virtue, but I still think it's an underrated quality. We jiggled my arrangements around and managed to a) survive the muppets trying to sell us cut price tickets b) find another ticket box run by a non-muppet c) choose a show we both liked d) Get a late late lunch e) Make it to Jrinks in Soho the instant happy hour started. We even beat my cousin to the bar.

Once again, the universal elements collided and a favourite cocktail of mine, Espresso Martini, was indeed on special (4£!) for the three hours I would be at Jrinks. Ding ding ding! So just how many Espresso Martinis can a girl drink in 3 hours? Five, my dear friend, five. And I loved every minty, frothy, caffeinated sip. But alas, it was once again time for me and my escort (Blondie) to move on. The Cambridge Theatre, most conveniently located a few blocks away from Jrinks, was about to raise its curtain. Chicago here we come!

London...silver, silver everywhere

My mad search for "the" teacup

Having spent countless hours shopping in Paris, I was determined not so spend my precious London time combing the high streets. Not for Harrods, not for Fortnum Mason, not for Harvey Nichols, and not even for that British fashion mecca, Top Shop. The Portobello Markets, however, were another matter. The antique markets were one of the few things to be carved into my London itinerary from the start.

Portobello road, leading to the said markets, is jammed with people well before you reach the stalls. Ducking and weaving, with my friend Blondie, and her friend Blondie 2 trailing behind, I marched down the hill. Dodging the crowds by trotting along the road may have been a little extreme, but I was a woman with a schedule, dammit! (Also, the crowds were beyond ridiculous. Having spent my past year working INSIDE retail, I forget what peak Saturday morning shopping crowds look like. And that's just in Melbourne. The London crowds were infinitely denser.)

The terrace houses that give way to the markets all shared the same bright, colourful palette, lending to the upbeat atmosphere. And then, it started. I didn't realise that yes, the word market might mean roadstall, but it can (and here, does) also mean narrow shop fronts, six or ten little stores deep. Silverware seemed to be the most prolific item, and every second stall bristled with teapots, ladles, magnifying glasses, hairbrushes, gravy boats, bundles of cutlery and buckets of silver(ish) miscellany. Fascinating, but I just hadn't prepared myself for silverware shopping! My mission for the day was a pretty teacup for my collection and perhaps a not-so-pretty-but-cheaper-and-practical teapot.

The perfect antique teacup had eluded me ever since I arrived in Europe. Preferably in greens and/or pinks and with the classical curved sides, not a straight-sided coffee cup. (The French, annoyingly, seem particularly fond of the angular shape.) At last, I found her. In the dark and tangled depths of chickenwire that separated out this particular set of stalls, she called to me. The perfect shape, with a feature pink rose on the saucer and inside the teacup. Gold-gilded, with just a simple double stripe around the outside of the teacup. Blue is the featured colour, but she's so pretty I forgave her for not wearing my chosen team colours.

I should probably admit she's not the only thing I found. I also bought an old red OXO tin (a traditional English brand of beef stock cubes) and some letters that were once used in the old method of type-set printing, when individual letters were placed in racks to print newspapers.

Next stop, Oxford Street insanity.....

London...to market, to market

This little piggy went oui oui oui oui oui, all the way home. And THEN off to the Portobello Market.



After breakfast it was time to bid H goodbye- she was off to her aunt's country cottage for a long weekend. A quiet one with family and some fashion coffee table books (you know, like that Chanel biography I haven't finished yet or a tome of Manolo Blahnik sketches). Sounded great to me, but the London sunshine was calling. (That is not a typo. It was positively beaming.)

So my entourage of bags and I rolled off to take in Kensington High Street on our way to the Meineger Hostel at Baden Powell House. (Practically opposite the V&A Museum, and directly opposite the Natural History Museum, pictured above.) All was going well, until I double checked the address on my confirmation text, and discovered the last word was missing. This was an issue given the prolific number of "Queen's Gate _______" in a very small area. Fortunately I came across a helpful postie who knew exactly where to send me. (I later found out the postal service was intermittently striking, so I was definitely wearing the lucky pants that day.)

Once there, I used that antiquated piece of technology, the pay phone, to touch base with my awol friend, Blondie. From her I discovered that the Circle and District lines were closed for the weekend, which meant she was on a bus still trying to get to me. So, we arranged meeting point number two, and I headed off to catch my own bus to meet her. This sort of to-ing and fro-ing continued my entire weekend. It was at times incredibly frustrating, because it often made feel in a rush to get to the next meeting point. That, or I was dragging my heels because the other person wasn’t going to arrive for sometime yet. It’s amazing how used we are to continuously tweaking our arrangements. I noticed this especially because I was in an unfamiliar city, with routes and distances that meant little to me in terms of travel time, and I was bouncing between two friends and a cousin trying to fit one of them in with each activity. But, it could have been much worse. I could have had a stroller and Little J in tow!

I got caught out by the double name-game again, this time when I jumped off my bus a few stops too early in my hunt for “Notting Hill Gate”. It seemed London was also going to be a city of brisk walks from place to place! Not that I minded. The weather was gorgeous and the road very English. It is, after all, on this surprise walk that I discovered this fantastical tavern, with its blooming façade.

London...breakfast

La Petite Nicola at Holland Park (Saturday AM, day two of four)


Saturday dawned crisp, clear and blue. Friday night had rained like I’d only seen once before, in Vietnam. I now understand the upside to such a downpour; the streets were washed clean, the sky emptied of clouds and the parks painted an extra lush shade of green.


After our house party on Friday night, H and I tugged ourselves gently to Saturday breakfast. We cut through Holland Park, deserted so early in the morning. The oval, covered in dew, sparkled like an emerald in the sunshine. The trees were turning their leaves from green to gold. Even the park gate made me smile, with its long hinges and wooden cross bar.

