petite anglaise

‘Look at my big nichons mummy,’ Tadpole shrieks, fingering her (papier mâché) breasts.

It is 10.30 am on Saturday morning and Mr Frog and I have come to watch Tadpole’s annual school carnival, while The Boy, not wishing to step over any invisible lines, remains at home. This year the children are all dressed up as works of art and the overall effect is a joyous riot of colour. The costumes, made out of stiff paper, are worn like pinafores, covering the children’s clothes and turning them into walking sandwich boards. As we stand at the edge of the school playground, behind improvised police-tape style barriers, rubbing sleep from our eyes, the children file past hand in hand.

Tadpole, unable to keep a secret, had whispered to me weeks earlier that the costume she was making was a Niki de Saint Phalle sculpture. I’d recognised most of the names she’d been bandying about over the past few weeks – ‘we did a painting just like Pollock mummy, we put the paint on the paintbrush and then did throw it in splodges onto the paper’ or ‘I did a picture of a lady with a very wide face, just like Fernando Bottero’ – but Saint Phalle was not a name I was familiar with. ‘I’m going to be a sculpture,’ explained Tadpole helpfully, as I waited for the relevant page to power up on Wikipedia. ‘A sculpture of a lady with great big nipples and a big fat bottom wearing a swimming costume.’

It was The Boy who, at the mention of Niki de Saint Phalle, pointed out that the fountains in place Igor Stravinsky, in the shadow of the Centre Pompidou are Saint Phalle sculptures. I knew them well, but never would have put two and two together.

‘Shall we go on the métro on an adventure?’ I suggest to Tadpole on Sunday afternoon.

‘Ooh yes, I love the métro,’ she replies, darting across the room to fetch her shoes. If only everyone were so easy to please.

When we reach our destination, Tadpole shrieks with delight and I catch The Boy’s eye, silently thanking him for coming up with the idea. We make several tours of the huge rectangular bassin, Tadpole racing on ahead, examining each sculpture in turn, trying to decide which one she likes best. My personal favourite is the reclining mermaid with water squirting out of one huge, multicoloured breast, but Tadpole is just as amused by the huge pair of lips, the spinning bowler hat, the Elmer-like Elephant and the majestic crowned bird, wings spread, reminiscent of a Mayan condor god. We take a few snaps of Tadpole, posing by the sculptures, squinting into the sun and grinning like the Cheshire cat.

When the skies darken and the first raindrops fall, we hurry into the Marais to find a restaurant where we can grab a bite to eat. Tadpole doodles on the back of a napkin with a biro unearthed from the bottom of my handbag.

Elbows on the table, chin cupped in my hands, I look from The Boy to Tadpole and back again, marvelling at how simple and how right everything feels.

For Gonzales (aka fella?).

You can find me here, here and also podcasting (with accompanying slideshow in which a shopping trolley plays a starring role?!) here.

I do hope no one is reading one in my carriage on the Eurostar today.

When I whisked The Boy away to London for his birthday last autumn, I remember wandering around Soho amazed at how all the pubs were so full that many of the drinkers had to resort to nursing their pints outside on the pavement. The penny only dropped when we pushed our way through the crowds to venture inside to order drinks of our own. As soon as we were through the door we realised that outward appearances had been deceptive. Indoors, all was silent as the tomb. The smoking ban had literally turned the pubs inside out, and the odour of cigarettes had been replaced with the (arguably more unpleasant) tang of stale beer and sweat.

France followed suit on January 1st and since The Boy is a hardened smoker, never to be found without a packet of Lucky Strike about his person, I shivered at the prospect of sitting outside our favourite bars in the bleak mid-winter. It was either that, I reasoned, or sit indoors, but regularly find myself alone, tapping my fingers impatiently on the table, while the smokers (almost everyone but me) took themselves off outside for a nicotine fix.

So far, I’m pleased to say, we seem to have managed to find a happy medium: bars and restaurants with heated terrasses and clear plastic awnings which effectively mean we are seated almost indoors. Granted, the patio heaters usually leave me pink-cheeked and frosty-toed, so I should probably start wearing an extra pair of socks if I want to be spared chilblains this year (yes, I know, they went out with the ark, no one gets chilblains any more – try telling that to my feet). I’m also well aware that heating the outdoors is an exercise which is unlikely to have a positive impact on the environment.

Hearing The Boy making arrangements to meet his mum for a drink this weekend – suggesting first Aux Folies, then saying “Eh merde, ils ont pas de terrasse chauffée….. Va falloir que je la rappelle pour donner rendez-vous au Zèbre…” it occurred to me that if I had an ounce of spare time, I should probably write a handy little guide called “Paris, la Clope au Bec” and pitch it to Parigramme, where it would nestle comfortably among the other titles in their collection.

I currently own “Bien naître à Paris“, “SOS Jeune maman parisienne” (I think it was the word “young” which clinched that deal) and “Les Mercredis des petits parisiens” (which despite all my resolutions, I have yet to open). Today, having browsed the full list of publications, I’d be curious to read “Comment devenir une vraie parisienne“.

I suspect that my own favoured solution – find myself a real, bona-fide Parisian, born only a couple of kilometres from where he now lives, and regularly exchange bodily fluids in the hope that some of his Parisien-ness will rub off on me – may be a little, um, unconventional…

“Scrape scrape clatter SCRAPE!”

This is the sound my upstairs neighbours’ clogs make as they grate against the hardwood floor like giant fingernails on a blackboard, at a volume loud enough to actually wake me from a deep, dreamless slumber. At least I imagine their feet clad in clogs. What else could possibly make that unforgivable noise? Although why anyone would slip on a pair of clogs at 2am, I am at an utter loss to understand. Ditto how anyone can stomp around for half an hour at 2am and then begin again, bright eyed and bushy tailed, at 6.30am. I’m beginning to suspect that there may be more than one culprit. Two clog wearers in the same household working different shifts. Statistically unlikely, I know, but I can furnish no other convincing explanation.

Naturally I was not treated to my first clog concerto until the ink was drying on the deeds to the apartment.

“Whhhhhiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrr. Grrrrrrrrr. Ding!” growls the microwave five centimetres away from my pillow at 7 am every morning, part of my elderly neighbour’s morning ritual, no doubt warming milk for a steaming bowl of café crème or a chocolat chaud. I try to look on the bright side. At least I don’t have to shell out for an alarm clock, as it would be superfluous, to say the least.

Tadpole’s side of the apartment shares a wall with the kitchen/dining room belonging to the old lady who often smells of urine and affectionately calls me “ma fille” in her sandpaper voice. She also appears to be hard of hearing, as we are regularly treated to bursts of cheerful North African music played at full blast on the radio. Thankfully she is reasonably quiet in the evenings.

But by far the worst noise pollution I have experienced so far were the shenanigans I overheard on Christmas day, when I fell gratefully into the warm embrace of my duck-down duvet after mainlining champagne and foie gras from noon until midnight. The culprits were, once again, the upstairs neighbours. This time the clogs were off, as, I imagine, were most of their garments. And evidently they had discovered a new pastime: sex. With what I can only describe as noisy abandon and great gusto Mr Clogs serviced his good lady wife from midnight until a little after 4 am.

Since I’ve been living here since late July, and this was both the first and the only time I’ve overheard so much as a moan of pleasure, I can only conclude that this was an annual lovemaking session and will consequently not be repeated before the evening of 25 December 2007. Call me an optimist, but I live in hope (but with emergency waxy earplugs at the ready).

I have never met my upstairs neighbours, but I am told they own their apartment. But in today’s post I received the convocation to the (also) annual assemblée générale des copropriétaires for my building which will take place next week. Nothing could keep me away. I need to know what a woman who brays like a donkey during coitus and is capable of upwards of ten orgasms in one single night looks like.

Whether I will feel able to look my neighbours in the eye, or be sufficiently bold to humbly request that they might consider wearing less offensive nocturnal footwear in the future, is another matter entirely. I can imagine the conversation already.

“Les murs sont comme du carton ici, n’est ce pas?”

“Ah, on vous dérange, mademoiselle?”

“Non, non, pas du tout…”

Sometimes I hate my British side.

We take a seat at an outdoor table in front of Le Panier – a quirky little café on the Place St Marthe – and a contented sigh escapes me. What bliss to take some time away from the computer, which dominates my living room, my bedroom, my life. The Place St Marthe is a perfect place for playing “spot the bobo” and basking in the last rays of the summer.

The proprietor sets down a carafe of water, two glasses and a menu, taking a seat by my side. My mouth twitches with suppressed mirth. I have been here before and I know from experience that he is a rather larger than life character, who often pauses to sit by his bemused patrons talking surreal nonsense until he gets bored, moves on in search of new prey. Today he is dressed in white and blue striped cotton pyjama bottoms and a scruffy t-shirt. I wonder idly whether he is going commando and peer discreetly down to see what footwear he has chosen to accessorise this charming ensemble.

“The specials today are blanquette de veau with mascarpone, sauté d’agneau and a mushroom tart,” he says, giving me an odd sidelong glance which I find impossible to read. “Personally I don’t recommend the mushroom tart, it’s not up to much…” I wonder whether this is a skillful reverse advertising strategy. If not, my overwhelming desire to order the tart is simply a reflection of my own perverse nature. In the end though, I decide against it, as I scan down the menu and something else takes my fancy.

My friend – so traumatised by our last near miss that he insisted upon picking me up today on his scooter to avoid a repeat performance – quizzes me about all the surreal things which have been going on of late and then we fall silent for a while, savouring the tender souris d’agneau (I’m very vague about cuts of meat, in French, but I’m reliably informed that no mice were involved in the preparation of this meal) which falls away from the bone and melts in my mouth.

We order dessert, coffee, a beer, whiling away the afternoon until it is time for me to collect Tadpole from school. As I draw close to the throng of waiting mothers around the doorway, I reflect on how privileged I feel, right now. If things had been different, I would still be scurrying to the office every morning, never sure what kind of atmosphere would reign. A stranger would pick up Tadpole from school in the afternoons, and mind her until I got home. I would brave the rush hour métro twice a day.

Instead, I pad through my apartment barefoot, clad in my favourite jeans and power up the computer. I take a break when I feel I’ve earned one, or when my head becomes dull and heavy and words no longer flow. Grabbing a book from the pile, I head for the Parc de Belleville, sit cross-legged in the grass, my hair ruffled by a gentle breeze.

Every day I pass the steps where a plaque reads:

“Sur les marches de cette maison, naquit dans le plus grand dénuement celle dont la voix, plus tard, allait bouleverser le monde”

A song echoes in my head. I regret nothing.

When I finally took a peek out of my window, towards 2 pm, I was dazzled by unexpectedly bright sunlight. And yet, for some perverse reason, I decided it was a perfect day for an outing to the cinema. A perfect day for sitting in darkness, indoors, alone.

Once upon a time, there was a petite anglaise who lived on rue de la Roquette, and taught English part-time for twelve, maybe sixteen hours a week. She had a student card, and an MK2 cinema card (in those days, the chain of art house cinemas were called Les Cinemas 14 Juillet) and she went to the cinema three, maybe four times a week. Between classes, to kill time, she often went to the morning showing (25 francs). When her apartment refused to warm up in the middle of winter, she saw two films back to back while her toes gradually thawed.

In her time with Mr Frog she still went often, although this sometimes meant reaching a somewhat unsatisfactory compromise. She liked thoughtful, challenging, whimsical; he liked car chases, guns and mechanically working his way through a bucket of (salted) popcorn. Sunday afternoons were often spent zipping down to Bercy Village on the Vespa, munching on a Bresaola toasted sandwich and queuing up for the latest blockbuster. Then Tadpole was born, and suddenly the cinema became a prohibitively expensive outing: €21 in babysitting fees before any tickets (or popcorn) had even been factored in to the equation.

Nowadays, although I have a little more time to myself, I tend to want to spend my precious freedom wisely, preferring to see a friend for a leisurely brunch, or a few drinks, rather than sitting companiably in the dark.

But today I returned and got bitten by the cinema bug all over again.

I bought a ticket for the mid-afternoon showing of Michel Gondry’s The Science of Sleep, then retired to the outdoor terrasse, where I sipped a café crème and nibbled on a cannelé for half an hour, my nose in a book. At the appointed hour I chose the perfect seat (a third from the front, in the middle of the row) and kicked off my flip flops, tucking my feet up under my skirt. The room was sparsely populated and quiet. As the lights went down I felt a familiar tingle of anticipation.

The film was quirky, endearing and occasionally laugh out loud funny. Gael Garcia Bernal was rather delectable in his ill-fitting, large collared suit. Losing myself in a dreamscape filled with stuffed toys, cardboard toilet rolls and eggboxes for a couple of hours was glorious escapism.

As the credits drew to a close, I strolled out into the sunshine and stretched like a cat. Glancing at my watch, I was pleased to note I had a whole hour to kill before Tadpole o’clock. I stopped at a café I’d never even noticed before, on a whim. A table in the sun. The sound of djembé players drifting over from somewhere near the canal. An occasional métro aérien screeching across the metal bridge from Jaurès to Stalingrad. Scenes from the film replaying in my head. A crisp, cold pression. One of the best croque monsieur’s I have sampled in years (it’s all in the topping – and this one was oozing to perfection with thick coating of bechamel).

Bliss.

There was only one false note. From time to time I found myself missing a certain someone. It crossed my mind, fleetingly, that Mr Frog would have loved the film; that he would have adored the café. We would have sat in companiable silence (popcorn chewing excepted), conversation unnecessary.

Ironic, isn’t it, that I should find myself wishing I could spend a few hours of my precious freedom with the one person who can’t be there. Freedom, it seems, comes at a price. And situations are never quite as clear cut as they first appear.

“Et, dites-moi, ma fille, pourquoi vous avez quitté votre mari, hein?” my neighbour enquires, in her abrasive, rather masculine voice.

Head: patchy fog. Limbs: rather stiff. Conversation: undesirable.

I danced until 4am last night in the scarlet womb of the Batofar. At first I thought the drink was playing evil tricks on my sense of balance, but it soon became apparent that the boat really was listing on the starboard side. I chose to believe that an uneven distribution of revellers across the dancefloor was responsible, because even if the boat had been about to capsize, there could be absolutely no question of leaving half way through “Bizarre Love Triangle”.

I finally manage to collect my wits sufficiently to venture out of my apartment twelve hours later. My aim is simply to take out the rubbish, have a peep inside my letterbox and then scuttle back upstairs to bed. Clutching a wad of junk mail and bank statements I begin my ascent. Halfway up the stairs I am waylaid by my new neighbour.

I don’t even know her name, but I am already perfectly au fait with her family situation. A son, living in Israel with his two wives (!) and four children. She was born and raised in Tunisia. There are two grown up children living in Paris, one of whom is a taxi driver. Her husband passed away sixteen years ago. She wears a sleeveless patterned overall over her clothes at all times, which I think Vitriolica would refer to as a bata; a headscarf is knotted around her wispy grey hair.

One thing is abundantly clear: the lady does not do small talk.

In the space of two minutes, she has already quizzed me about what I do for a living (ahem, complicated…) and enquired as to why my daughter isn’t with me. When I explain that Tadpole is at her daddy’s house today, that leads her to the million dollar question: “what on earth had possessed me to leave my husband?”

Executing my very best gallic shrug, I mumble something incomprehensible about how these things happen, which seems to satisfy her, for now. I choose not to correct her erroneous assumption that Mr Frog and I had been married. Now is not the time. It’s not that the subject of our separation is a sensitive one, really, but I suspect that to someone of her generation, my reasons would seem pithy. We didn’t fight tooth and nail. He never mistreated me in any way. We still get on rather well; in fact he’s one of my very best friends. The flame just sputtered out, over time, and we find it healthier to live apart. Even to myself, I now gloss over the leaving him for someone else part, which somehow seems irrelevant.