Phillies was full of English/Italian charm. Black chandeliers and substantial timber communal tables, paired with a real latte and a real breakfast menu made it very worth our while to be up at that hour. (Well, for her it’s only across the park. For me, it’s across the channel.) I was tossing up between some English favourites, perhaps the porridge or the eggs+bacon+baked beans combination. I asked the waitress for advice, and her response was “It’s Saturday.” I ordered the eggs.


The French attitude often seems to be that they possess all the culinary prowess they need; I would humbly suggest they can’t make a proper breakfast to save themselves. Given that the French don’t eat breakfast, however, it’s no surprise they don’t ‘do’ breakfast. The English, meanwhile, deserve credit where credit is due. They love breakfast, they eat breakfast, they ‘do’ breakfast!

Petite Nicola goes to London....

FRIDAY (DAY ONE OF FOUR)

Finally, that long weekend across the channel I’d been dreaming of. The land where people speak English, and eat baked beans. Land of my vicarious, Enid Blyton childhood.

I emerged at Piccadilly Circus Station, delighted I’d made it this far with my mini suitcase, carry bag and handbag trailing behind me. At 4.30pm, I bought a hop-on hop-off tourist bus tour ticket, thinking I could fill in my spare 90 minutes or so with a visual crash course of London.

I hoiked up the station stairs with my luggage. To at last see the flashing lights, black cabs and big red buses of “old London town” was thrilling. With difficulty, I managed to find the correct bus stop in the grey drizzle. Despite being one of only two passengers, the live tour guide ascended to her booth on the top of the bus. From there, she commenced her stream of sarcastic commentary about London’s heritage.

By 5pm, I was cold (the bus was breeeeeezey), lost (I tried to use the cartoon style map to orientate myself, but the lack of lights on the bus made that a challenge), anxious (my French mobile refused to cooperate with the English system. I’ve heard that story before…) and highly skeptical about the supposed magic of London (Big Ben was disappointingly small, and as for Marble Arch! I peered through the window at their piddly excuse for an arch. That’s not an arch! That’s just a really nice mantelpiece. I practically live on the Champs Elysees. Come to Paris, we’ll show you how to build an arch… The most interesting thing about the arch was that Queen Victoria didn’t like it so she had it removed. And brick by brick, it was deconstructed and carted away, only to be rebuilt out of her sight. I’m not sure they should have bothered.)

And my bus guide wasn’t exactly sprinkling fairy dust on the experience. “Over here we have the Ritz Hotel. You can go to high tea at the Ritz. Beware it will cost you 40 pounds. Per head. But, that is all the cucumber sandwiches you can stuff in your gob.”
Or this little gem, “Here we are at Hyde Park Corner. It’s not actually called Hyde Park Corner, but people nicknamed it that because it’s on the corner of Hyde Park.”
To be fair, however, her favourite view of London was also one of mine. Looking back at the Houses of Parliament, with their lights reflecting into the Thames, was a wow moment.

My bags and I alighted at Westminster, hoping that the iconic red phone booth on the street would help me get in touch with H, my hostess for Friday night. I opened the door, only to be assaulted by the stench. Oh the STENCH! of urine. Peeing in a phone booth is NOT more polite than peeing in the street! Tentatively, I opened the one next door. Really, it was just as bad but when a girl’s gotta call, a girl’s gotta call. So with my bags balanced on top of the mystery puddle on the concrete floor, I tried to scrounge up forty p. Not enough. What about my credit card? Not compatible. Notes? Not a chance. I shimmied my way out of the stink-booth and stood in the rain to contemplate my next move. I was now cold, lost, anxious, highly skeptical about the magic of London, AND wet and hungry. I descended into the tube station, rustled up some coins and called H. Success! A voice I hadn’t heard in nearly five years, but it was just as warm and familiar. So I tripped of into my Friday evening (ops, not West-bound Petite Nicola, East-bound!), confident it would end better than it began.

Chantal Thomass

Bras, knickers, le string, slips, slippers, stockings...
I just had the most fabulous lingerie shopping experience. I am a big fan of bra shopping, and I have made wearing a correctly fitted bra one of my personal causes. I tell all the women in my life how important it is, and also that lingerie is about you, it's not about 'him'.

To that end, I have been looking forward to Paris lingerie shopping immensely. I have browsed through many of the renown boutiques, such as Chantal Thomass, Aubade, La Perla, Eres, Chantelle, Lejaby and some of the smaller ones too such as Princess Tam-Tam, Simone Perele and Etam. It wasn't until this week, however, that the stars suddenly aligned and I found myself with both the time and inclination, during shopping hours.

My standard shopping haunt...
I started at Printemps (with its late-night Thursday shopping, and its proximity to my house, Printemps is one of my favourite shopping locales). With a spare 20 minutes, I plucked some bras in my size from La Perla (is a 200euro bra really worth it?), Stella McCartney (the colours were so gorgeous I broke my rule of not even bothering with non-lingerie brands. For anyone above a B cup they are normally hopeless), Aubade (their ad campaign, 100 lessons in love, has got to be the world's sexiest). Being within a department store, instead of within the oftentimes impressive but overwhelming individual boutiques, makes me feel at ease and comfortable enough to hoist a quick selection off to the change room. (Which, in the case of Printemps lingerie dept., is a couple of unattended cubicles in the middle of the floor.) I didn't have much time and not wanting to hurry through my first French lingerie purchase, I left a tangled pile of bras and hangers behind me and continued on with my evening.


Le Bonne Marche
The next night I found myself at Le Bonne Marche, another of Paris's exclusive department stores. Unlike Printemps and Galleries Lafayette, however, Le Bonne Marche is not centered around catching the tourist dollar, but the French franc. This makes it a much more satisfying experience. To be in Art Deco surrounds, only French signage, a more compact layout and each area feels like a boutique unto itself, instead of just another section of a department store.