My neighbour decides to impart some friendly advice, woman to woman. Ever since she first saw me moving in, she has had a soft spot for me, apparently.

“Il faut pas rester seule, ma fille,” she says, putting a wrinkled hand on my arm and looking earnestly into my bleary eyes. “Pas pendant trop longtemps. C’est pas bien.”

I force my lips into a smile, wondering how to extricate myself from the conversation without causing offence. The footfalls of another neighbour in the stairwell give me hope. It is a thirtysomething male, bound for Franprix with a tartan shopping cart. The briefest flicker of irritation passes across his face when he sees my neighbour lying in wait, but, to his credit, he fields her questions about his family and his summer holidays with admirable patience.

I seize my chance and mutter an excuse, darting back into my apartment.

Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s lovely to have neighbours who actually want to have a chat from time to time. It’s usually the elderly who do – younger Parisians rarely take the time to get to know the people who surround them, even if the paper thin walls which divide our apartments mean that we are intimate in many other ways.

But next time I have an errand to run, I shall be checking to see that the coast is clear before I put a foot outside my door. Because there is one more thing you should know about my neighbour: her memory is failing.

We have had this very same conversation three times in the last week. I’m not quite ready for round four, just yet.

I take my seat with a group of girlfriends at L’Apparemment Café, an old haunt of mine deep inside the Marais, opposite the Musée Picasso, where you can choose from a long list of mouth-watering ingredients – sun dried tomatoes, artichokes, fresh marinated anchovies – to build your own salad. Except it is Sunday today and I had completely forgotten that on the day of our Lord they serve only brunch.

This would be perfect if I hadn’t already ploughed through a copious Pain Quotidien brunch the day before, a major blowout involving lashings of praline spread, confiture de lait and other sinful concoctions which, if they didn’t taste so good, might as well be applied directly to the thigh area with a palette knife.

Waving my healthy salad goodbye, I settle in for the long haul: juice, coffee, a boiled egg, mountains of crusty bread, pancakes with maple syrup, a cheese platter (the French always seem to add a random unnecessary savoury dish into every brunch menu, which I never have room for), fromage blanc and blackberry coulis… and conversation.

“I can’t believe you snogged two guys on the dancefloor last night. Seriously, you are a menace to society!” My friend blushes, as she has only just arrived, doesn’t know the other ladies present particularly well. She should be used to me by now.

“No”, she says, recovering her composure remarkably quickly, “they were the menace to society. Fancy reaching your mid-thirties and not knowing how to kiss. Appalling. One of them had a technique like a washing machine. His tongue went round and round in a clockwise motion, then suddenly went into reverse and swept round and round in the other direction. It was so, well, mechanical.” She shudders at the memory.

All this talk of domestic appliances calls to mind the last person who chatted me up: a Darty man who delivered my new cooker. Granted, I indulged in a little eyelash fluttering, but only because I wanted him to take away an old refrigerator left in the apartment by my predecessors, and that wasn’t strictly his job…

The result was ten or more messages left on my mobile in semi-literate text speak before my suitor finally drew the appropriate conclusions from my resounding silence.

“Men just seem like too much trouble right now, I don’t even have time to do all my own stuff, let alone take anyone else into account,” I say, almost thinking aloud. “Mind you, I kind of wish my favourite toy hadn’t gone missing when I moved.”

Because, yes, of all the things that could have inexplicably failed to materialise when I unpacked my boxes, it had to be that. I live in fear of it turning up at an inopportune moment (say, during a visit from my ex-mother in law).

Embarrassment potential: critical.

I am woken by a text message and realise that

beer + ill advised gin based cocktail because it was cheap in happy hour + beer + beer + beer + ?

is a disastrous equation which can only = feelings of nausea and throbbing pains behind the eye sockets.

The text message invites me to lunch. At 2pm. At the “Zéphyr”. It is 10am. The idea of eating food, even drinking water, is uninviting at this juncture, but I dare to hope that things may feel a little different in four hours’ time. And the message clearly reads “buy you lunch”. Le Zéphyr is rather nice, in that artfully shabby, old fashioned sort of way which Paris does so well. It’s even within walking distance of my house, which is a thoughtful touch. Such an offer cannot be refused. I text back “ok”, hoping my inability to type anything further will not be construed as rude.

Shortly before 2, I make a triumphant dive for the one available table on the raised decking outdoors. The sky is making a respectable attempt at blue, although experience over the past two weeks has proved that caution should be exercised. I inspect the awning overhead: it wouldn’t protect us from one of the bibilical style deluges Paris has been subjected to of late, but is better than nothing.

I take out my book and find my page. The fact that I have reached a section written in a sonnet sequence does not make it ideal hangover reading, but I perservere, wishing I had brought a Voici from the stack Mr Frog’s mother so thoughtfully brought to Paris. My friend calls to announce his lateness and I hunker down in my seat, unperturbed. It’s a nice spot, the sun is (almost) shining and I am determined to savour my well-deserved screen break. I don’t have a clue I have been waiting for almost three quarters of an hour until the waiter comes over to warn me that his lunch shift is almost over.

I panic and call my friend, and after some confusion – the menu seems to have changed since he last ate there – I order us both a steak and he promises to appear in time to eat it.

Ten minutes later he phones back (apparently not for the first time, but my phone is vibrating quietly in the depths of my bag, the sound indistinguishable above the grumble of passing traffic.)

“Hi, where are you? I can’t see you anywhere.”

“In Le Zéphyr, sitting out front!” I reply, craning my neck, seeing no sign of him on the pavement. In any case, the terrasse is now almost empty, I really shouldn’t be too difficult to spot.

Suddenly I realise what has happened here, and suppress a violent urge to bang my head against the window. Repeatedly.

“I’m guessing that there is more than one Zéphyr in Paris, am I right?” I sigh.

Indeed I am. My friend is at the Café Zéphyr, halfway across town, at Bonne Nouvelle. He doesn’t have his motorbike with him today. He could never manage to get here in time to eat his steak warm. This is officially A Fiasco.

As I reassure him, through gritted teeth, not to worry, that it will be fine, I’ll cancel his order, the waiter appears, bearing two plates.

The phrase “there’s no such thing as a free lunch” springs cruelly to mind, as I start to wish I’d never crawled out of bed in the first place.

I wait for the downpour to finish, craning my head out of Tadpole’s window to see if there is any forked lightening to accompany the ricochets of thunder. It’s a good job she’s not here with me. Last time we witnessed a storm she pressed anxious hands to her ears and begged me to make it go away, testing my omnipotence to the limits.

“Mummy, tell the clouds to stop bumping!”

I realise I should probably start reading up on a few things I have forgotten since GCSE science, now that we have entered “why?” territory.

There is no sign of a taxi at the junction, so I plunge down into the bowels of the métro instead. I am struck by how natural this feels, after my awkward experience in the London Underground. My hips instinctively know the height of the turnstile barrier and precisely how hard it must be nudged. My feet lead me to the optimum position on the platform, aligned with the exit I need when I get off. I feel the familiar bumps of the podotactile through the thin soles of my shoes.

With the KLF roaring in my earbuds, I sit back and close my eyes. I know how many stops there are before I reach my destination; I know the quartier (Bastille) better than the village where I grew up.

As the train pulls into the station, I raise the handle so that the double doors glide open while the carriage is still in motion, allowing me to alight, gracefully, at the precise moment it reaches a standstill. I walk along the platform, springing steps in time with the music in my head.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I feel like I own this city.

I glance down at my watch, startled to see it is already way past two. Time for a change of scenery; an hour or two outside my own head. I grab a book, at random, from the teetering tower by my bedside, find my purse, and, noting the ominous colour of the sky, arm myself with an umbrella.

The rue de Belleville is a wasteland of shuttered shops and extinguished lights. Welcome to Paris in August. A whole city to myself, with the exception of the most obvious tourist traps, but much of it closed for business.

I hesitate outside a shabby looking Thai joint with a seven euro lunch menu which I have never eaten at before, usually favouring the flashier Thai further down the hill, which pulls in the crowds on the strength of a favourable review in the ‘98 Routard.

A little girl with sleek black pigtails, presumably the proprietor’s granddaughter, captures my attention. She darts among the empty tables with her older sister, shrieking in a language I do not understand. She must be Tadpole’s age, give or take a few months. Momentarily overcome by a rush of tenderness for my own absent daughter, I picture her sleeping on her belly, fingers curled into a fist in front of her face.

I choose a window table, amused to see I am seated directly opposite the famous trompe l’oeil advertising hoarding. A perfect reading spot.

Opening my book I plunge into the first short story and am slowly but surely reeled in, the sound of the girls playing receding as I become increasingly indifferent to my surroundings. When my food arrives, I am brought back to reality with a jolt, but luckily have the presence of mind to request cutlery, so I can keep one hand free to turn the pages as I bring forkfulls of beef and lemongrass salad to my lips.

An hour later I tip the owner and set off back home, resolving to eat out alone more often. With regular practice, maybe I’ll be able to master book in one hand, chopsticks in the other.

There’s something worthwhile to aspire to.

London is one long ride on an interminable escalator, mopping my brow and frowning at the chunky A-Z, wondering how it is possible for many of my destinations to be so very far removed from metro tube stations.

It is struggling to remember to “KEEP LEFT” in corridors and on staircases which are neatly divided into two halves. Keeping my expensive travelcard handy for when I leave every station to avoid awkward, embarrassing fumbling; a wave of homesickness for my Navigo card and its comforting “DRIINNG!” welling up as the alien “PIINNG!” of Oyster cards echoes in my ears.

In Paris, leaning over the edge of a platform to squint along the tunnel, I can often spy the lights of the next station, and sometimes make out the next one after that. A station is never more than a short stroll away.

I drag my overnight bag along residential streets, plastic wheels rumbling noisily over uneven paving slabs, glancing at my watch periodically to see if I am late enough to warrant making a breathless, apologetic phone call.

I am pathetically grateful to whoever had the foresight to paint helpful hints on the tarmac at every pedestrian crossing, prompting me to “LOOK RIGHT!” or “LOOK LEFT!”, rather than trusting my (apparently continental) instincts and stepping out into the path of a rapidly approaching black cab.

It is in my native land that I am truly a fish out of water: panting, helplessly disorientated, yearning for the familiarity of my French home.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Later, back in the village where I grew up, I creep into my daughter’s bedroom, craving the familiar scent of her warm curls, her damp scalp.

She is unexpectedly awake, sitting up in bed with a welcoming smile. I cover her cheeks with kisses.

“Mummy,” she asks, “are you going to sleep in your bed today?”

“Yes my love,” I reply, “so you can come and fetch me when you wake up in the morning.”

She pauses for a moment; I can almost see her thinking.

“Mummy? Have you got a sleeping bag like mine?”

“No. Mummies don’t usually wear sleeping bags.”

“When I will be a mummy and you will be a little girl, I can lend you this one,” she says generously, gesturing down at her pink gingham pod.

I find this notion of role reversal strangely comforting.

Later, against my better judgement, I slip into the single bed, beside her oblivious sleeping form and let the regularity of her breathing slow my rapidly thumping heart.

With an hour to while away before meeting the bank manager, I decide to take a stroll down memory lane and take in some of my old haunts. The weather is, in turn, cloudy and menacing, sunny and optimistic. Wandering around my old quartier is likewise bittersweet.

There are things which make me smile knowingly – grateful for their constancy. The makeshift sign in the traiteur’s shop – proudly boasting that once again, this year, they are the national champions “dans la fabrication du fromage de tête!”, for example. I beg you, please do not enlighten me as to what “fromage de tête” is, it’s one of those things I’d rather die not knowing. I fear it has more to do with heads than cheese, and that’s as far as I’m willing to let my mind venture.

A few paces further, nostrils teased by the pungent aroma of spit roasting chickens, I see the butcher’s assistant and note with amusement his familiar (drawn on) moustache with fanciful curlicues. He calls out a jovial “Bonjour Mademoiselle” as I pass, and I silently thank him for not saying Madame today.

Rue de la Roquette: the location of my first Parisian chez moi, crammed full of ghosts, mice and the odd cockroach. I see my younger self meandering tipsily homewards in the early hours, blissfully unaware of the existence of Guy Georges. A carefree, reckless me, buying fresh croissants at 5.30 am after a night dancing at the Rex club; pupils swollen to the size of saucers. A less jaded me, striding out into the city armed with my guidebook, determined to explore every inch of the city on foot.

I pass my laundrette (immortalised in the film Chacun cherche son chat) where girls sit flicking idly through magazines, while the warmth and hum of spin cycles lulls them into a pleasant torpor.

Glancing at my watch, I am startled out of my rêverie and hasten to retrace my steps towards the bank. I don’t have enough time to venture along rue Richard Lenoir, to the old apartment Mr Frog and I shared opposite the Gymnase Japy, where Tadpole was conceived.

But I’ll be back.

…if the offer goes through on my Belleville 2 pièces.

update: it has gone through. OHMYGOD! I’m officially stressed now at the prospect of having to woo banks and look at reams of paperwork. If any kind reader can recommend a good courtier based in central Paris I would love to hear from you!!!

The signs were unmistakable. A feeling of buoyancy, of lightness, a renewed spring in my step. That familiar sensation of seeing the city through a filter, bathed in a flattering, glowing light.

Last weekend, I fell head over heels in love.

It hit me first on Friday, when I stepped out of the métro at Odéon. Shivering in the cold as I waited for a friend to arrive for our cinema date, I took in the animated bustle around the monument everyone chooses for a rendez-vous point. Girls waiting breathlessly for a special boy to arrive, smiling shyly when he appeared. Groups of students arguing over which film to see. Mobile phones pressed to every available ear. A buzz, an excitement, which I had long forgotten, but which reminded me of my early days in Paris, of Mr Frog and I when we shared a tiny maid’s room near the Sorbonne, went out in St Germain almost every night.

Saturday, stepping out of an apartment building in the rue des Envierges, I decided to take a detour through the backstreets of Belleville, where it is so easy to imagine the village it once was, with its cobbled streets and few remaining villas with walled gardens. The sky was periwinkle blue, the birds were singing, and I felt my spirits lifting; overwhelmingly glad to be alive.

Later, leaving Le Flore, the taste of a sinful, thick hot chocolate lingering on my lips, I took a stroll along the banks of the Seine, on a whim. A vague, half-formed plan to buy a book, was casually shrugged off in favour of letting my feet lead the way. My boots took me across the Pont Neuf, where I half-smiled at the sight of the couples gathered in its alcoves; bemused to note that seeing them caused me no pain.

Sunday, pleasantly exhausted after a long evening which began with a bar in the rue Montorgeuil, continued with a restaurant, and ended with a pendaison de cremaillère where I met some fascinating people and talked until the small hours, I struck out for a friend’s house near the Park Monceau, a bunch of delicate pink tulips in one hand, a warm baguette under my arm (and flour on my coat, because I haven’t mastered quite how one can do all those things and yet remain immaculate).

Monday morning, despite grey skies and light drizzle, a distracted glance from my kitchen window as I cupped my bowl of steaming café au lait fell on the deep, buttery yellow of the crocuses I had the foresight to plant in December.

Last weekend, Paris opened her arms to me and I fell into them, gladly. Gratefully.

I had forgotten how much it is possible to love this city.

Easing my hand gently out from where it had been lodged – between someone’s left buttock and a standard issue French teenager’s Eastpak rucksack – I glanced tensely at my watch. The métro was taking an eternity to leave each station, the doors failing to close on the tightly packed mass of commuters and student demonstrators compressed within.

I was late for my first appointment with my new destiny; getting progressively more flustered as the minutes ticked by.