The lingerie change rooms at Le Bonne Marche ("Les Salons") are placed in a circle all facing into a large communal space with settees and warm lighting. Each "cabin" has a telephone, so that you can call for help and get it, no matter what your state of undress. This is on top of the helpful assistant who is manning the reception desk at the entrance to Les Salons.

Success!
I found the mature lady at the Chantal Thomass counter to be unexpectedly helpful. She virtually ignored me when I "made the rounds" and gathered up all the bras that caught my eye (only bras with nice bottoms- I love having sets!) This didn't bother me, however, because I felt free to poke around without being pressured. And yet perfect when I "appelled" her on the telephone for assistance, and she even disappeared into a back storeroom for me!

And thus, a gorgeous (yet substantial- no flimsy lace for my girls) leopard print number is now mine. If you go to her website you may just be able to identify the newest addition to my collection....

La Patisserie des Reves

La Patisserie des Reves is the most recent patisserie that I hunted down. The little pink swirly toothpick is their logo. It is actually a cartoon representation of a religiouse, a particularly renown French speciality made from three balls of choux pastry, with lots of cream and icing also involved. Most patisseries do a fairly basic version, but this comes from La Patisserie des Reves, where only one of each pastry is on display (and I do mean, "on display". As if they are exhibits in an art gallery that displays the sculptures under glass domes.) You tell the madames your choices, and she tells the bakery out the back who arranges them delicately on a foam sheet, inside a watermelon-pink box. These toothpicks are used to help keep each pastry in place. When there the assitant who was folding our box shut noticed that the cream from a religiouse (which, ironically enough, had been deconstructed in the artistic sense of the word and reimagined as a rectangle...) was at risk of being touched by the lid as it tucked in down the side. So instead of just shimming the pastry over a few millimetres, the box was sent back to the baker for rearrangement. I shared a religiouse, a Paris-Brest, and an enormous madeleine with my lunch partner. The religious was marvellous, with the top balls of choux pastry filled with a coffee-cream and topped with crunchy, shiney toffee. Like creme-brulee balls. But the Paris-Brest was definitely my hero. I'll write about her in another post, and I promise to include pictures....

Eat Cake More Often

Here is a random assortment of things in my life that I would like to share with you:

Gloves.

Bought by my mother in Berlin, brought to Australia in her suitcase, given to me upon the eve of my departure, travelled back to Europe in my suitcase, and much admired around Paris.

Felt flower.


Bought at La Droguerie on Rue de Jour. La droguerie is actually a fairly generic term, used to describe anything from a fabric store, to a corner store. In this case, however, it is one of the most amazing spaces I've been in. All woodpanelled and just COVERED in spindles and spindles of ribbons, racks of buttons, drawers of charms, jars of flowers, shelves of material, skeins of wool....This particular flower is an auberginey purple, to be pinned upon my grey winter coat de temps a temps.

Mini-satchel.


I spent my latest Sunday afternoon wandering Montmartre and came across, of all things, a Mexican store. I'm not surprised it drew my eye, I can be somewhat of a butterfly at times and it was COLOURFUL. I have been searching for a toiletry bag, but often the options are naf, not made in a my-shampoo-leaked proof fabric, and have holes at the zip ends. This baby is none of those things, and I'm happy to have her on display and use her all the time (the dust in my apartment is astounding, so bagging things instead of leaving them shelf-side should help protect them.)

Paperbag.


While in Montmartre I also tripped past a favourite bakery and grabbed my first piece of Parisien quiche. I normally eat only the pastryless quiche that I cooked with E, so I had forgotten what a deliciously naughty indulgence it is to have a perfect pastry crust surrounding the rich cream, egg, cheese, bacon filling. This is the bag it came in (I ate it outside in the sunshine to save money) and it says "Eat cake more often." Here, here.

Zebra


Love the colours, the composition, everything about it. It's stuck up in a possie that I see all the time.

In a cloud of chemicals

What else but a hormone induced fug would convince me that it's a good idea to put my face DIRECTLY next to Little J's feverish, snotty, dirty little one? My brain knows that when another person is sick you're supposed to keep your breathing space separate to theirs, not inhale their exhales. My brain says snot smeared cheeks are gross. My brain begs me to put him in bed over there, and me in a room over here. And yet ... from somewhere else, some place that doesn't even have a voice, comes the urge to pick up the distressed little soul who's crying in his cot. To bring him into the darkened lounge room, to lay back on the couch and lay his stomach on mine, and cuddle him close. To snuggle his snuffles at my chin, to kiss his hot clammy forehead, to cradle his head and rub his back. To go cold and tingly laying in the same position, just so that Little J can get some much needed shut-eye.

I have heard that giving birth to children increases the amount of oxytocin floating around in the mother. But I am not his mother, he is not mine. Enter my new theory that cute little defenseless people (otherwise known as "babies" and "children") actually exude chemicals from their very pores. These chemicals convince other, bigger, more capable people (otherwise known as "adults", "nannies" or "suckers") to overcome all their normal self-preservation instincts and take care of the little defenseless ones.

I'm also working on another theory, that says men have managed to bottle this into "L'eau de defenseless", and wear it at random. Some of the above symptoms seem all too familiar....

Coeur de Pirate

Coeur de Pirate, par Comme des Enfants

(Still from the video clip> Click on the link below to watch)

So one of life's advantages when living in Paris is French television, and plenty of it. Much of it is rubbish, but I am a big fan of all the music channels. Living alone it can be nice not only to have the sound babbling away in the background, but also the image. This little ditty has me completely obsessed, and also OUTRAGED that it is not available for purchase in the Australian's itunes store.