Red faced and panting, I finally arrived, complete with Tadpole and pushchair, at the address I had scribbled on the printout. A smartly dressed man with a briefcase awaited us in front of the entrance, and he motioned us inside, although not before woefully mispronouncing my surname.

Tadpole was in a very chatty mood.

“I’m going to help mummy choose a new house today!” she announced. “I’ve got three houses: mummy’s house, daddy’s house and tata’s house! And now I going to buy an udder one!” Normal rules do not apply to Tadpole-speak, a language punctuated exclusively with exclamation marks.

Mr Agent Immobilier raised his eyebrows, probably thinking that 32 square metres of working-class Paris looking onto an interior courtyard doesn’t normally qualify for “house” status.

He rang the doorbell, and a harried looking student answered the door, before scuttling back to her dissertation.

I looked around me, finally able to appreciate, after combing my way through all those petites annonces, what thirtysomething metres really felt like. Tried to imagine fitting Tadpole and me, plus as many of our belongings as possible, into a space half the size of the apartment we occupy, but can no longer afford.

I couldn’t, without resorting to use of the word mezzanine.

The indignity. Thirty four years old this year, teetering on the brink of getting myself 165,000 or so euros into debt, and I will be reduced to either sleeping on a convertible sofa in the living room, or adopting the bed-on-stilts approach in order to share Tadpole’s bedroom.

Obsessed as I may be with clambering onto the first rung of the property ladder, it hadn’t occurred to me that I would have to do so in quite such a literal sense.

I forced myself to pay attention to the kitchen, the bathroom, the electrics, the central heating, but concentration was difficult, on account of a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Because the word “mezzanine”, to me, spelled the end of an era, and the beginning of a new one which I am rather hesitant to embrace. I closed my eyes and let myself contemplate my dream home, a stone cottage nestled in the Breton countryside, one last time.

Then I took a deep breath and let it go.

For now.

This advert is plastered across the walls of many Parisian métro stations at the moment.

How very fitting.

The ad is actually for a loan finance company – and I think the “compagnon de route” in question is supposed to be a car, but it did give me a little jolt the first time I saw it, all the same.

I mean, how would you feel if you saw your name across a billboard?

What do you mean, it’s not my name?

I almost signed a cheque “petite” once…

We walk, leather glove in pink woolen mitten, up the rue de Belleville towards the Eglise St-Jean Baptiste. The narrow pavements are bustling with Saturday morning shoppers despite the biting chill in the air, and my stomach begins to growl as we pass first an appetising pâtisserie (whose boast is that they have twenty different flavours of macaron), then a tiny, pungently scented fromagerie, our noses alerted to its presence long before we reach it.

Tadpole is busy “blowing clouds” through her chapped lips.

I notice, quite by chance, that the SNCF boutique is unusually empty and seize this opportunity to renew Tadpole’s Enfant Plus travelcard. (A truly wonderful invention: thirteen hours of excruciating labour pain = a 50% discount on all train travel for me, plus a free seat for Tadpole). Soon to be expired travelcard is helpfully stowed in the pocket of my handbag, as a reminder, along with a set of passport photos which Mr Frog obligingly had taken last weekend.

We take our seat at the desk, and I adopt the saccharine tone I reserve for most French fonctionnaires, as it has just occurred to me that I do not have any form of Tadople ID about my person.

“Bonjour Madame, j’espère que vous allez pouvoir m’aider…”

I needn’t have worried, because Tadpole has already launched into a full charm offensive.

“Bonjour Madame,” she trills, smiling winsomely. “Je m’appelle [Tadpole Frog], et j’ai deux ans!”

I feel ever so slightly nervous about how much more information Tadpole intends to volunteer, as she can be somewhat random in what she chooses to share. The day that “mummy made some bubbles in the bath” being a case in point, which was recounted, with accompanying sound effects, to anyone who would listen.

Thankfully she stays on topic on this occasion, and starts telling the lady that it is her birthday tomorrow. (Tomorrow, in this instance, meaning June). We obtain the card, without incident, and I manage to persuade a reluctant Tadpole that it is time to leave. Not an easy feat, as she has taken off her mittens, obviously feeling quite at home, and is now enthusiastically exploring the possibilities of the swivelling chair.

When we finally get home, after lunching on couscous together, on a whim, in a local restaurant, I take out the travelcards and compare Tadpole’s photos. The difference takes my breath away. Casting my mind back to February 2005, I try to remember how many words she could say, or what she enjoyed doing back then, and cannot summon up an image of this smaller, rather hairless, toddler. There is something less definite about her facial features on the older picture, but it’s difficult to put my finger on exactly what has changed. Seeing her evolve a little every day, it is only when I am confronted with hard evidence that I realise just how far we have come.

Tadpole snatches the picture from my hand.

“Look, there’s baby [Tadpole]!”

“Yes, that’s a picture from when you were just one year old,” I explain.

“I a big girl now,” she replies, seriously. “I do all my wee wees in my potty. Just like mummy, but mummy does them in the big toilet!”

I am somewhat relieved that we didn’t have this particular conversation at the SNCF shop.

Just when the tips of the crocuses (or croci?) I planted in my windowbox at Christmas time had started to emerge, albeit tentatively, and spring seemed to be hovering tantalisingly just around the corner, Paris is now horribly cold again. Cold, and damp.

Tuesday was the nadir of this sorry week. First of all, in the mad dash to visit Tadpole’s other local maternelle with Mr Frog before work, I managed to forget my waterproofs and simply did not have time to go back for them. Instead I stoically pushed the buggy through driving sleet and rain, head bowed in resignation, all the way to the childminder’s house. Water dripped miserably from the end of my nose. My coat soaked up water like a sponge, growing steadily heavier.

“Poor mummy’s getting wet,” remarked Tadpole helpfully, from her vantage point on the dry side of the waterproof buggy cover. A puddle was forming on its top, so I tipped the pushchair over sideways, without warning, to drain the water off, much to Tadpole’s delight.

“You don’t say,” I muttered, wondering idly whether at the age of two and a half, it wasn’t about time Tadpole learned about the joys of sarcasm.

Swerving to miss a crotte, rendered liquid and even more treacherous by the rain, I wanted nothing more than to turn back towards home, languish in a hot bath and crawl back into my bed, where instead of sleeping the previous night, I had hovered in that frustrating limbo between slumber and wakefulness, unable to switch off my addled brain, too busy composing and re-composing ever more vitriolic lettres recommandées to my web hosts. In French.

Arriving at the childminder’s high rise block, our nostrils were greeted by the familiar tang of (human? canine?) urine in the lifts. The sliding doors firmly closed behind us, I pulled back the raincover and bent over the back of the pushchair to plant a kiss on Tadpole’s nose.

“Look mummy’s upside down. Like a bat!” exclaimed Tadpole, as my hair rained droplets all over her dry clothes.

I smiled a wry little smile, in spite of myself, thankful for the presence of this cheerful little person who always knows how to make everything bearable. I only have to make eye contact with Tadpole and my worries have a funny way of dissolving, instantly.

And because I’d like to end this post on a positive note, I won’t trouble you with how I skidded on the wet floor of the métro and twisted my ankle, landing unceremoniously on my buttocks.

No. Let’s stick with the first ending.

Oh my! Only yours truly could manage to co-star with a high-tech portapotty and a wheelie bin for my fifteen nanoseconds of fame.

I staggered into Starbucks on a rainy Wednesday morning en route for work, regretting not a little the liberal quantities of wine and champagne consumed the previous night. Nothing to do with VD, incidentally, as Lover was safely in Rennes, watching the football at the pub, hopeless romantic that he is. Instead, as it was my Tadpole-free night, I had kindly offered to help a couple of girlfriends celebrate their ill-timed birthdays.

Eight hours of sustained (proper English-style) binge drinking later, and we narrowly avoided being locked in a (closed) Etienne Marcel métro station.

But that’s another story.

So: 9.50 am, Wednesday morning, tired, emotional and rather nervous. Barely had I pushed open the door of the café when the journalist who had contacted me a couple of days earlier via my comments box (and who can’t have been more than twelve years old) accosted me (she had apparently already asked every other person in the building if they weren’t petite – I was late). Returning to her table while I ordered a restorative scone and coffee, she waited patiently for me to arrive. I cringed as my Christian name was shouted out when my drink was ready, not even noticing that it was also scrawled across my takeaway cup in marker pen.

Call me paranoid, but I’ve always been brought up to believe that journalists cannot be trusted.

*Flash* went her expensive looking camera, over and over again. I had been instructed to pretend to type something on the (borrowed) laptop, and the journalist actually wanted me to smile, but I could manage no more than a terrified, rabbit-in-the-headlights rictus. The other customers watched the sorry spectacle with interest.

As I made my exit, blushing furiously, I thought I heard a couple of people sniggering.

It was only when I arrived at the office, and a good friend pointed out that my skirt was unzipped at the back, revealing more of my tights and bottom than anyone but Lover should be allowed to see, that the reason for their mirth became clear.

Move over Bridget.

It is Saturday morning, and I am not yet sure whether I have a hangover. By rights I should: two G&Ts, a Kir Royal, a beer and a Cosmopolitan would normally be a toxic enough mixture to lay me low. Thankfully, as I open first one cautious eye, then another, exposure to light doesn’t herald in a searing headache. Nor does breakfast cereal cause any queasiness. This is fortunate, because there are few things worse than a trip to the hairdresser’s when one is suffering from mal au cheveux.

I apply foundation, not feeling brave enough to stare at myself in the mirror under fluorescent lights without it, and thank the lord for the absorbent powers of sushi rice. Taking a final long look at my hair, which perversely always looks particularly fetching the day I decide to have it cut, I wrap up warmly and hurry to the metro.

I rarely enjoy paying a visit to the hairdressers. It’s disappointment guaranteed. The only variable is the actual degree of that disappointment, which can vary from utter despair (the haircut inflicted on me days before the birth of Tadpole, which I describe as my “racoon with mange” look, little documented in the photo album) to a feeling of having been cheated (no difference discernible to the human eye, for the price of a mid-range digital camera). Scarred by past hairdressing misfortunes, I dread that final moment of truth when I must replace my glasses, hands trembling, and behold the results. Adopting my most convincing “oh, a pair of socks with polka dots on, that’s exactly what I wanted for Christmas” face., an expression which remains frozen in place until out of sight of the salon, where my bottom lip starts to wobble and then I crack, barely stifle a howl.

I give my name to fiftysomething facelift on the front desk, presumably the salon owner. She gives me a resentful glare when I confess I cannot recall the name of my hairdresser. I suspect she is worried about spoiling her perfect manicure by typing my name into the database. As I haven’t been back for eighteen months, having tried a couple of places on visits to the UK in the interim, I am not what you would call one of their esteemed regulars.

My colourist is called David. Something of a misnomer: Goliath would be more fitting. David boasts rippling muscles, and an all-over fake tan, the buttons of his white overalls straining to contain his hairless, brown hulk-like torso. His mouth looks oddly inflated, and I spend the next half-hour (€ 107) trying to work out whether he has had collagen injections, or just has a terminal pout. Unfortunately, David also has rather rough hands, and a tendency to pull each strand of hair painfully taut as he applies the white paste. I wince, quietly, and wager that the wealthy forty and fiftysomething ladies around me with their generous tips and insipid conversation about their next trip to Mauritius get somewhat gentler treatment. Thankfully I am permitted to keep my glasses on throughout this part of the proceedings so I escape the vapid chatter by burying my nose in a Japanese ghost story.

The time comes for rinsing, and I dare to hope that I might, at least, get a head massage. But no, instead David manhandles my scalp with his large, hulk-like hands, roughly applies a soin(€ 14) and disappears without a word, after twiddling a dial at the side of my reclining chair.

I sit and wait. And wait. Look at my watch. Cross and uncross my legs. Sigh. Begin to worry about the fact that I have left my handbag out of sight at the other side of the room. Wish I had my glasses. Wonder where the toilet is. And why there is a concealed rolling pin inside my chair, working its way up my back. Indeed, I am being massaged by a chair. A warning would have been nice. And although the feeling is soothing at the outset, it gets a little stale after twenty minutes have elapsed. And makes me painfully aware of my bladder.

A few more interminable minutes pass, and finally an apologetic junior appears to rinse off my conditioning treatment. David, it appears, does not do rinsing. The shower spurts into life; I cross my legs tightly.

Rinsed and turbaned, much relieved after a visit to the ladies’ room, I am ready to face the last hurdle: Jean-Francois, hairdresser extraordinaire. He claims to remember me, but allow me to remain inwardly sceptical. I am asked to stand, something I have only ever experienced in France. Ten snips later (€ 77) a junior is enlisted on blow drying duty. J-F dries the last few strands, and shows me how to do a zig-zaggedy parting.

I replace my glasses.

The results are surprisingly good. Goliath has done a decent job with the highlights – subtle, but not invisible – and J-F Superstar has at least respected my wishes, leaving my hair mid-length and layering the front, as instructed. So far, so good. I am escorted to the front desk to settle my bill. Studiously ignored by the surgery queen for a full five minutes while she tries to persuade my hairdresser to take more appointments, despite the fact that his last four clients have all complained about the long wait.

Finally, she deigns to turn to me, compliments David on the colour (causing me to wonder if maybe it is’t a bit too brassy, after all?) and calculates the grand total. I gulp. We are in digital camera territory and I am having a flashback to the last time I stood on this spot and vowed never to darken their doors again. How could I have forgotten?

But the worst is still to come. With a vinegary smile, like bile wouldn’t melt in her mouth, Madame Nip Tuck continues:

“Dis donc, vous en aviez besoin, hein?”

It is probably A Good Thing that I don’t have a pair of scissors to hand.

Monoprix: where customer service comes to die.

Unfortunately, as Monop’ (as it is not so fondly known) is the only supermarket located within striking distance of my office, it is a place I must reluctantly visit to buy supplies of Covent Garden soup. The other lunch options in the vicinity of my office are so fiendishly expensive (€ 10 for a sandwich and dessert, anyone?) that I have little choice in the matter. And so it is that with a heavy heart, I find myself once again in the Monop’ foodhall, searching for an oh so elusive shopping basket.

Five minutes later, laden with cartons of spicy Thai chicken soup and garlic naan bread (when the lover’s away…) I take up a queuing position. Not in just any queue, mind. Over time I have acquired an intimate knowledge of the relative merits of the motley crew that are the Monop’ cashiers. There are those who are painfully slow. Those who are efficient, but have a habit of chatting to local pensioners at great length. Those whose French is unintelligible. All, without exception, look thoroughly miserable. The pay must be terrible, and I doubt I’d be able to muster a smile if I were in their shoes, but, even so, my sympathy has its limits.

I opt for a young, but oddly toothless, cashier. My turn finally comes around, and I unload my week’s lunches onto the conveyor belt. Prompted for my carte de fidelité I proffer it, wearily. I have tens of thousands of points, but have yet to qualify for so much as a free cinema ticket. Unlike in England, where my parents jetted off for an all expenses paid week in the Channel Islands courtesy of their Tesco Clubcard, loyalty is not a quality for which you are handsomely rewarded in this country. Quite the opposite. My S’Miles card’s only function is to serve as a painful reminder of the fact that to amass that number of points, I must have spent an awful lot of euros in this godforsaken place.

Next, I insert my bank card into the chip and pin reader. It beeps in an ominous way, and I sigh inwardly.

“CARTE MUETTE,” reads the screen.

The checkout lady takes out the card, and rubs it on her grubby uniform, before shoving it unceremoniously back in the card reader.

“CARTE MUETTE,” repeats the screen, unimpressed with her polishing abilities.

In the interests of clarity, the checkout girl states, in a monotone voice: “votre puce est muette, Madame.”