What is the point, I ask, of having an international, digital store such as itunes if I, an inhabitant of Paris who happens to have an "Australian" itunes account can't purchase French music comme je voulais?? Are they planning a special release party for the Australian market??? Is it embargoed until Comme des Enfants tour?? Or maybe the next SO Frenchy, SO Chic CD has bought the exclusive Australian rights to it?? It is, in my little Franco-Australian opinion, RIDICULOUS!

Risk of rain

Today I learnt that a 10% risk of rain is no guarantee that it won't rain. Is it likely? No. Possible? Entirely. Will your soft, cream, ballet flats get rain slushed? Absolutely.

How long does it take to fall in love?

Six weeks. It takes exactly six weeks for a baby to fall in love. I have been here for six weeks now, and seen Little J's affections grow and blossom towards me. He was always fairly comfortable around me. But then things started to get serious. He gently head butts me as I lean towards him to get him out of his cot after nap time. He gives me eskimo nose-kisses when we snuggle at the high chair. He gave me a love-bite on my shoulder after bath time, when he was all swaddled in his towel. He shared his banana with me on Friday. I tore off pieces to give to him to hold, he would take a mouthful, then put it at my mouth for me to also have a mouthful. And thus we shared two bananas together. But here's how I know for sure. For the first time, when I was leaving the house in the evening, he wanted to leave his dad's arms and come with me instead. xo

Two and a half ways

I have so far discovered two and half ways to get free coffee in Paris.
(If it's from a friend it's not really free, because you take turn about and next time you're out having coffee and a tete-a-tete together, it will be your turn to pay for BOTH coffees.)

Halfly: the shop assistant forgets to charge you for it. But because you should (and my kind friend did) inform them of their error, you end up paying for it anyway. And even if you do not, you probably get a naughty karma mark chalked up to your name somewhere. That's why this is only half a way to get free coffee.

Firstly: A complimentary Nespresso from one (or both) of the big department stores.

Nespresso are currently pushing their machines in a big way, and given that all coffee in Paris comes out of a machine not unlike an Nespresso machine, why not? (i.e At the push of a button. Coffee grinders are not part of the Paris soundtrack.) It really doesn't taste much...strike that....any different. And it comes with a chocolate square. What more could a girl want as she browses deluxe French homewares?


Secondly: Have one bought for you by a stranger.

I had just finished browsing an open-air photography exhibition on the left bank that was hosted by the Quai Branly Museum and was hanging out for an coffee and some people watching. Given my tourist-heavy location, however, I decided to check the prices on the outdoor menu. While scanning it for 'espresso' two guys sitting nearby admired my outfit. (Vocally. With full sentences. They didn't just leer.) One of them had a stroller with a sleeping child, and the other looked like a Ralph Lauren cut-out, so I figured how bad could they be? We continued chatting, they invited me to join them. Which, given my time-killing status, seemed like a logical enough thing to do.

Monsieur Dad had an accent that made me doubt my French speaking abilities, I had so much difficultly understanding his questions. (At the time, I felt silly having to always ask him to repeat himself. In retrospect, however, it's highly possible he also came away feeling silly, seeing as the blonde Australian girl seemed to only be capable of speaking to his friend.) Le other one, however, was cute, with square white teeth, sandy blonde hair AND easy to understand. When the waiter came over with the bill, I had a laugh that it was Monsieur Dad who footed the afternoon's entertainment for his friend. And with that, my phone buzzed, I bid my adieus to Monsieur Ralph Lauren and Monsieur Dad and dashed off into my waiting chariot, Le Metro.

As the leaves turn in Paris

Paris is a gorgeous city, and she brings out the amateur photographer in everyone. (Which is, of course, annoying as you're trying to go about your daily business of getting places and doing things. Camera dodging is a sport in some parts of Paris.) The sky is large, the buildings are old, and right now the leaves are turning from cool greens into golden yellows and browns. Paris does herself every favour, and it must surely be difficult to catch her from a bad angle. Here are a few of my shots from the end of September. I offer them to you only as tokens of my Parisienne affections; for I am no photographer and I am sure I don't do her justice.












P.S If you click on the images they become larger and sometimes clearer, especially this last one.

Paris fashion week

So for the first time since about high school I knew a guy who knew a guy....which got me a ticket to this show during Paris fashion week. I can't remember the name of the label, and the clothes were frankly some of the ugliest I've ever seen. All patterned, fluro, gold lame, flowers, plastic.....very 'student fashion', as my friend described it. Definitely trying too hard. However, I was most excited to be there and here are some of my shots from the night.

Cooking lesson 1: Cucumber skin is NOT FOR EATING!

We return home, victorious, with everything. Little J was running minorly behind schedule for his nap, and between being overtired and his bubbly, snotty, blocked nose, decided that sleep wasn't on the cards. So, the entire time E and I were in the kitchen, he railed and cried from his crib. There were some pauses, but none longer than a few mins.

Back in the kitchen....most of the ingredients for the quiche just required grating- the carrots, zuccini, cheese. I thought E would be capable of this, which she was, but under pretty keen supervision.

And then I chopped up the onion with their fabulous pink chef's knife. (I'm not joking, it's a gorgeous pale pink Japanese number, gloriously sharp.)

"You're not allowed to use that knife."

"Yes I can, I'm a big girl."

"No, Dad said that no one except him is allowed to touch it. Not me and not even you. He told me the other day."

"Ah, but he doesn't know what a good cook I am. I'm used to using dangerous knives."

E pouts in the corner for a moment, and then decides to get up close because she wants the onion to make her cry. It does, and then she pouts some more because her eyes are stinging.

With the quiche finished, next comes the salad. (Little J is still railing away next door). I pulled out the red capsicum and E said she adores them. That's great, so do I. After doing to pre-chopping, I got her to chop it into little pieces. She tried one, and then declared she hates it. I put some aoili in a bowl (she loves it on her chips) so she could try it with that. "But that's for CHIPS" she said, wide-eyed that I would even consider putting it with anything else. "I know, I know, just try."