This could mean one of two things:

1. My flea is a deaf-mute; or
2. The chip in my card is not working.

Out of the corner of my eye, I am aware of fidgeting in the ranks of shoppers queueing behind me. It is only a matter of time before the low, discontented muttering starts.

“That’s odd. It worked just fine in the bookshop down the road two minutes ago,” I venture, trying to maintain my composure.

“Well it isn’t working now.” comes the helpful reply.

Rifling through my bag, I sigh inwardly as I note the absence of my chequebook or sufficient cash to pay for my purchases. Dentally challenged checkout girl rolls her eyes and suggests I go and withdraw money from the cash machine on the ground floor of the shop.

I start to feel more than a little flustered. And cross. I am convinced, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that it is her card reader which is malfunctioning, not my card. We are surrounded by tills and card machines, but rather than offering to try a different machine, the onus is on me to go on a cash withdrawal mission. It’s ludicrous.

Leaving my half-packed shopping bags behind, I stomp resentfully upstairs to where the cash machine is located. It’s not working. A presentation rack of cheap, no-brand Christmas chocolates has been placed in front of it; the screen is blank. The nearest hole in the wall is 100 m down the road.

I wanted my Thai soup. And my naan bread. But not that much.

Time for a € 10 sandwich from Lina’s.

I feel my hackles rising. Having paid € 21 in entrance fees for the bioparents and I to take Tadpole to the mini-zoo in the Jardin des Plantes, my ungrateful child is not paying the animals any attention whatsoever. And this after chanting “go see the animals!” at least seventy four times during the métro journey to Gare d’Austerlitz.

Granted, the antelopes and wallabies are not very inspiring, lolling listlessly in the grass, not even twitching so much as an ear in our direction. And there are only so many different breeds of owl that one can look at, silently roosting in their cages, without having to stifle a yawn.

Nonetheless it is galling to see that Tadpole is more interested in giving dolly (Tico l’Ecureuil) a ride in her pushchair.

“Look over there!” I cry, in the patronising, over enthusiastic tones of a children’s television presenter, attempting vainly to draw her gaze towards a couple of stampeding ostriches who have just been let back into their enclosure, after being mucked out. “What big birds! Aren’t they funny?”

“Non mummy! I pushing the pushchair!”

My shoulders sag. I decide it is futile to try and show or teach Tadpole anything, and instead we just stroll around the menagerie, enjoying the warm sunshine.

The reptile house is more entertaining, not least because we have to leave the pushchair outside the front door. Tadpole, Tico and I marvel at the snakes, baby lizards, crocodiles, turtles and tortoises. The giant tortoises are a resounding success, reminding Tadpole of the Miffy postcard on her bedroom door. I explain, patiently, that it won’t be possible to ride on the tortoise’s back, regardless of what Miffy gets up to in “Miffy at the zoo”, and I manage to head off a tearful temper tantrum by pulling a banana out of my bag to divert her attention.

Fed up of the animal kingdom, we head up to rue Mouffetard to grab some lunch. The sky is a unlikely shade of azure for the month of October, and as I push Tadpole along the cobbled street lined with stalls selling ripe cheeses and all manner of rustic looking farm produce, manoeuvering past a man and woman who are doing a slow dance in the street accompanied by guitar music outside the café where Juliette Binoche was filmed by Kieslowski in Three Colours Blue, I feel a little stirring of my long dormant love for this city I live in.

That night, I manage to cajole Tadpole into eating a few leaves of iceberg lettuce, “just like the tortoises”.

All in all, it wasn’t such a bad day.

Autumn has arrived in Paris. The trees which line our avenue, partially obscuring the view from our fifth floor balcony when fully clothed, are beginning to shed their large golden brown leaves, making it more of a challenge to steer the pushchair clear of any déjections canines which may be lurking beneath.

I am slightly embarrassed not to be able to say what type of trees they are, but as I have mislaid my childhood “Spotters’ Guide to Trees”, I’m at a bit of a loss.

Tadpole insists on walking through the leaves, listening to the crackle they make beneath her Startrite shoes, pronouncing them to be “crispy, jus’ like cornflakes!”

It won’t be long before an army of little green men bring out the heavy artillery of leaf blowing/hoovering contraptions, working around the clock to clear the pavements. Men with futuristic looking machines on their backs, powering leaf blowers which blast the debris violently into the gutter. (Tadpole doesn’t like the noise these make, and shrieks, eyes like saucers: “regarde! it’s a big hairdryer mummy!” Hairdryers are Very Scary Things. Apparently.) There are green hoover trucks which drive up and down the roads, sucking up the blown leaves from the gutter with a huge serrated tube. In parallel, more traditional, labour-intensive methods are used involving sweeping brushes and huge green plastic bags.

In the mornings, on our run to the childminder’s house, it feels rather like an obstacle course negotiating the blowers and the sweepers, in addition to the usual pavement power washers and the sprinklers set up in the park, so that they slowly rotate and catch passing pedestrians unawares.

With all this frenetic, noisy activity going on, much of it at dawn, when it really would be nice if it were quiet enough to get some more beauty sleep, you’d be forgiven for thinking that the pavements might actually be clean.

Sadly, the little green men are no match for the combined forces of the Parisian pigeons, dogs with scoopless owners and cigarette butt tossers.

Living in Paris is a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it.

I take a seat in the métro, and adjust my ear buds. I rather like the journey to work in August. Most Parisians have sloped off to the beach for a few weeks, so the carriages are empty but for a handful of tourists. And I do enjoy tourist-watching. I wonder, idly, what it is about being on holiday that saps people of whatever dress-sense they may once have possessed.

I smooth down my gauzy skirt. I love the way it moves when I walk, but as it is so floaty as to be barely there, I can never quite shake off a feeling of paranoia when I wear it. If you are a girl (or a transvestite for that matter), you will be aware of the perils of the skirt/shoulder bag combination. A perfectly demure knee length skirt can and will end up skimming the top of your thighs on one side when you have walked not 200 metres, as a thoughtful passer by (female) pointed out to me the other day.

A doddery old man gets on at Gare de l’Est. He looks about eighty years old, has a small, wiry build and wears fairly non-descript clothing, except for a sleeveless beige jacket with lots of pockets, which I have decided to call a safari jacket, for the purposes of this post.

Ignoring the swathes of empty seats all around me, he sits down in the seat next to mine. Except he doesn’t. He sits down half on his seat, and half on mine. On my floaty skirt, with the whole of the left side of his body touching mine. I was already leaning against the window out of choice, but now I am pinned to the wall, whether I like it or not, unable to move.

I wonder what to do.

First, I cast about for a sympathetic person to roll my eyes at. The lady opposite avoids eye contact and pretends not to notice my predicament.

Maybe, I say to myself charitably, he just sat down clumsily, and this unnecessary proximity is purely accidental. Any minute now, the man will move further onto his own seat, muttering an embarrassed apology.

The metro pulls out of the station. The man doesn’t move. Instead, he appears to lean in closer.

Maybe, I say to myself with increasing desperation, he hasn’t noticed that he is sitting almost in my lap. After all, he is staring into space with a very vacant expression and could well be senile. In which case, this is all perfectly innocent, and nothing I say will make a blind bit of difference anyway.

The man buries his elbow further into my right hip.

Two more métro stops go by as I dither, rehearsing suitable lines in my head.

Sarcastically: “Would you like to sit in my lap?” (Too dangerous. He might well take me up on the offer.)
Politely: “Would you mind sitting on your own seat?”

I opt for a different approach, which involves standing up abruptly at the next stop, pulling my skirt from under his leg sharply, and shooting a disdainful glare over my shoulder as I flounce over to sit on a nearby strapontin.

I breathe a sigh of my relief, but am still not really 100% convinced that Mr Safari Jacket was intentionally doing anything lecherous. I may well have been overreacting.

When I arrive at my destination, I realise that Mr SJ has vanished.

Odd. I don’t remember seeing him get off.

As the metro pulls away, I spy a girl through the window. She is sitting at the far end of the carriage against the wall and is cringing away from a little old man wearing a beige safari jacket.

I feel vindicated, but also rather depressed at having my suspicions confirmed. Clearly it is a waste of time giving anyone the benefit of the doubt these days.

I have a phobia about walking into bars on my own.

The painfully shy teenage girl who lurks somewhere inside, squinting anxiously out at the world through National Health glasses, takes control of my body in situations of stress.

I phoned, still a few minutes away on foot, and checked precisely where he was. That was the first time we heard each other’s voices.

At the entrance to the bar I took a deep, ragged breath and forced my reluctant legs to carry me forward, past clusters of strangers positioned at intervals along the zinc bar. His friends spotted me first, and smiled welcomingly; he was standing with his back to me, but saw the change in his friends’ expressions, and turned. I think I said his name, and mumbled something about how his hair was shorter than on the pictures I had seen. But the first few seconds are all a bit of a blur.

I know now what was going through his mind when he first saw me, but at the time I was blissfully ignorant, and thought I was probably a bit foolish to have attached such an inordinate amount of importance to this meeting.

Later that evening, the fact that there was a knee-weakeningly strong connection between us was acknowledged, but not acted upon. I will remember standing on the corner of the rue Oberkampf for the rest of my life, my whole being in turmoil, struggling desperately to come to a decision. His arms were wrapped around me and I clung on for dear life while a million conflicting thoughts swirled, slightly drunkenly, around in my head. I motioned to a taxi, which drew to a halt on the opposite side of the road, and, even then, I didn’t know whether good sense and morality would prevail, and I would clamber into it on my own, or whether I would give in to the demon perched on my shoulder, whispering in my ear that I should sieze the opportunity. Go back to his hotel, or forever rue the day.

Finally, I broke free and flung myself into the taxi, before I could change my mind. As it pulled away, I looked back in anguish. Would I allow myself to see him again? Would I ever find out how it felt to be kissed by him?

I knew that this meeting could potentially alter the entire course of my life, if only I chose to let it.

Paris is rapidly losing what little hold it still had over me.

I spent most of the return train journey dangerously close to tears. Saying goodbye to my lover after another idyllic weekend is becoming more and more of a wrench, even if I was, simultaneously, looking forward to seeing Tadpole after four days away. To add insult to injury, my ‘reserved’ seat had been double booked, meaning that in the absence of any other vacant seats, I had to spend the entire trip sitting on a fold down strapontin in the area between two carriages. There didn’t appear to be any air conditioning – or any oxygen for that matter – and my attempts to read a book were thwarted by my head dipping forwards at regular intervals as I fought a losing battle to stay awake.

I arrived back in the capital late on Sunday afternoon, at my lowest ebb, and began the interminable journey home to collect Tadpole. The métro was humid, and packed with sticky, scantily clad bodies. The connections involved what seemed like hours of trailing along corridors, heaving my bag up and down flights of stairs, and hurrying down moving walkways, all of which were heated to an uncomfortable temperature – which a Delia recipe would probably refer to as a ’slow’ oven. When I emerged from the exit onto my avenue, drained and dehydrated, I was greeted by the choking fug of car exhaust in the cloying, syrupy air and the familiar wail of sirens which form a permanent soundtrack to this city.

As the lift rose to my floor, I felt for keys in my pocket. They were heavier than usual, weighty with the recent addition of keys to my lover’s home. I closed my eyes and imagined that the lift would obligingly deliver me to his front door, instead of here, where only an empty flat awaited me. Devoid now of Mr Frog’s presence, cleared of all his belongings. Strangely though, it doesn’t feel like it is Mr Frog who is missing. Even though my lover has spent only one day and one night here, he has left behind his imprint, like a watermark, in every room.

As I waited for Tadpole and Mr Frog to arrive, and for the kettle to boil, I slid down the wall until I was seated on the soothing, cool tiles of the kitchen floor. The tears finally came.

If home is where the heart is, I mislaid mine in Rennes.

I abhor Paris in the summertime.

As soon as the temperatures begin to rise, my spirits correspondingly sink into my flip flops. An oppressive mantle of velvety, pollution-filled air descends on the city of light, consenting to recede, for a couple of hours only, shortly before dawn. There is only one thing worse than Paris on heat, and that is Paris on heat experienced from the unique vantage point of chez petite. My apartment, although it is packed full of original features (warped floorboards, fireplaces, a stove, bucolic scenes painted on panels and doors), is located on the fifth floor, beyond the reach of the shade giving trees which line our avenue, and has only south-facing windows.

The highest temperature ever recorded inside the flat was 40°C. This was in Tadpole’s bedroom, when she was a mere three months old, and the time was 11.30 pm. I did not enjoy her first summer one little bit. My not-so-fond memories of the 2003 canicule involve a scantily clad, half-crazed-with-cabin-fever petite sitting in semi-darkness, shutters firmly closed, windows only opened between the hours of 4 am and 9 am, engaged in one of two activities: DVD watching, or breastfeeding.

This week, with temperatures soaring into the lower 30’s, it has been increasingly difficult to get a decent night’s sleep. The conundrum is this: sleep with the windows open, and resign self to being woken up periodically by the clamour of traffic on the busy thoroughfare below (because not only do the windows face south, but also onto the street), or opt for double-glazed peace and quiet, and resign self to slow death by poaching. Possibly with a whirring fan for company, which manages to do little other than stir the sultry air round and round. Noisily.

And just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse, try adding the high pitched whine of an elusive mosquito with a voracious appetite into the mix. I can’t find a plug in mosquito repellent device for love nor money – the local shops helpfully stock only refills for people who didn’t leave their plug in apparatus in a hotel room in Mauritius or a gîte in Morbihan. Petite, nul points, Vampiric invisible mosquito, six points.

And quite how I managed to get bitten there, I will never know.

I arrive at Charles de Gaulle airport feeling washed out, as though, unbeknown to me, a vampire has been feasting on my blood for the duration of our flight.

The usual, interminable queue greets us at passport control. I fail to see the point of designing a doughnut-shaped terminal building, with several passport control points, if at any given time there is only one member of staff on duty, creating a huge bottleneck. Thankfully Tadpole is unusually calm and is not yet begging to be released from the pushchair and its restraining ‘strapons’.

Our British passports are handed back once the officer has given the pushchair a brief, cursory glance, and I heave a sigh of relief, as I have forgotten to bring a copy of her birth certificate. Again. As Tadpole and I don’t share the same surname, and her passport photo dates back to when she was three weeks old (propped up against my white T-shirt because she was unable to support her own head at that point), the officers could be forgiven for wondering if I am trying to smuggle a random infant into the country. They don’t seem to mind though, as she’s a British citizen today. I suspect the situation would be somewhat different if she was travelling as tétard and not Tadpole. I’ve heard ominous mutterings about the need for an official document signed by Tadpole’s father authorising us to leave le territoire français.

Next ordeal: baggage reclaim. We wait. And wait. And wait some more. I get fidgety and text a friend, then lock the keypad so Tadpole can pretend to make some important business calls:

“Allô? Allô, ca va? Grandad? Postman Pat, black cat, early in the morning, when the day ee dawning, Pat feels he’s a really happy man. Bye!”

I find it impossible to remain calm at baggage reclaim. After only five minutes have elapsed, I am already shaking and having flashbacks to that time when the 60 litre backpack containing all my Christmas presents (plus every pair of shoes I owned) got lost at Amsterdam airport, only to turn up, looking suitably battered and sheepish, approximately one week later. I have not so fond memories of spending several hours painstakingly picking tiny shards of a broken vase out of all my clothing. The last couple of mishaps were far less serious, but sent stress levels soaring all the same. My bag arrived several hours later than I in Madrid, on our recent long weekend away, and Tadpole’s pushchair arrived two whole days late when we went ‘home’ to York for Easter.

Clearly airports and I do not get along.

The little green light starts flashing to signal the imminent arrival of baggage, and I helpfully drag a fat-little-English-Disneyland-Paris-bound-chav* off the conveyor belt, just in the nick of time.

Bags file past. Large ones, small ones, pink Disney ones, suitcases on wheels, holdalls, pushchairs and car seats. No sign of my enormous bag on wheels (which weighed in at an expensive 23 kilos as we are repatriating Tadpole’s early birthday presents). Paranoia sets in. I chew on my lip manically as I scour the crowds for signs of someone wheeling away my suitcase (it happened to a friend recently), and wishing that it had some more distinctive markings on it so that I could identify it reliably from a distance.

“Come on, ” I mutter under my breath, impatiently.

“Come on mummy’s bag, where it is mummy’s bag?” chants Tadpole, gleefully.

And then I spot it, slowly juddering around the conveyor belt in the distance. We are standing well back because I am always worried someone will swing round with an unwieldy suitcase and send Tadpole flying.

“There it is! Look!” I say to Tadpole a little too loudly, overcome as I am with relief. A few heads turn in our direction, but I think nothing of it, at first.

But as the bag approaches, every single person looks my way, one by one, some smirking knowingly, others stifling a giggle. Or laughing out loud. Pointing at my bag.

I am confused. I know it’s a big bag, but that fact alone can’t possibly be the cause of so much amusement. Can it?

The bag is rounding the last curve of the conveyor belt when I suddenly realise what all the fuss is about and start blushing furiously.

There is a cylindrical bulge in the front pocket of my bag. It is vibrating, rather violently, thanks to a set of fresh batteries, purchased only yesterday.

I rue the day my dentist recommended using an electric toothbrush.

The metro doors open with a shudder and the floodgates open. I stand well back to let everyone past, but still manage to get buffeted and elbowed in the ribs. I don’t know what it is about wearing headphones, but with them on I am noticeably clumsier. I gauge distances badly, I tread on toes and am unable to weave in and out of crowds with my customary ease.

Safely inside, I manoeuvre myself into a position where I can grasp the metal pole in the standing area at a comfortable height. The carriage is bursting at the seams; the air is damp and thick. A woman folds herself into the crook of my arm, obscuring my view of the pole and making it difficult to hold on with her weight bearing onto me. Her hair is pulled back into a slick ponytail, and whatever she has used on it that morning causes me to fight back a sneeze.

As the train pulls away into the tunnel, I feel a clammy, insistent pressure against my curled palm and recoil inwardly. Certain types of unsollicited physical contact with strangers make me very uncomfortable, even if it is only the feather-light graze of an unknown hand against mine.

I inch my hand higher up the pole. Undeterred, the hand follows my lead, applying insistent pressure, so that my skin prickles with revulsion. I can’t decide whether to withdraw my hand altogether, relying on the fact that I’m so tightly wedged up against my fellow passengers that I won’t fall over, even if the driver chooses to slam on the brakes, or to steel myself to endure the surreptitious hand mauling all the way to my destination.

I choose a third option. I don’t have much in the way of fingernails. But just enough. I hear a sharp intake of breath and feel the hand fall away.

Petite 1 – anonymous hand fetishist 0

************

Mr Frog and I were out shopping. We had just started working and the novelty of having a ‘proper job’ after all those relatively poverty stricken student years had not yet worn off. The metro was moderately crowded and we were standing at opposite sides of the pole, discussing where to take a break from our orgy of spending for a bite to eat.

An attractive young couple shared ‘our’ pole, along with two or three other strangers of various ages whose faces are just a blur in my memory. I don’t recall what the couple were wearing, or the colour of their hair, only that their eyes were locked together: they were wrapped up in each other, oblivious to the rest of the world.

Without taking his eyes of her for a second, the man leaned forward to kiss her hand gently, but deliberately. Her pupils widened in shock. The hand was pulled away, sharply; an older woman, standing nearby, gasped and flushed a deep shade of crimson.

It took us a second or two to register what had happened.

I took a shortcut behind the Galeries Lafayette department store last Thursday, preferring the quiet, narrow street to the bustling boulevard Haussman.

At first I failed to notice the police van, parked a few metres ahead and surrounded by a group of officers in uniform who were surveying the street with arms folded across their chests, their boredom almost palpable. Deep in thought about where I fancied grabbing a quick snack, it didn’t even register that there were metal barricades blocking the road, denying access to traffic. Nor did I see that over a hundred cellophane wrapped bunches of flowers were attached to the barricades. It was only when I became aware of a dozen people – businessmen, tourists, shoppers, an African woman in a traditional batik print dress – standing motionless on the pavement directly in front of me, blocking my way, that I followed their collective gaze to the building on the other side of the street.

I realised with a jolt that I was standing in front of n° 76 rue de Provence, staring wide-eyed at the burnt shell of the Hotel Paris Opéra.

It’s stale news, of course, that 22 people, including 10 children, were killed in a fire which gutted the hotel in the early hours of 15 April. I had read articles about it, which stirred up feelings of horror and indignation, and was vaguely aware that the tragedy had occurred not far from where I go to work every day on the avenue de l’Opéra. I don’t recall any of the articles actually mentioning the address, and I certainly didn’t expect to chance upon the charred remains on a sunny, carefree bank holiday shopping spree.

And now, like the onlookers around me, I couldn’t take my eyes off the blackened windows. Windows from which people had jumped. Rue de Provence was enveloped by an eerie silence. When I finally managed to tear myself away, I cut short my afternoon and took the metro home. I had a lump in my throat, a heaviness in my ribcage. Death had cast a long shadow over my afternoon and I was no longer in the mood for frivolity.

The six-storey, 1 star Hôtel Paris Opéra was not a tourist hotel. It was a temporary – but often long-term temporary – home to an assortment of families eking out precarious existences in the city of light. Some were legal immigrants waiting for better accommodation to become available, some asylum seekers, and others, despite living in France for ten years or more, had been unable to obtain a residence permit or working papers, and were paid cash to clean the apartments of wealthy Parisians, or care for their pampered children. Home was a tiny bedroom, with one shared toilet per floor. Cooking facilities: a single microwave. Many of the rooms were rented by the Mairie de Paris and the samu social (social services) on behalf of families in need. The going rate for a 6 metres squared bedroom: € 500 per month.

The death toll, in this, the worst blaze that Paris has seen in thirty years, was unnecessarily high – according to firefighters – because people panicked and jumped from upper floor windows. Or threw their children out, in sheer desperation. Seven people died from their injuries this way. As is the case in most Parisian buildlings, there was only one staircase and lift shaft, so as the fire was rushing vertically upwards, the windows were the only escape route.

One article I read in Libération spoke of a rideau de fumée, a curtain of smoke which had been drawn around the tragedy, so that the shortcomings of government policies in the sensitive areas of emergency housing and asylum applications would not come under close scrutiny. Much has since been made of the fact that the fire was caused by a woman who had unknowlingly overturned a candle in a first floor room just before leaving the building. Her confession has been obtained: she trashed the room used for trysts with her lover, following a heated argument. A convenient state of affairs, laying the blame at one individual’s door, and handing the criminal investigation over to the Minister of Justice. The Minister responsible for immigration must have breathed a huge sigh of relief.

That way, people won’t dwell too much on the plight of those families, living in cramped conditions right under our noses, and not 10 metres from the temple of luxury that is the Galeries Lafayette. That way we won’t wonder how it is possible for children to be born in Paris, sent to school here, but still have to live in squalid hotels with their parents in complete illegality. That way we won’t think to question why government bodies support the owners of establishments like the Hôtel Paris Opéra, who are in the lucrative business of exploiting misery and desperation.

Move along. There’s nothing to see here.

The children’s library on the rue Fessart is accessible only via a steep flight of stairs. Predictably there is no sign of a lift. The adult’s library is, I note, located in an identical room on the ground floor. Sighing, I free the Tadpole from her pushchair harness (which she insists on calling a “strap-on”). By the time I have got the pushchair folded, she is already half-way up the stairs and my heart is in my mouth as she turns to laugh at me, teetering precariously on the edge of a step. I race to catch her up, wishing that simple canine commands like “sit” or “stay” or “heel” would have some effect on my wilfully independent daughter. As it is, I say “stand still” and she hears “run for the hills!”

The children’s library is not vast, but there is a well-stocked and thoughtfully enclosed toddler’s section, furnished with chairs for little people and slightly grubby looking animal cushions strewn about the floor.

I approach the young man seated at the front desk, who has his nose in a book, and takes far too long to actually look up and say hello, without the merest hint of a smile. He has a something unsightly dangling from his left nostril, and his long hair, which looks as though he combed olive oil through it this morning, is gathered into a ragged pony tail.

I explain that I would like to enrol Tadpole in the library, and he sullenly hands me a form. How I hate myself for smiling back at him. Regardless of whether or not my naturalisation application is successful, I know that I will never manage the unsmiling, aloof attitude that most Parisians seem to affect in such situations. My inane grinning and eagerness to chat with complete strangers in shops will forever betray my foreignness and put me at a cultural disadvantage, however French I might manage to sound.

I suppose I should be thankful for small mercies: at least obtaining a library card for Tadpole does not require me to produce my birth certificate, backed with an apostille and accompanied by a certified translation. Or a copy of my criminal record. Tadpole’s ID card suffices, just as the lady had told me over the phone. (I had still brought utility bills and the livret de famille though, just in case. I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe that anything involving the French administration could really be that simple.)

Library card in hand, I plonk myself down on a dusty ladybird cushion and set to examining the books in the ‘foreign’ section, while Tadpole rearranges the furniture energetically, seemingly having missed the point of why we are here and showing no interest whatsoever in the books which surround her. Of the 120 foreign tomes of which the municipal libraries’ internet site boasted, I note that three quarters are in Hanzi or Kanji or some other Asian language, with the covers on back to front. We live a stone’s throw from the Belleville Chinatown, and this library caters to its residents, so I suppose that was only to be expected.

As we are running a little late for our lunchtime rendez-vous with Negrito and his friends, I hastily choose a couple of Maisy books (in French: Mimi la souris) and a book about a busy spider, by the author of ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’. If Mr Frog isn’t home for story time, I will read them in English, which will be useful for practising my off the cuff translation skills, if nothing else.

For the rest of the weekend I am disproportionately pleased with myself for having enrolled Tadpole in the library. I think it is because I have such fond memories of library visits as a child. My mother maintains that she taught me to read before my first sister was born (i.e. shortly before my third birthday) and from that moment on I was unstoppable. I started school a year early, and raced through the reading scheme at breakneck speed.

As there was no way my parents could have financed my fifteen-a-week habit, we came to frequent many libraries over the years. Once I had exhausted the possibilities of the children’s section in our village library, staffed by elderly ladies in cashmere twin sets and irreproachable nasal hygiene, I was allowed to borrow books from the adult section using my mothers library card, even though I was underage. I used my father’s card too. Then we graduated to a bigger library in York itself. At any one time, there would be no less than a dozen library books stacked up next to my bed.

One of the reasons my eyesight is now so poor is that from a very early age (four or five years old I reckon) I used to read in secret after lights out, straining to decipher the words in the orange glow of the streetlamp outside my bedroom window, or leaving my door ajar to catch a sliver of light from the bathroom. If I was under the spell of a favourite book, there was no question of stopping before I had reached the end.

I do hope Tadpole will grow up to be a bookworm too, and not a philistine like Mr Frog.

I am about to start running Tadpole’s bath when the doorbell trills.

‘DDDRRRRIIIINNNGGGG!’

I don’t care for this agressive French doorbell sound. Give me a gentle English ‘Ding Dong’ any day.

I put my eye cautiously to the peephole. I have not ordered any takeaway curry (after my last disappointing experience involving half-raw naan bread daubed with pink food colouring), and I am not expecting visitors. If it is one of those earnest but tedious young men trying to sell me a Trotskyist newspaper, I reserve the right not to answer the door.

It’s old Mrs Gibolain, the widow who lives upstairs.

“BONSOIR MADAME! OH LÀ LÀ QU’IL EST BEAU!” she yells, spying Tadpole, who is pushing her train up my trouser leg. I have told Mrs G that Tadpole is a she, but I suspect she may be a little deaf. Tadpole grips my leg anxiously, probably wondering why the lady with two big sticks and a hairy chin is shouting at mummy.

After a long conversation, which I imagine most of the building overheard, I establish that Mrs G needs some help with her television set. The home help must have switched it off while Mrs G was out at her hospital appointment (I have seen ambulance men come to fetch her, on occasion, and I imagine these are the only time she ventures out of her flat), and she hasn’t been able to switch it on again. Her late husband bought the TV, but passed away without showing her how to use the remote control. She has left it permenantly on the same channel (France 3) ever since, turning it on and off only at the main switch.

She was very sorry to trouble me, and had been hoping to waylay her neighbour on the sixth floor, a young man who doesn’t keep very sociable hours, but despite calling out for help every time the lift stopped at her floor, no-one answered.

I offer to come upstairs with Tadpole and take a look. Mrs G makes her way back to the lift, with some difficulty, while I hold the heavy metal door open. She needs two crutches to get around, after undergoing a hip replacement last year. It occurs to me, with a sharp stab of pity, that it has probably taken her at least fifteen minutes to manoeuvre herself to my front door. I make a mental note to leave her our phone number so that she can call next time she needs some help, saving herself another arduous journey.

Tadpole and I press on ahead up the stairs and into her dimly lit flat. It smells musty, like second-hand clothes in a charity shop. The faded wallpaper which covers every available surface, including the doors, must have been very fashionable in 1948. The poky living room is crammed with rustic furniture better suited to a farmhouse: a hefty wooden dresser and a solid table and chairs vy for space.

I spy the offending television in a corner of the room. While Tadpole plays with her train under the table, I jab impatiently at the remote, which doesn’t seem to be working. I try the main on/off switch, which catches on the second attempt. Tadpole leaps halfway out of her skin as a talkshow springs into life at full volume, knocking her head on the underside of the table. I brace myself for her wails, but she just looks rather puzzled – I can almost see cartoon birds twittering as they fly in circles around her head.

The television is so loud that at first I don’t hear Mrs G calling from the corridor, where she is struggling with the lift door. She shuffles painfully slowly back into her apartment, thanking me for my kindness. We take our leave, but she insists on fetching a dusty bag of boiled sweets from the dresser, and after keeping a few for herself, hands me the bag for Tadpole. They are clearly not Tadpole-friendly, but I thank her for them anyway. Mr Frog’s reaction when he got home was “where have the old-person’s sweets come from?”

I can’t get this little episode out of my head all weekend. First I worry that I didn’t put the television on the right channel, so Mrs G’s routine has been turned upside down. Then I wonder how often the aide menagère pays her a visit. The thought that if she falls and hurts herself one day, no-one will hear her, haunts me. I marvel at how she survived that summer where our apartment warmed up to 40°C and stayed that way for two whole weeks. I wonder whether she has any family close by, and whether they come to visit.

Memories of my great grandmother come flooding back. I remember my mother visiting her every day, to check that she hadn’t left the gas on by accident, or the front door wide open. Sadly she was transformed from a sweet and reasonable soul who didn’t want to be any trouble, to a paranoid, distrustful shadow of her former self almost overnight. Like her, Mrs G is probably past realising that she can’t really manage on her own. Maybe, despite her family’s insistence, she clings stubbornly to her apartment, infused as it is with all her memories of her late husband.

There must be so many Mr and Mrs G’s hidden away in shabby old flats in this city, invisible to the rest of us, barely coping behind their closed doors. Existing, but not really living.

I make a mental note to get out of the city long before I get old.

I detest it when the weather decides to be so glorious that I am obliged to venture out, regardless of whether I actually want to.