Blurgh, no success. "What about with mayonnaise?" (a similar reaction on all fronts: MAYONNAISE?! and more blurgh faces.)

She was so good at trying the capsicum that I decided next she should try the cucumber with the skin on it. She adores cucumber, it didn't seem like such a leap.

I may as well have suggested she eat her shoe. "WITH THE SKIN?????!!!!!"

"Yes, just try it."

She pulled the skin off and went to eat it separately.

"No no, together. They'll taste better together."

WELL, the biggest pout for the day came out to play, she clamped her mouth shut and wouldn't say another word.

"But you're a big girl, you can try it."

Extremely emphatic head shake. Whimpering.

"Why not? I don't understand, you're not saying anything. Only babies don't speak, and you're not a baby."

And with that she whimpered and ran from the room. I conceded, and peeled the cucumber and finished the salad, thinking I was giving E time to cool off. Nope. She came in on her little white mobile phone, and passed it to me so I could speak with her mother.

In English:

"Um, so what is the story about the cucumber?

I shared

"Ah, well, in France we never eat the skin, so she has never seen someone eat the skin. But that's it?"

"Yes"

"Oh, so it is not at all serious then?

"No, it's really not.

"haha, ok then, well, I'll be home for lunch like we planned. Bye"

I think E was disappointed that I didn't look at all scared or told-off when speaking with Mrs.

The pouting continued into lunch, with E barely touching her quiche or salad. Mr and Mrs cracked a joke about Australia being full of rabbits (which I mis-heard as full of bread. I seriously explained that no, normally we wouldn't eat bread with the quiche, until I realised Mr had said 'lapin', not 'le pain'. He's not a vegie fan, so my voracious appetite for fruit and vegetables has thrown him for a loop.)

But, the next day, Mrs thanked me again very much for lunch and said how much she had enjoyed it. She loves vegetables (I had noticed her second helping of salad, and her keeness over the red capsicum.) She loves eating vegetables, and loved eating something that was fresh, not fried, not too much butter. A nice change.

After all of that, who would have thought that the person most enamoured with my cooking adventures would be her??

Bringing home the bacon

This week I finally decided to put my cooking skills on display, and at the same time create an activity for E on her schooless wednesday (Worst invention ever. well, ok, maybe not. It does mean I get a day that I'm not tied to the school pick up schedule. there are also lots of activities around paris for children on Wednesdays. I would like to have a trip to the doll museum planned for one wednesday soon, with a special storytelling activity. Such a shame the Barbie exhibit has just closed....)

I had tried to do all the necessary grocery shopping on the Tuesday, to avoid the joyous experience of taking E, her trotinette, and Little J in his stroller for the hour long round trip it takes to get to 'the' green grocer, followed by a supermarket stop off. But alas, I forgot the green salad ingredients, the onion, the bacon and the cheese. All of these things were annoyingly crucial to la recette. (Luckily my quiche recette is pastryless and very forgiving.)

Finding bacon proved to be my biggest challenge, having neglected to learn the french word before hand. I cruised around one butcher, trying to see it in the rows of pink flesh, but i just couldnt see it, or anything that looked like any form of bacon i had ever seen. streaky bacon, rindless bacon, long rashers, short rashers....none. So i marched my troupe off to the nice looking meat and meal providors to have a discussion with the commercants (shop keepers). In French, my description of bacon went something like this:

"I have a little problem, perhaps you can help me. im looking for a pork product, but not ham. In english the word is bacon (with my australian accent on bacon). Unfortunately i dont know the french word for it."

"So you're looking for ham?"

"Ah, no, I dont think im looking for ham, unless you call bacon ham, in which case yes im looking for ham." This comment puzzles him immensly, and that's not really surprising. I only said it because I'm aware the European definition of Jambon is broader than the Australian version.

"This?" (points to shoulder of pork)

"No..."

"This? (points to pork roll)

"No..."

"Wait, I'll get the other madame to help us.

Quick discussion ensues between them, and he gives her a speedy run down of our non-progress so far

"Bonjour madame. So you are looking for pork meat?"

"Yes...."

"What are you going to do with it?

"Put it in a quiche."

"Ahhhh. Like a quiche Lorraine?"

Me, thinking furiously about whether all quiches are alike enough to say yes...

"Yes."

"Ah, voila, then you are looking for poitrine fumée. (She holds up something that looks like it might vaguely resemble heavily smoked streaky bacon). You dice it up and fry it quickly on the stove before putting it in the quiche."

The mention of cooking it before it goes into the quiche oncerned me a little, because I never cook my bacon first, but i decided that surely an hour in the oven would cook the pointrine fumée.

"Ah yesss, that's exactly what I'm after."

She gives it to the man to slice up for me. I, stupidly, decide that it should be cut into fine slices the way I'm familiar with. So he holds up his knife to the chunk of pointrine fumée to indicate how wide I would like my slices. I'm trying to say and indicate narrower ("plus fine") and he wasn't really getting it. So I had resigned myself to fat slices until the madame took the meat and the knife from the man and said

"No no no, I understand what she wants. She wants it like this (indicates a slice the same thickness as one i had already refused) and then you will dice them up nice and small for her."

"Yes! That would be perfect!" (Poor man)

Anyway, I then entered the shop to pay (this all took place at their little street cart in front of the shop), and was looking around at all the yummy potential. Then, I discovered bacon! In its most familiar form, short rindless rashers. (uncut).

"But you've got bacon over here!"

"Of course we have bakon. You can mix the two if you like. But what you have is much better for a quiche." (What's a girl to say?)

"Ok, then I am happy."

*All translations are approximate, and what I intended to say and what I understood them to have said. Whether I actually achieved this is another matter.