Saturday. A day of wholesome family activites. Bébé nageurs at 9 am (because, as you may recall, I queued for half a day to get a coveted place in the Saturday session) – during which Tadpole, tightly wedged in a polystyrene ring, executed giddy circles around me until I grew dizzy and developed lockjaw from continuous reciprocal grinning. A spot of windowbox gardening on the balcony – where I inadvertently showered several passers by with potting compost, only realising I had done so when a chorus of indignant “É! Ô! Ça va pas l� haut?”’s assailed me from five stories below. The tricycle quest – an adventure requiring me to cross the sweaty threshold of GoSport, an act against all my principles, as I heartily detest every conceivable form of sport, with the exception of snorkeling. The indignity of always being picked last for team sports at school has left scars all over my self-esteem which may never heal.

Sunday, I awoke feeling sluggish and slothful, craving a day filled with nothing but cocooning, as the French are fond of calling it. I longed to curl up like a cat in front of the window and snooze in a patch of sunlight, or to steal some precious me-time to read more of my book. Of course none of those things are actually possible when you have a toddler bouncing on your midriff and entreating you to ‘faire le cheval?’

As the afternoon drew to a close, Mr Frog became insistent that we had to go to the park and ‘make the most’ of the lovely weather. I looked up at him, dejectedly, from my den under the dining room table, where Tadpole and I had created a makeshift wendy house and were entertaining several teddies with (virtual) afternoon tea and biscuits.

My suggestion that he might enjoy spending some quality time outdoors with his daughter sans moi was met with dismay. He claims that when chaperoning Tadpole alone, he cannot endure the pitying, oh-look-a-poor-single-parent glances. Bribery, in the form of offering to do his share of the housework while they were out, was unsuccessful. Mr Frog can be very stubborn when he puts his mind to it. I reluctantly got dressed, packed bubble mix, sippy cup, nappy and wipes into my bag and we headed for the Buttes Chaumont en famille.

Mr Frog and I habitually rave about how wonderful it is to live a stone’s throw from the largest park in Paris, and it’s true that I do love my idyllic walk to the childminder’s in the mornings, when I have the place pretty much to myself, give or take a few joggers and dog walkers. Tadpole and I mimic the birdsong, and I pick blossom from the trees for her to study, which invariably makes her sneeze.

On this unseasonably warm April Sunday however, the park ressembled a teeming Côte d’Azur beach in high season. Bodies lolled everywhere. Old folk lined the benches, families and clutches of young people were sprawled over every available patch of grass. On the main thoroughfares it was mayhem: tricycles plowed into pushchairs, tired children screeched as their parents attempted to drag them away from the adventure playground and home for tea. The so-called relaxing stroll was turning into a stressful nightmare. My patience faltered and then flatlined. I was irritable with Tadpole, who had decided she wanted to balance on the kerb but absolutely not hold my steadying hand. I had visions of milk teeth embedded in the pavement. When Mr Frog lit up a cigarette, I launched into a tirade about how I didn’t want to nurse him for years when he finally succumbed to a well-deserved lung cancer. I hated myself for being so needlessly unpleasant, sincerely regretting leaving behind the haven of tranquility of our apartment.

As we approached the man-made lake (a rather unappealing shade of khaki, undoubtedly in need of a thorough clean), the obstacle course began. There are all manner of paying activities for little people in the Buttes, designed to ambush desperate parents, who will, when at breaking point, gladly pay through the nose for a few minutes of peace and quiet: pony rides, a horse-drawn carriage, a Guignol (French version of Punch and Judy) puppet show, swings, a duck fishing fairground-type game and a merry-go-round. Should one manage to escape all of these unscathed, the final hurdle is the kiosk selling candyfloss and garish helium balloons. A stroll through the Buttes with a tantrum-prone young child could easily cost upward of € 20.

For this reason I invariably leave my wallet at home on such occasions. A decision I came to regret as I stood downwind of the stand selling crèpes and Belgian gaufres.

Something in me snapped. I hated the park, despised the mocking sunlight and craved my duvet. I left a bemused Mr Frog and Tadpole gaping at me open-mouthed and stormed off home.

I wonder whether it is possible to suffer from reverse SAD?

If groping or being groped is your thing, you’ll be in seventh heaven on the Paris metro today. My guess is it’s a veritable gropathon.

The French unions have gone ahead with their ill-timed general strike, regardless of the fact that the Olympic Comittee are in town today. Metros, trains, buses, airports, radio stations and the postal service are all affected. Mr Frog had it on (what we thought was) good authority from a station employee only last week that there was no need for him to change his train tickets, as the strikes would be called off at the last minute. Not so. The strikes are very much on, and his train has been cancelled.

I often wonder where reporters find the people they film for the eight o’clock news saying that yes, they have had problems getting to work, but despite this they do fully support the strikers’ demands. I challenge a roving reporter to shove a TV camera and/or microphone in my face. On second thoughts, just give me five minutes so I can look up the phrase “shooting yourselves in the foot” in the English/French dictionary first.

I am however sufficiently in touch with my French side to have opted for an extra long lie-in this morning, using public transport disruption as a smokescreen for my sloth. If anyone asks, I waited patiently for a metro which was not forthcoming before abandoning ship, mixing my metaphors, waking the slumbering Mr Frog and begging him to drive me to work on his trusty steed Piaggio. We weaved (wove?) in and out of the dense morning traffic, a chill wind blowing up my coatsleeves, and I arrived at work a mere half an hour late. The fact that we left home at 9 am is irrelevant.

Upon inspection of the RATP internet site I note that one in three metros are actually running on my line. Shhh! Don’t tell my boss, or Mr Frog, as he has agreed to come and collect me at 5 pm.

I rang in sick this morning.

It was a toss up between calling to say that I would be late, because I needed to help dispatch off Mr Frog and Tadpole to the Evils’, and making one of those phone calls where I try to sound off-colour enough not to work, without overdoing it to the point where I sound like I’m about to expire. In the end I mumbled something pathetic about womens’ problems and having a hot water bottle welded to my midriff. And a headache, for good measure.

Due to the current snowbound status of the French capital, no taxi company was willing to commit to sending us a cab this morning. And I couldn’t really see Mr Frog, Tadpole, a big heavy bag and a pushchair making it to Gare de Lyon without my help. The change of metros at Chatelêt alone, with its kilometres of corridors and flights of wet, slippery steps, would have defeated them. As it happened however, after a brainwave of mine, Mr Frog’s agency were instructed to book a G7 Classe Affaires posh businessman’s taxi, complete with Financial magazines and squeaky leather seats. The Agency switchboard called back while Mr Frog was (still) in the bath, and I was surfing the internet wearing only a towel, trying to find out if the trains were actually running or not.

“Ze good news eez zat zere eez a taxi,” shouted Mr Frog from the bathroom. “But ze bad news eez zat it weel be ‘ere in six minutes.”

Panic.

Five and a half minutes later, I am dressed, coated and ready to go, and I have managed to get Tadpole’s shoes, coat, scarf and hat on. All the while she is watching ‘Dora the Explorer’ and puts up zero resistance. Television is, in my opinion, something which should be used very sparingly on toddlers. But sometimes it can save your life. On a normal day I have to chase Tadpole round and round the apartment – her in floods of giggles, me growing quietly frantic about my lateness for work – before I can get so much as a wriggly little arm into a coatsleeve. Praise be to Dora.

I chaperoned Frog and Tadpole to the station to see them off, so as to be on hand to help keep Tadpole entertained in case of lengthy train delays. Naturally it had been impossible to find out any useful information from the SNCF website, and the phone number that I was given to call just sent me in ever decreasing circles listening to a pre-recorded disembodied lady’s voice which never actually told me anything useful, and finally delivered her coup de grace by telling me that the train number I had entered did not exist.

The TGV was on time, although when it will reach its destination is anyone’s guess. I explained to Tadpole for the twentieth time that daddy was taking her to see mamie and papy so she could play in the garden and build a ‘noman’, but she just smiled at me and held out a crayon for me to draw a picture. I got off the train, and blew her kisses through the window. Her little face fell as realisation finally dawned that mummy was staying behind. I left abruptly, not wanting to see if there would be any tears.

The irony of this whole separation scenario is that Mr Frog and I were supposed to be going to Madrid for four days, sans Tadpole, to chill out, order hot chocolate and churros and spend a bit of time remembering what it was like to be a couple. But as I hear that Orly airport is well and truly closed today, and snow is forecast all weekend, I’m feeling somewhat pessimistic about the whole thing.

Please excuse me while I just go and bang my head against the wall repeatedly.

I am being followed around Paris by tanned, greased and shaved men with gravity defying buttocks.

Everywhere I turn, there they are: in the metro, in the street outside my house, in bus shelters, where old dears queue up with their shopping trolleys, sneaking a sideways glance when their friends aren’t looking. Given the arctic temperatures we are currently experiencing in the city of lights, such a lack of apparel seems a little inappropriate.

I am, of course, referring to the latest Hom advertising campaign.

In my quest for photographic evidence this morning it was necessary to take a tour of the Hom website (requires flash). It’s not the sort of thing you want to be caught peeking at just after 9 am on your work monitor. Open plan offices are not always A Good Thing. Thankfully my colleagues are firmly ensconced in a meeting room with a large thermos of coffee and I am free to surf to my heart’s content. I thoroughly recommend taking a tour of the 3001 collection if you are in need of a pick-me-up.

Two things in particular disturb me about this advertising campaign. First, this picture.
Call me old fashioned, but I’m unconvinced that transparent, skin-tight lace is something I want to see stretched across a man’s buttocks. Even on this particular pair, belonging to a fine specimen by most people’s standards.

The second thing that is making me feel rather queasy is the window display in this menswear boutique located not far from where I drop off Tadpole in the mornings. The street is pleasant, leafy and lined with village-style shops (bakers, florists, pharmacies and mini-markets), catering to the mainly elderly local populace. Florentin prêt-� -porter sells brands with names like ‘Gentleman Farmer’, evocative of tweed and sensible gumboots. They also provide a tailoring service. Rather disconcertingly however, this picture occupies centre stage in their vitrine at the moment.

I am now haunted by the nagging suspicion that most of the doddery old men dragging themselves with some difficulty up the avenue de Laumière, walking sticks in hand , or hanging out on parkbenches with their cronies, or playing pétanque on the rue Botzaris are actually wearing skin tight semi-transparent tiger pants underneath. Or electric blue shiny ’shorties’ with wonderbra-style built in padding and uplift. Or, perish the thought, g-strings.

So today I am mostly feeling relieved that I do not possess x-ray vision.

Try as I might, I can’t even picture what an 600 m2 apartment would look like. It would be a whopping ten times bigger than the compact and bijou little flat our household currently rents. Of couse Mr Frog and I do not have eight tadpoles (for which my hips are pathetically grateful), let alone a maître d’hôtel, two maids, a chef and a nanny to accommodate.

The now ex-Ministre de l’Economie, Hervé Gaymard, considered housing his extended family in two 300 m2 apartments on the avenue Montaigne (home to the most exclusive fashion boutiques and the Plaza Athenée Hotel – you know, the one where SJP stayed in the final episodes of SATC) and adding a lift and stairs to connect the two floors for a further € 150,000, was eminently reasonable. At a monthly cost to the taxpayer of a mere € 14,000 (£ 9 000), the apartment in the exclusive Triangle d’Or district costed a little over twelve times our annual rent, and the equivalent of Monsieur Gaymard’s monthly paycheck. Oddly, Monsieur le Ministre did not feel this to be in any way inconsistent with his stated policy goal of introducing spending cuts in the French public sector.

Soon after the satirical weekly the Canard Enchaîné broke their story about Mr Gaymard’s rather extravagent lifestyle, revelations which were compounded by Gaymard’s string of gaffes and indeed shameless lying about the extent of his personal fortune to the press, Monsieur Economy Drive was forced to tender his resignation after fleecing serving his country for only three months.

Now the infamous flat is up for grabs. And this, my dear readers, is where you come in.

Click on the handy button above to make your donation to the petite’s posh new pad fund.

Because I’m worth it.

I reach into my bag and give my Ipod a little stroke to turn up the volume a notch.

I’m still not completely over my paranoia about taking a gadget which is worth as much as my PC on the metro with me every day. Even if I didn’t actually pay for it. I should probably purchase some different coloured headphones, for my own piece of mind. Right now the only people I trust are fellow Ipod wearers. They get a covert nod; it’s like VW Beetle owners honking their horns at their peers.

“Your favorite innocence,
Your favorite prize,”

CLIP!

“Your favorite smile,
Your favorite slave.”

CLIP!

“I’m hanging on your words,
Living on your breath,”

CLIP! CLIP!
Did something small just fly past, missing the end of my nose by mere milimetres?

“Feeling with your skin.
Will I always be here?”

CLIP!!

I ease the volume down and take a look around.

There is a man, approximately my age, attractive in a scruffy, academic sort of way (brown corduroy jacket, one of those narrow, stripey, many-coloured scarves that men are wearing this season coiled around his neck, tufty brown hair), sitting across the aisle to my right on a strapontin. In fact, on closer inspection I decide that this person makes the grade and shall be added to the “Top Ten Foxes I Have Spied In The Metro” list. An honour which he remains blissfully unaware of, as he seems to be inspecting his hands. He has rather nice hands, I note.

The unkind neon lighting, which gives all metro travellers a sickbed complexion, regardless of whether they are wearing expensive MAC foundation or not, glints off something metallic in his right hand which I can’t quite identify without craning my neck a little…

CLIP!!!

Nail clippers.

That man is clipping his fingernails on the metro! Tiny, jagged pieces of him are flying in all directions! I suppose I should be thankful that he doesn’t remove his shoes and socks and start on his toenails. I wonder whether this is the sort of thing which you are allowed to sound the emergency alarm for, but dismiss the idea, as there is a fine for misuse.

Mr Métro Manicure is ejected unceremoniously from the list he never knew he was on as I caress the volume up again and close my eyes.

As a precaution however, I keep my mouth tightly shut.

The snow creaked pleasingly underfoot. For once I was glad of the pushchair, because it’s actually rather difficult to fall flat on your face when you have a four wheel drive Italian stallion Peg Perego buggy to steady yourself with. The waterproof poncho, source of much Christmas woe, got its first outing today and I silently thanked the EVILs for their foresight. Quite the chic Parisienne was I this morning sporting my sensible flat shoes, poncho drawstrings tied tightly under my chin.

Tadpole finally got to see some live snow, something that until now she had only seen in the illustrations from ‘Maisy’s Christmas Eve‘. A muffled chanting “no-ing! no-ing! no-ing!” could be heard from under the buggy’s misted up plastic raincover. What I wouldn’t give on days like today for a bit of role reversal. Oh to be pushed to work in an upholstered cocoon.

Ideally, we would have taken a detour through the Buttes Chaumont on the way to the childminder’s house and built a little “no-man”… However this was not to be. Parisian parks close their gates at the first hint of unclement weather (intempéries). Especially the Buttes Chaumont, as it is on a very steep hill, and therefore highly perilous when slippy. Presumably the powers that be at the town hall are paranoid about their liability should a jogger or dog walker accidentally break their neck. It’s a crying shame though, as those slopes were made for sledging.

Whenever it snows in Paris, vivid memories surface of the strikes of December 1995, and my spell as an English teacher at the Sorbonne Nouvelle (poor relation to the photogenic sister faculty of the Sorbonne, housed in a 70’s monstrosity, its ugliness matched only by the faculty website.)

That winter, two million French public sector workers elected to go on strike for the best part of a month. If I wanted to go anywhere at all during this turbulent time, it had to be accessible on foot, and using a route which avoided the pancarte-brandishing manifestants. There are few things more tedious than having to wait half an hour to cross a road as the demonstrators trundle past, from the enthusiastic ones at the front who wave their banners energetically and have mastered the day’s special chants, to the very last stragglers bringing up the rear.