8 days a week

Ok, well, I don't have to work 8 days a week. It's total Beatles-mania over here and it's a bit catching.

But I do have to work 5 days a week, starting at 9am and typically not leaving until 8pm, sometimes later. And then, as mentioned in Saturday Markets, I also have to work a couple of hours on Saturday morning once or twice a month. It's a lot of hours and a severe change in lifestyle for me, being used to either the flexible university student lifestyle or even when I worked full-time in retail I could still run errands during the day without a problem. Not anymore....



A typical day runs thus:
Arrive 9am, baby handover from Mr
10am, Little J has nap
11.45am, Little J wakes up. Get him dressed if he wasn't when I arrived.
noon, feed Little J
12.30, Mr and Mrs come home from the office for lunch cooked by Mr (Normally a simple style of meal, I'm lucky if I see so much as a vegetable shaving, although at least one bottle of wine is typically drunk.)
2pm, Little J down for arvo nap
2pm/ 2.30pm Mr and Mrs return to the office
3.45pm, get Little J up, ready for school pick-up and play in the park
4pm/ 4.15pm leave home for school pick up
4.30pm school's out. Battle my way through the throngs of parents, grandparents, au pairs and other children through to the narrow gate, down the narrow path to the tiny courtyard where I have to wait for E to wave at me from her Juliet balcony. She then points me out to her teacher, who I have to acknowledge and wave my little blue security card at (it's got E's photo on it).
4.35pm, give E her afternoon gouter (snack) that I brought with me, she then runs off onto the lawn to play with her friends. French schools typically don't have much space to run around at lunch time, so it's their first chance to run off some steam.



I now have to entertain Little J, give him a gouter, stop him from crawling onto other people's rugs or taking their balls or eating mysterious ground-matter. Spending time in the park has become much nicer now that I've made friends with an American nanny. I'll call her Beth. Beth has a 3yr old and a 7yr old. They're more independent, so she doesn't have to supervise too closely at the park. But they're also quite rude, so I think I prefer my high-maintenance but cutie-pie 1 yr old.

5pm, leave Parc Monceau, walk home with E. If she's lucky I've brought her little razor scooter so she can trip home on that, otherwise she has to walk (which she doesn't like much at all. I tell her sport's good for her, and that she's just being lazy.)

5.25pm, back home. Try and convince E to play with her brother, because he loves it so much and laughs like crazy around her.


5.45pm Little J has last nap of the day. Give E something else to eat, do her homework, play with her, tidy her room

6.30pm bathe Little J, make sure E is also showering or bathing.

6.45pm, put the wriggle machine into his pyjamas, and into his high chair for dinner. Dinner takes a minimum of 25 minutes. Which never really ceases to amaze me, that even if he's on his best behaviour it still takes that long. It would definitely go quicker if I could feed him through his ears. I spend so much time looking at his ears while he scopes the room for the object he most wants to bang around his tray table for all of about 30 seconds to max 2 minutes. Then it's back to scoping for the next object.

7.15pm, playing with Little J, making sure E's room is tidy, listening to her piano practice

Between 7.30-8pm Mr arrives home, Little J can go to bed, I can do the baby-baton change and head home.

Variations on a theme:
Sometimes, like today, I get a phonecall around noon saying Mr and Mrs are too busy to come home for lunch, so I'll have to cook something myself. I would like this more, I think, if their pantry came stocked with my choice of food. However, I still like it because it means I get to eat lunch earlier (today it was a pan-seared chicken fillet with tabole and tsatsiki) and then after lunch I take Little J for a walk to my fave bakery and we grab an espresso and something sugary, like a strawberry tart, berry danish or today's choice, escargot. He also gets to eat my complimentary meringue, which is fab cos it gives me a head start eating the sweet-yumminess that I ordered.


Or I might get a call around 7pm saying I have to cook dinner for E. That call's not as much fun.

Saturday Markets

Late in my second week I discovered that I was just 'expected' to be available on Saturday morning to help look after Little J while Mr and Mrs completed their errands for a few hours. Afterall, they said without a trace of irony, Saturday morning is the first chance all week we have to go grocery shopping, drop by the bank and do a million tiny things that we didn't have time for during the week. No shit? Had it occurred to them that when they're at work, I'M AT WORK??!! Why don't they do what normal people do and either take turns at the errands or take baby with them??

Anyway, Saturday morning I arrived at 10am for my once/twice monthly 'coup de main' (more like a favour than strictly speaking part of the job). Mr, Little J, his stroller and their grocery cart (think of a nanna-trolley) and I headed off to pick up fresh bread, fish, fruit and vege, cheese and wine. I very quickly took charge of the shopping caddy, leaving Mr to deal with the wonky stroller (unless you're using two hands it constantly veers to the left. I think of it as working out my core strength muscles everytime Little J and I take a stroll.) He offered me the choice and I quite honestly said I'd prefer the caddy just to mix things up a little.

I find food markets an incredibly exciting experience. There's so much POTENTIAL at a market, all those meals that could be....

The poissonerie was definitely a highlight. So much gorgeous, glistening fresh seafood to choose from. And not just the range I see in Melbourne either, random things like what I think is abalone (in spikey cases?) and live crabs and shells with fish in them that I didn't even know you could eat. The smell of a well-kept fish shop is a wonderful thing. I feel healthy just being in there!

The green-grocer was interesting, with one or two things I hadn't seen before, such as funny-shaped tomatoes or things I don't see very often like epinards. I also noted that their little pineapples were selling for 6e a pop. Twelve dollars for a PINEAPPLE!! And 1e per kiwifruit. Good to remember sometimes how lucky I am that some of my favourite fruits are cheap in Aus.
(Below: Their punnets of berries here are too cute- love the little baskets. Below Right: prices are hung from little boards above the fruit. Bottom left: a general feel for the shop. It's quite narrow, often people don't even go in the shop assistants hear what you want and bring it all to you. Bottom right: the strange tomato, I think called a Spanish tomato.)