At Paris III, the majority of the teachers, students and admin staff downed their pens for the duration. However lectrices like myself were not permitted to take industrial action. So for several weeks I was supposed to turn up to classes – a good forty minute trudge from my little bachelorette pad on the rue de la Roquette – never knowing whether the building would even be open when I arrived. There might be a single student, or five, or more likely none at all, awaiting my ‘expert tuition’. And I remember snow. Copious amounts of it.

My deux-pièces had a tiled floor, big, draughty windows and miniscule electric heaters were positioned under the windows. One day I awoke to the sight of ice on the inside of my bedroom window. When I had no classes at all, I took to hanging out in cafés and cinemas to keep warm. I was pathetically thankful for the fact that if you buy one coffee in a French bar you can sit there for as long as you please.

After three weeks of teeth-chattering, isolated boredom, I packed my bags and went back home early for Christmas.

The very next day, naturally, the strikes were called off.

I’ve got butterflies in my tummy.

This is because I’m going to meet a fellow blogger for lunch today. For some reason I’m as nervous as a fifteen year old getting ready to go on her first date. I think we both are. She summed it up really well, saying she is nervous of falling victim to the ‘I preferred the book to the movie’ syndrome. I’m worried about not living up to whatever expectations she might have, based on my blog. And I suspect that in her presence I’m going to feel rather old. Nerve racking stuff.

But I also feel that we expat bloggers have a lot in common. A love of writing, a love of France, shared frustrations, similar experiences of trying to find our niche in this city, of coping with living in a foreign language. It seems a shame not to get together and see if some of the virtual friends we have made on the interwebnet don’t have the potential to become ‘real’, three-dimensional friends.

It would also be an excuse for a bit of proper anglo-saxon style drinking.

So, I’m going to go out on a limb here and make a suggestion.

A get together. In Paris. For expat bloggers (and anyone they want to bring for moral support). If you like this idea and my proposed date works for you, please comment or drop me a line on petite.anglaise at gmail.com. The date is just a handy Friday I have when Mr Frog and Tadpole will be at the EVIL’s and I won’t need a babysitter. It can be changed if necessary. Offers of accommodation for any of our non-Parisian expats who can make it will also be gratefully accepted. And suggestions for a venue (I think this will depend on the number of people planning to come along).

There should be ground rules of course. No writing about each other afterwards. Or at least, no specifics which would compromise anyone’s anonymity. And definitely nothing like this: “I know petite said that her bottom was of J-Lo esque proportions but I wasn’t expecting…”

What do you think?

Update: are there any male expat bloggers in Paris I should know about? Apart from Jason? I don’t mind this being a (sh)event, but I never realised before how overwhelmingly we outnumber the blogging males… Iain – be worried.

I think it’s time for a change of subject as my google contextual ads seem to have become fixated on dating websites: www.meetic.fr, www.cum.fr (which I hope ‘comes’ from the Latin for ‘with’ and does not have any other implications) and even an ad for a site I didn’t click on which seemed to be offering to import Russian sirens. I derive no income from these ads whatsoever (27k page views with 8 clickthroughs = an astounding $ 1.85), but I do find the topic-matching mildly amusing.

Yesterday lunchtime I went to pay my respects to Mary Magdalene (aka The Holy Grail) in the underground Carroussel du Louvre shopping centre, as told in the gospel according to Dan Brown. I found it disconcerting, to say the least, that Jesus Christ’s spouse’s final resting place is located not 50 metres from Virgin records (which, incidentally, was my real destination, as I’m desperatedly seeking a protective sheath for my ipod).

The French Ministry of Culture – only to happy to cash in on the success of the bestseller – have agreed to authorise location filming in the Grande Galérie of the Louvre for the screen adaptation of ‘The Da Vinci Code’ to star Tom (last time I thought he was good, he was in ‘Splash’ and I was too young to know any better) Hanks as Harvard “symbologist” Robert Langdon, Audrey Tautou (Amélie Poulain) as Sophie Neveu and Jean Reno (Léon) as policeman Bezu Fache. I only hope Tautou is being paid an indecent amount of money if the script decrees that she must tongue Tom. The Catholic church, understandably less keen on Mr Brown’s work, have not given their permission for the Sainte Sulpice church to be used in filming.

“Da Vinci Code”, as it is called in French, (why not ‘Le Code Da Vinci’? Wake up immortels!) sold over 800,000 copies in France last year. The most pleasing description I came across of the book in a French magazine was: “Le Club des Cinq en Terre Sainte.”

Paris tour guides have found The Da Vinci Code a lucrative proposition: fans of the book seem to have an insatiable need to link the fiction to reality by making pilgrimages to the historic sites mentioned in the book. Da Vinci Code tourism is now big business in the City of Lights and is likely to go from strength to strength when the film version is released.

Paris Muse’s ‘Cracking the Code’ , for example, is basically a tour of the Louvre retracing Langdon’s footsteps in the company of “your own personal symbologist”, taking in the works of Da Vinci, paintings featuring Magdalene and goddess imagery in general. This “half day hunt for the truth” will set you back a mere € 110.

I think I’ll stick to the Famous Five. Anyone know where Kirrin Island is?

Cutting through the Buttes Chaumont with the Tadpole – disguised as a leopard – I was surprised at how little reaction I got from passers by. You’d think that the sight of a toddler in full furry costume (you didn’t think I was in disguise, I hope?) complete with ears and tail would elicit some sort of positive response: a smile, a wave, a wink or a nod perhaps?

Nothing.

A couple of small children pointed. A gaggle of grumpy old folk did double takes, but without the merest glimmer of a smile. What a miserable lot. Instead of feeling rather proud of how cute my child looked and amused about the surreal quality of my walk home, I began to feel a little embarrassed that she had not been changed out of her costume.

“Vous avez l’heure s’il vous plaît?” called out a man loitering alongside the path, probably waiting for someone he was meant to meet.

“Oui, il est dix-huit heures moins cinq,” I replied politely after looking at my watch, which requires a manoeuvre of the wrist as it is kind of sideways on. Continental European that I am, naturally I use the 24 hour clock.

I realised that the man was also looking at my watch. In fact, all of a sudden he was uncomfortably close. And wearing a watch himself.

I’d fallen for the oldest opening chat-up line in the book. Now I’d have to tread the fine line between adopting a tone chilly enough to repel my suitor but not so rude as to rile a potentially barking mad and volatile stranger.

“C’est votre enfant?” he enquired, falling into step with the pushchair and I. I nodded, without making eye contact and accelerating my pace slightly, hoping that the fact of being a mother would prove to be enough of a deterrent.

“Vous habitez dans le coin?” he persisted, undeterred.

[Where on earth did he think this was leading? Do people ever actually say "yes, I do, why don't you come back for coffee and some steamy extra-non-marital action while my daughter - disguised as a leopard - plays with her toys in the next room?]

“Ca ne vous regarde pas,” I replied firmly.

“Mais je ne vous dérange pas là ? Je veux juste discuter un peu,” he insisted. And there was me thinking I had made it perfectly clear that he was bothering me and I didn’t want to talk.

“Et moi, je veux rentrer chez moi, retrouver mon mari. Je ne veux discuter avec personne,” I lied through my teeth. About the husband bit anyway. Mr Frog is not my husband and wouldn’t be home for hours yet.

“Ah bon. Je vous laisse alors.”

Not. Before. Time.

I’m still amazed that he didn’t ask me why Tadpole was disguised as a leopard.

I passed my driving test on the third attempt. Even then, I’m not convinced this was in the best interests of the residents of York.

The summer before going away to university when my mother foolishly insured me to drive her car, I managed to reverse into a Tesco trolley park and hit the brick gatepost in our driveway. My father spent most of that summer removing the bumper, hammering it back into shape and putting it back on again. In my defence, the trolley park in question was empty and in the blind spot in the rear window. This was in the days when car seats were not height adjustable. I remember vividly the day my long-suffering driving instructor told me to line up the curb with a sticker on the rear window when reversing around the corner. I had to break the news to him that I couldn’t even see the curb. I’m not called petite for nothing.

That was in 1991. I haven’t driven since. To complicate matters I am now living in a country where people drive on the wrong side of the road and change gear with their right hands. After a decade I still cannot get my head around this, so whether I’m in France or the UK I invariably head to the wrong side of every car when trying to locate the passenger seat. And whether I’m crossing a French road or an English road I inevitably look the wrong way first. To make matters worse, I live in a city where most people drive as if they have just snorted several grams of cocaine (arrogantly, aggressively), parallel park in miniscule spaces (ahem, parallel parking wasn’t even tested back in 1991) and disregard a different highway code altogether. You will be relieved to hear that I don’t plan to exchange my British driving license for a French one any time soon.

If you are foolhardy enough to drive in the French capital, here are a few tips on how to drive like a native Parisian:

• You know those lovely big French roundabouts with no lane markings whatsoever – like Charles de Gaulle Etoile, Bastille and Place de la Concorde? The rule for use of these roundabouts is under no circumstances should you use your indicator to show people what your intentions are. Instead, weave in and out of the ‘lanes’ in a random fashion, and then cut off several lanes of traffic when you reach your exit.
• Learn to park the French way! Nudging the bumpers of the cars adjacent to your space is perfectly acceptable, and indeed expected. I once spied four people lifting a Fiat Uno sideways out of a space it had got hemmed into.
• Ignore traffic lights. Give yourself an extra five seconds to drive across a junction after the lights have turned to red. Everyone else does. Or at the very least, brake at the very last minute so that paranoid, pushchair-wheeling pedestrians are unsure about whether you plan to stop, or not. That way they can only get to the traffic island in the middle before the lights change.
• If you drive a moped/scooter/motorbike it is compulsory to drive the wrong way around traffic islands in order to get ahead. It keeps pedestrians on their toes (except petite anglaise, who instinctively looks the wrong way and therefore cannot be caught out). Driving across the pavement to jump the lights altogether is also perfectly acceptable, on one condition: do not reduce your speed.
• The horn should be used liberally at all times, and not just when you are part of a wedding cortège. Rolling down your windows and swearing* is also highly recommended if you want to blend in with the natives. There doesn’t have to be any particular provocation. And don’t forget to accompany your tirade with a vigorous shake of your fist.

cut out and keep swearing vocab in French:

connard! – assehole!
enculé! – asshole!
fils de pute! – sonofabitch!

You’re good to go.

The text message on my mobile reads:

“Bonne Année. Je voulais juste avoir des nouvelles de [Tadpole] – Myriam”.

It is dated January 4th. Oh dear. I do dimly recall having read this some time ago and making a sarcastic comment to Mr Frog about how the babysitter was touting for business again, but then I promptly forgot all about it. I haven’t the faintest idea whether I replied. The post-partum brain is a fickle creature.

Tadpole has somehow unearthed this message while tappety-tapping on the keypad. It’s really quite impressive the way she holds the phone to her ear and strolls out of the room as if she is having a private conversation I cannot be privy to (“Allô? Allô? Allô Gram ma!”).

So now I’m feeling guilty. Both about the dose of radiation Tadpole may be self-administrating (justification: the mobile is the only ‘toy’ I have to hand here in the doctor’s waiting room) and also about my lack of courtesy to the babysitter. She is not someone we can afford to offend. Our very social lives depend on her goodwill.

When you live in a big city, many hundreds of miles/kilometres from the nearest relative, finding a reliable babysitter is a big deal. There being no teenage girls conveniently located in our apartment building, we asked the childminder if she could recommend someone. She came up with a friend’s daughter who lived a half hour walk from our flat and required chaperoning home at the end of the evening. On foot, as opposed to on the back of Mr Frog’s Vespa.

In desperation I put an advert in our local boulangerie asking for a student with childcare references – one of those little ads you see everywhere in France with tear-off strips bearing our phone number. I was prepared to take the the risk of receiving a few heavy breathing perv-calls from mac-wearing stalkers who happened to buy a baguette that day. It was for a good cause.

The advert disappeared, I suspect removed by our soon-to-be babysitter, anxious to eliminate the opposition. She was perfect: nicely spoken, lived close by and had been picking up a toddler from school and minding her every evening for three years. Her references were duly checked.

And she is reliable. But I can’t help feeling that we are not the ones who call the shots here. She charges € 7 per hour – equal to the minimum wage in this country, but non-declared and therefore tax-free. That’s pretty good television watching/internet surfing/cupboard exploring money, by anyone’s standards. As we never seem to have any change when it comes to the crucial moment of paying her, the amounts inevitably get rounded up in her favour. Just to rub it in, she shows up carrying a different genuine-looking Chanel/Dior/Gucci handbag every time, her hair styled as if she has just come from a salon, her clothes pristine. I leave the flat feeling dowdy, in spite of my glad rags and make-up.

And then there is the guilt factor. Our ad said we would require someone about once a week. This was in the optimistic, naïve days before the reality of paying someone and then also paying to go out had really sunk in. You have to read really good reviews of a film before you want to spend €100 paying the sitter/seeing the film/buying Mr Frog the obligatory bucket of salty popcorn/having a bite to eat before/after the film. As opposed to renting the DVD for € 3. But occasionally Myriam adopts a petulant tone in her texts and implies she had hoped to work more regularly, so like the mugs we are we end up booking her just to keep her sweet, so that she will be there for us when we really do need her.

I suppose we should count our blessings though. A friend of mine uses an Orthodox Jewish girl whose family live in her apartment building. She has a bizarre set of rules about babysitting on the Sabbath. She can’t be paid on that day, nor can she do anything which constitutes ‘work’. The mother in question returned from a night out to find her children still wide awake and bouncing off the walls at midnight. Their bedroom light was still on, as the babysitter wasn’t ‘allowed’ to turn it off.

I try not to dwell on what our young lady gets up to when we go out. I know that when I babysat in my early teens I pretty much cased the joint for films with ‘rude’ scenes or mildly titillating literature (Women in Love, Tropic of Cancer). God only knows what I’d have got up to if I had broadband internet access.

I only hope she never stumbles across Mr Frog’s fluffy baaing sheep thong.

The tiny lift wheezes and groans its way up to the fifth floor, where the doors open with an unpleasant sound reminiscent of a cat’s claws being sharpened on a school blackboard. The pre-pubescent estate agent is already unlocking the door to the apartment. There are four locks. I picture the previous occupant, possibly a spinster with several cats, peeping through the spyhole suspiciously.

Young Mr Estate Agent hurries us past the windowless, unventilated bathroom and its odour of damp. It possesses one of those short Parisian baths in which even a ten-year old child would be unable to stretch out his/her legs fully. Something about the appearance of the toilet sets alarm bells ringing in my head, but before I have chance to investigate further I am cut off mid-thought. Tadpole has escaped my grasp and is making a bee-line for an interesting looking bouquet of dangling earthless sockets and exposed wires in the living room.

Returning to the task in hand, I note that the kitchen wouldn’t be out of place in a student house shared by four impoverished boys and no cleaning products. What plumbling is visible looks decidedly ancient and is likely to be lined with toxic lead.

Monsieur Agent Immobilier ingeniously diverts my attention away from this unappealing sight by throwing open the windows in the three main rooms, creating a situation where Tadpole can potentially defenestrate herself if my attention lapses for a moment. He studiously avoids the issue of central heating (and the lack thereof), but he does concede that the apartment probably requires € 35,000 spending on it in order to realise its full potential.

The main rooms are lovely, with wooden floors, high ceilings and original fireplaces. Winter sunlight pours in through the (non-double-glazed) windows and bathes the walls in a warm, buttery light. Leaning out of the fifth floor window and craning my neck to the right, I can just spy the Buttes Chaumont park.

I prod a wall-mounted electric heater suspiciously. It wobbles. I have never understood the French fondness for a single, tiny electric heater, positioned on an outside wall under a window, intended to heat a large high-ceilinged room.