Mr has known the fishmongers and the grocer for 10 years, and went out of his way to introduce me to them all so that if I came by to pick up some things for the family, I would be looked after (and it would just be placed on his account.) A relationship like that would be impossible for me to cultivate in just 12 months on my own. I would still be considered a stranger otherwise, even if I went every week. As Mr said, it means that they won't give me dodgy produce. Heartening, isn't it?

The cheese shop was fascinating, but not as personally exciting. I don't know my cheese very well, and it's one of those things I really like having a couple of my key cheese-friends around to let me know what's what. I can't handle anything too mouldy, and sheep's cheese is a complete and utter no-no. Blargh!

One of the perks of the Saturday coup de main is that I got to stick around for the yummy homecooked lunch, which was french pan seared prawns (a little too fresh- they were alive when he bought them and he didn't put them in the freezer first to put them to sleep before frying them. Sob) followed by boiled fish (this sounds really strange to me, but it tastes just like steamed fish) and rice with hollondaise sauce, followed by a selection of cheeses with baguette stick (about 6 cheeses to choose from.) The lack of vegetables in French cuisine would likely annoy me more, except that I can go home at the end of each day and eat heaps for dinner.

Is the Tour Eiffel over rated?

(Left: taken from the Tuilleries, looking through Place de la Concorde. Right: taken from the Champs de Mars)


I have heard it said that the Eiffel Tower is overrated. It's too touristy, the French don't like it, it's a glorified transmission tower, the restaurants are a rip-off, the lines are too long...you're much better off at the Tour Montparnasse. The view's just as good, the queues are shorter and it's not so cliched.

And it's fair enough that people may have these opinions. But on Sunday afternoon I decided I needed a 'Paris' moment, so I went to have coffee looking at the Tour Eiffel. It it felt lovely. Perhaps not an activity that made me feel like a veritable Parisienne, but a moment that made me feel I was very much in Paris.

So, I have included some of my photos of the Tour Eiffel, and also one looking back to Tour Montparnasse (the only skyscraper within the walls of Paris.) What would you rather look at over your coffee?

(Left: when trying to leave the Champs I was totally miffed at the construction fencing that didn't have a single gap anywhere in it for me to shimmy through to my metro stop. Instead, I had to turn around and walk half-way back down the Champs to the nearest gap in the fence. Lucky I did- this was the view I got turning around. It was a nice reminder to just enjoy my day. Right: That building in the distance in the middle of the trees is the Tour Montparnasse.)

La rentree (the return to school)

I still have E home with me for the morning because school doesn't start until the afternoon, but she’s in and out with her Dad getting last minute school supplies. Yesterday I had to cover all her text books (we’re talking about a seven-year-old, remember) in plastic. Not sticky contact, as in loose plastic and sticky tape. Contact as I know it is apparently a French rarity. Who the hell knows how they missed out on that? I had been worried about my covering job not being up to scratch for E’s exclusive private school (the school of French celebrities). And then, genius!, E popped up with a pair of tiny scissors wanting to help me. Well, I wasn’t going to turn that offer down. So, together, we cut and she, to the very best of her seven-year-old abilities, sticky-taped away. Bless.

La Boulangerie

I had spied an artisan baker on my strolls up near their apartment, so I kickstarted my Thursdayday with an espresso and a sweet something. It’s strange, but all the espresso here seems to smell divine. (Perhaps I am just in dire and constant need of coffee...?)

I’ve hit the jackpot with this boulangerie- they have by far the cutest collection of bakers I’ve ever seen. Who knows if they can even bake? Who cares? Brushing their pain to glossy perfection before gently sliding it into the oven, it’s hard not to bat your eyelids. And yet only in Paris is there just as much chance that you’re admiring the loaf and not the baker. No wonder the women of Paris look so good so early in the day.

My espresso and what I thought was the world’s smallest muffin (about the size of my thumb squished into a patty pan) arrives. It turns out to be the world’s smallest piece of flourless cocoa-driven heaven. I get a caffeine high, a sugar hit and the best view in the quartier. All for under 2 euro. Hello new morning routine?

Dinner on the hop

E was upset her parents were going to be late, but her little eyes lit up when I said this meant she could eat dinner a couple of hours earlier than usual. And so, one of my standard no time, no ingredients, no recipe meals popped into my head. Spaghetti bolognaise. Wonderful. We’ll go past the tiny mini mart on the way home and buy what I need.

This idea was somewhat altered by their lack of spaghetti, mince, tomato paste, garlic…you get the picture. Spag bol became tuna penne. This was, of course, assuming they had tuna. Which, if I could just remember the French word for tuna I’m sure I could find…

The Arabic guys running the store were lovely and very helpful. It was the same shop I dropped past after the first Monday night, to purchase some wine (and chocolate biscuits) from. On the Monday night, I had arrived teary and became worse when I came across a tin of cat food with a dead-ringer for my own cat on it. She’s so pretty, with long white fur, deep green eyes and a purr that’ll blow your house down. That Monday, while watching me sniffling and packing my wine, biscuits and tin of cat food into a bag he had slipped an extra chocolate bar in there and I am eternally grateful for his thoughtfulness.

So I have no doubt he remembered me, when on Wednesday I did my crazy dash around the shop, asking him for “fish in a tin in olive oil.” (Thon, I finally remember, is French for tuna.)
Being able to wrap up the evening according to my own schedule suited me much better. Children’s natural clocks are early, so being able to bathe, feed and bed baby by 7pm, and E by 8.30pm was more my style. In the week since I have struggled a little to cope with the elongated evening home-stretch. If the French have a reputation for being rude, and for being food-obsessed, it’s because the two go hand-in-hand. If you only ate twice a day, 7 hours apart, no snacking, you’d be rude and bloody hungry too! (I would like to add that this is a vicious stereotype, that I have seen disproved more than I have experienced.)

Zebra Crossings

We trundled off for an afternoon promenade dans la pousette. I was confused by all the zebra crossings, which appear with helpful regularity, yet most unhelpfully cars ignore any pedestrians and zoom through them. What’s the point of the crossing? And then, having taken the wrong street and wanting to perform an immediate street-crossing, I realized. When people say the French touch-park, they mean it. It’s impossible enough to squeeze myself through the kissing bumpers, let alone la pousette. French zebra crossings are like that school matron at 1950’s dances, making sure there’s thirty centimeters of decency between dancers.

While out on this late afternoon stroll I received a very strange phone call from Mrs. She prefaced it by saying, “What I’m about to tell you I don’t want E to know.” Her discretion was somewhat foiled by the constant and loud traffic on the street, but I managed to convince her I wouldn’t give anything away. Without, of course, actually saying that. (This entire exchange felt more like a scene from Borne Supremacy than The Nanny Diaries.) Her aunt was in the hospital in a serious condition, she might die in the next few hours. Don’t tell E anything, but we won’t be home until late. You’ll have to cook dinner and feed the children.

(I knew this would be upsetting for the family, the aunt was particularly beloved. She had been a very close part of their family life, looking after the children weekly.)

Breakfast in Paris

Today I took my first Parisienne breakfast; espresso and croissant on my way to work. After all the hot weather, the cool breeze was a perfect breakfast accompaniment and I strolled off to work feeling very French.

Having yesterday discovered the apartment’s internet access I was desperate to write home and touch base with everyone else’s goings on. This made me generally impatient for E to start school the next day, so I would then have Little J’s nap times to cybercruise to my heart’s content. But, alas, I had two children to entertain. When Little J was awake, it was him that needed the close attention and when he was sleeping it was nose back to the Polly Pocket-sized grindstone.

Parc Monceau

Work, day 2: Tuesday I arrive armed with fresh knowledge. I now know the full nap routine, including how to put him to sleep and how many sleeps he should be having each day (the correct answer is three.)

E played beautifully with her brother, which he adores because he adores her. We checked out the rather large and gracious Parc Monceau, ready for my impending after school pick-ups. I had been rather formally presented with the family’s collection of park tokens, with tokens for the swings and the mini carousel. Mrs pressed them upon me, making sure I kept them in my bag. She assured me that she would remember to ask for them back on Friday so I didn’t run off into the weekend with them (heaven forbid they miss out on a loyalty stamp.) The swings surprised me, looking very different to your average backyard tire on a rope or even your more up-market Australian-park number. These swings have an attendant, cost 1.10 euro a turn, and require two kids per swing. So I guess the money goes towards the matchmaking service provided by the swing attendant, plopping the right two kids on either end of a very dangerous metal pendulum. (Amazing that with the number of swing attendants I assume exist in France they still have such high unemployment…)

But, nothing broke, including me, and I reached the end of the day feeling very pleased with myself. Being offered a chilled glass of sauv blanc while we waited for Mrs to return, and discovering internet access, topped it all off perfectly. Mr pointedly indicated to Mrs that I had resorted to alcohol at the end of my day. Always with the cracks about my alcoholism, which, if you knew how little I drink at home, is either ironic ridiculous or both. I laughed it off and used his own words, saying it’s not wine, it’s an aperitif. Ho ho ho’s all round for that one.
I bid everyone a most cheerful au revoir after Tuesday’s dinner, thinking that this was indeed a job I could accomplish with my sanity intact. Tsk tsk.

Alone with les enfants, day 1

I would like to preface this post with a warning that it is being typed on a French laptop, with French keyboard that's driving me nuts. It probably woulnd't be so bad, except that I keep switching between my mac and this laptop and my brain's going a bit haywire.

E didn't start school until the Thursday, so I had 3 whole days alone with both children to look forward to. Not a terrible thing by any standard, although it was certainly a little different to the understanding reached on the telephone months earlier whereby I was only working in the afternoons......

E didn't want to be back in Paris. She was upset to be starting school soon and to no longer have the outside freedom she has in the south, where she goes for all her holidays. (And had just spent 2 months straight.) Little J, meanwhile, was grousy from the latenight flight on Sunday. The first time I tried to put him down for a nap he cried, hard, continuously for at least 30 minutes. When i went in to him he'd bitten his lip, which, with a bit of blood now around his lip, looked a bit scary. Ok, so no morning nap. Come lunchtime when the parents returned (as they always do to cook a big lunch at home.) and he didn't really feel like eating properly he was so tired. Only then, when he went down for his post-lunch sleep was I shown the sleep routine which is, apparently; always followed to a tee.

All the downtime from Little J was, of course, spent playing with E. I had professed to adoring Polly Pockets, so Polly Pockets it was. And my, haven't they changed?! Someone obviously decided a toy without clothes wasn't going to do much for share dividends, so they now look rather a lot like tiny tiny barbies. You thought a Barbie shoe was small, just wait til you try and find one of Polly's.

Jean awoke at around 3 and got grisly rather quickly. I had been destined to stay for dinner (as a regular thing, not just first night thing) but mentally decided that I was waaaaay past being able to wait around until after 8 for that to happen. Having already cried once when Little J was beside himself, I was feeling fragile.

I begged off dinner, but got caught when Mrs asked me if everything was ok. I was right on the brink of tears when she asked, and being nice was just a bit too much. So, like Little J, I cried.

Mrs was concerned for me, but not at all concerned that it wouldn't work out. She told me that I was very courageous to be doing what I was doing, and all would be good tomorrow. Go home, drink some wine, fall asleep, come back tomorrow!

And so, I did.