Sensing that the heating issue is causing my enthusiasm to falter, the estate agent makes the mistake of opening a panel next to the front door to demonstrate the existence of a gas pipe. The rusty old pipe he wiggles at me could be anything for all I know, but whatever it is, it evidently hasn’t been used since the 1920’s and seeing this does nothing to reassure me. Nor does a glimpse of the fusebox (a single old-fasioned wire fuse). Hardly a desirable original feature.

We mumble the usual meaningless niceties about how we’ll have to discuss it but, a priori it is a little out of our budget range considering the amount of attention it needs and our patent lack of DIY skills. Mr Agent Immobilier promises to contact us if anything similar comes on the market (he won’t, in two years no-one ever has) and we take our leave.

It dawns on me later that day what was wrong with the toilet. It was low and small like a bidet with a lid. There was no visible connection to a water supply. I don’t even think it was a sani-broyeur. Could it be some sort of chemical toilet?

Call me fussy, but for the sum of £ 200,000 (€ 317,000) I am not prepared to relive my worst experiences of the Glastonbury festival. I’m too old for that.

Back to the small ads.

Hello, my name is petite and I’m a fully recovered shopaholic.

The New Year sales started at an unfeasibly early hour yesterday morning here in Paris (which felt odd, considering some had begun before Christmas in the UK). I for one will be scrupulously avoiding any form of retail therapy for the duration. I can think of few things worse than braving the Galéries Lafayette or Printemps department stores only to have to fight my way through hordes of middle aged women in tasteless (fake?) fur coats and trowelled-on make-up to ferret out ‘une bonne affaire’. I observed, with detached amusement, the women in the Monoprix next to my office sourcing and even trying on items on Monday and Tuesday in preparation for the hallowed opening day on Wednesday 12 February. But I realised I had no desire whatsoever to join them.

BT (Before Tadpole), shopping was a hobby which took up a fair amount of my time. The whole point of Saturdays was to spend hours scouring my favourite shops with Mr Frog for items of clothing and shoes to buy. We shopped at an eclectic mix of stores: from H&M to Kiliwatch, Zara to the Agnès B, as well as in Dior, Givenchy and Louis Vuitton private sales (when I worked for a luxury goods empire and could get hold of invitations). We were young(er), on decent salaries, mortgageless and had nothing better to do than spend money frivolously. The sales were an opportunity to lust after reduced (but still obscenely expensive) Marc Jacobs ballerina pumps or Miu Miu handbags at Kabuki.

Mr Frog possesses a quality rare in men: he likes shopping. Not just for his own clothes (where he is fastidious to the point of being impossible to buy for), but he actually enjoys shopping with me/for me. He would give me advice on what to buy, and tried to take all the credit for my gradual transition from a doc marten wearing grunge goddess (when we met) to whatever I have now become. I did on occasion have to be firm, because being a woman I instinctively know when something which looks very attractive on a coathanger will be ill-suited to my hourglass figure. On the whole though he excelled in his role of guru and partner in crime. This is an unusual quality to find in a heterosexual man (I have always joked that if he left me, it would be for a man), but I wasn’t complaining. It was good fun shopping together.

It was the arrival of Tadpole which cured my shopping habit overnight.

I can now no longer endure weekend trips into central Paris, knowing that this will first entail negotiating several flights of stairs with a pushchair, then ramming said pushchair into fellow traveller’s shins in a crowded, airless metro carriage. Several more flights of stairs and long underground corridors later, we will finally emerge onto a congested, and often dirty pavement where the crowds do not magically part at the sight of a pushchair. And where hundreds of lighted cigarettes are brandished at Tadpole’s eye level.

Although I had never noticed this previously, I can count the number of Parisian shops equipped with a lift on the fingers of one hand. To my amazement I have shopped at several stores where infants’ clothes are located on the first floor, accessible only via a single flight of stairs, with neither a lift nor an escalator in sight. Should we need to make a Tadpole pit stop, restaurants with baby changing facilities or high chairs are few and far between. So shopping with a child is only for the ferociously motivated. It’s a parcours du combattant I can well do without.

The alternative is a relay-race dash to the shops. First I snatch my couple of hours while Mr Frog entertains the Tadpole, then I pass the baton to Mr Frog and it is his turn to ride off into the smog on his Vespa. It’s not half as much fun as shopping together. I miss Mr Frog’s company and feel a pang of guilt at squandering some of the precious time Tadpole and I have together, which means that leisurely browsing and actually trying things on has been replaced by a one-stop lightening visit to Gap every few months from which I bring back every item I like in my size, fervently praying it will all fit.

So, if you came here expecting extensive coverage of the glamorous Parisian sales, sorry to disappoint.

I’m wondering whether my compulsory responsabilité civile vie privé insurance will cover the injury caused to an innocent passer by while disposing of our oversized, and now rather flaccid, Christmas tree.

The phrase in my contract reads:

Nous indemnisons à votre place les dommages causés à autrui dans le cadre de votre vie privée et engageant votre responsabilité.

The exceptions listed include accidents involving a car/boat/my job/transmission of an illness. Nothing is said about lopping a Christmas tree which has outstayed its welcome off a fifth floor balcony onto the pavement below in the dead of night.

I am starting to wish now that I had opted for a cute, bonasaï-style tree, rather than a monstrosity as tall as myself. It looked reasonable enough in its mesh wrapping, but once unsheathed the lower branches sprung out at right angles and its true, gargantuan dimensions were revealed. The tree took over more than a square metre of our small living room and furniture had to be moved around in order to accommodate it.

The lift in our building measures approximately 60 cm by 100 cm and can hold two slim people provided they know each other well (preferably carnally). The washing machine was a tight squeeze and I fear that the tree is now too wide. Add to this the fact that the lift is entirely carpeted in a fetching shade of brown, including the walls and even the ceiling, and you can imagine the fun to be had hoovering needles off all those surfaces if the tree were to be coaxed into said lift.

And as for the five storeys of staircase, they are also carpeted. I don’t think the nice man who hoovers the stairs on Saturday mornings would be very appreciative if I left a trail of needles all the way from my front door down to the lobby below. However as the flex on my hoover doesn’t stretch as far as his I would have to purchase some kind of extension lead if I wanted to remove the debris.

Hence my current dilemma.

If I had been frighteningly efficient and organised and actually aware of the existence of such an invention, I would have purchased a special tree-bag (pictured), which I’m told can be opened out under the tree to catch all falling needles during the Christmas period (as opposed to picking them out of our bare feet with tweezers from now until next December), and then lifted to envelope the tree and facilitate its disposal. I optimistically asked after these at three shops yesterday only to be told that these were sold out long before Christmas. I see no alternative but to fashion myself one using the limited means I have at my disposal.

So, if you happen to see/hear a swearing English person in the vicinity of the Buttes Chaumont tonight wrestling a person-sized bundle wrapped in a duvet cover out onto the pavement, do come over and introduce yourself.

This weekend I mostly ate homemade mince pies and looked smug, curled up like a cat on the sofa, enveloped in my poncho. Mr Frog on the other hand began his Christmas shopping and was forced to join the hordes of other disorganised Parisians in the shopping purgatory of the department stores. Of the four presents he needed to buy I believe he returned with two. Largely due to the fact that he left with no clear idea of what he intended to buy. Are men genetically programmed to have an aversion to forward planning?

Arriving home shellshocked and sheepish, he pulled a cheap looking calendar out of his rucksack. Thankfully this was not my Christmas present. Evidently the firemen had been doing a hard sell outside the Galéries Lafayette and Mr Frog was feeling charitable.

As Christmas approaches in France, etiquette dictates that you are supposed to tip all sorts of people, in addition to buying presents for your loved ones. These cash gifts are called les étrennes, and are often given in exchange for a calendar. For some reason. Although frankly there are only so many calendars a person needs.

I’ve never had a clue how much I’m supposed to give when I happen to answer the door to a calendar seller. According to one article in a money magazine your postie deserves € 8, the firemen €5 and the binmen up to €15 (they do their rounds every day in Paris). In apartment buildings which employ a concierge the occupants give the equivalent of 10% of their rent, which in this city is not a modest sum. However, as most concierges are paid a pittance (some formerly only got lodgings and no salary at all), it does seem fair enough as I imagine they rather depend on their end of year bonus.

To this list we also have to add the childminder. Now that’s a tricky one. How much is enough? Clearly this is not someone I can afford to offend. Which is why she will be getting € 100 in shopping vouchers on top of her € 700 salary this month. Anything for a quiet life.

It strikes me as slightly odd that salaried civil servants like postmen and dustmen should be able to come knocking on doors soliciting tips. Apparently La Poste condones but does not actively encourage the sale of calendars (featuring kitsch photos of fluffy kittens) by their staff in exchange for étrennes. In my building a sign went up on the lift door announcing the date on which our postman would be paying us his annual visit. It’s the only time of year he feels able to make the journey all the way up to the fifth floor. A fact which condemns me to many Saturday morning queuing sessions at the local post office to retrieve parcels too big for my letter box.

Of course when the doorbell did ring, at 8pm on a Friday evening, I was bathing the Tadpole and couldn’t answer the door. The rather determined postman rang the bell intermittently for a full five minutes, yelling ‘C’est le facteur!’ for good measure. I imagine I will now be blacklisted as a non-tipper and my more interesting looking parcels will get ‘lost in the post’.

Paris dustmen (politically correct version: techniciens de surface) are legally not even permitted to come knocking on doors. But of course they will.

Pompiers are allowed to sell their calendars as long as they are in uniform, which seems fair, given that many are volunteers. I was rather taken with the May/June page (above) of Mr Frog’s purchase, showing a stocky fireman holding a large hose. I remarked that sales would go through the roof if the pompiers were to take a leaf out of the Calendar Girls’ book and pose in a state of undress.

A spot of internet research revealed that a group of firefighters in Buis les Baronnies already pulled this stunt in 2001 in aid of a national charity. With the following results.

You may click on the image for more. If you are so inclined.

Christmas has been a rather melancholy season for my family ever since a very dear relative was killed in a horrific, fog-induced pile-up on the M62 one December. It made the television news. Where horrible things are only supposed to happen to other people. Journalists telephoned our home, circling like vultures.

We didn’t celebrate Christmas that year, and while we all tried to put on a brave face in subsequent years, the ghost of that Christmas past inevitably haunts us.

Last year, however, was a real turning point: Christmas started to feel special again. It’s the advent of the Tadpole which has wrought this change: the first of my parents’ grandchildren and the apple of everyone’s eye. It is impossible not to smile in her presence.

Now that Tadpole is able to understand a little of what is going on, she is working her magic on me. Where once I felt only revulsion at the rampant commercialism of modern Christmas celebrations, now I feel my negative feelings slowly ebbing away, to be replaced by a growing excitement.

It started with a tree. Which I wasn’t even planning to buy. I thought if we bought a proper Christmas tree, one of the following was bound to occur. Worst case scenario, the whole edifice would get pulled over; at best, one of those little decoration hooks (which in our case are safety pins and ingeniously unbent paperclips) would get swallowed. I also know from previous experience that I will continue to find Christmas tree needles in the gaps between our ancient, warped floorboards until the following autumn, however thoroughly Mr Frog claims to have hoovered. So, as we will not actually be in Paris ourselves for Christmas or New Year, ‘we’ decided not to bother. ‘We’ meaning me. An executive decision, if you will.

That was before I saw the wonder in Tadpole’s eyes when the sapin went up in front of the 19th arrondissement’s town hall and the simple cascading white lights on the front of the building were switched on. Bathed in the reflected glow of the lights she was transfixed, chanting ‘pretty ites’, ‘tree’ and ’sdar’ over and over in an awed little voice. Suddenly I knew we had to have one. Immediately.

And so it came to pass that on Tuesday evening after work, Tadpole and I inspected every Christmas tree within a 1 km radius of our apartment. At the florist’s opposite: € 35 to € 55. Ditto at the next florist’s further along our street. I realised with a sinking feeling that this could turn out to be an expensive whim, given that we don’t possess a car, I can’t imagine Mr Frog bringing a tree back on his Vespa and we hadn’t got our act together in time to go to Ikea in a borrowed vehicle to buy one of those potted trees that you can return after Christmas in exchange for hard cash.

Luckily the DIY heaven that is Bricorama (all self-respecting French shops end in ‘rama’), where we habitually buy 20 screws when we only need one, came up with the goods. Their Christmas trees were so much cheaper that I got a bit carried away and dragged a 1m60 specimen over to the till. It occurred to me only after I had paid that I now had to get myself, a pushchair (weighing 10 kilos), a Tadpole (also weighing 10 kilos) and a tree as tall as myself back home. We must have looked a picture, Tadpole and I, pushing our Christmas tree along, comfortably enthroned in a Peg Perego buggy.

Imagine Mr Frog’s astonishment when he came home to a Christmas tree half the size of our living room (my lame excuse: ‘it didn’t look that big until the wrapper came off, honest’), some seriously re-arranged furniture and a rather odd top-heavy arrangement of decorations (out of Tadpole’s reach). He will never know the lengths I went to both to get the damn thing home, and into our tiny lift. Nor did he witness the blood, sweat and tears shed trying to find last year’s bag of decorations and ease it out of the back of a very high cupboard using a stepladder and a mop handle.

But it was all worth it.

So with a little help from Tadpole, I’m coming around to the idea of Christmas again. Next year I’ll be putting out a carrot for Rudolph and a drop of brandy for Father Christmas.

And now that I’m a grown up, I’ll be the one who gets to knock that back once Tadpole is safely tucked up in bed.

I am definitely not feeling festive yet (and it remains to be seen whether I will at some point), but last Sunday afternoon we decided to take Tadpole to have a look at the Christmas illuminations and windows at the Printemps and Galéries Lafayette department stores. The logic behind this early expedition was that the shops themselves have not yet started Sunday opening (although they will for a few weekends in December), so my theory was that the crowds would not be too overpowering. So much for that theory.

After half an hour of battling up and down flights of stairs with Tadpole+pushchair, slowed down by delicate manoeuvres through the ticket barriers (which annoyingly have grooved floors which jam buggy wheels) we emerged on boulevard Haussmann, enthusiasm already flagging somewhat, at around 5 m. It was already dark (or as near as it gets in the light-polluted capital), and the illuminations on the façades of the shops were indeed really stunning. Sadly a number of Parisians had clearly had the same bright idea as me and turned out with their extended families in tow.

This year Christian Lacroix has overseen the decoration of the Printemps department store, from the cascades of red lights and huge christmas tree baubles on the façade to the windows themselves. The ‘animated’ windows at Printemps were my favourites, especially those featuring the half-angel, half-devil characters* poking at the other figures with little glittery tridents. There was a cheeky naughtiness about them which I found very appealing.

Galéries Lafayette had a beautifully lit up façade – I can’t decide whether it reminds me most of a stained glass church window or a Moroccan screen design. Their children’s windows I found a bit disappointing. Moving teddies, more moving teddies, and yet more moving teddies. The humourous touches which made the Lacroix windows more entertaining (for adults) was lacking.

Around each window milled a crowd about 10 people deep, with kids hoisted onto their parents’ shoulders to peer over the top. Beneath the windows themselves there was a small, red platform for children to climb onto to view the windows. Obviously Tadpole is a bit too young to be let loose on the platform on her own, but I only made the mistake of getting up on there with her in my arms once – a volley of verbal abuse ensured that I promptly stepped off, cheeks-a-burning. Evidently there is an unwritten rule about the platform being for little people only.

Mr Frog pointed out a very distraught lady behind us who had lost sight of her 6 year old child in the crowd. I couldn’t look at her. It is one of my greatest fears that I take my eye off Tadpole for just two seconds in the supermarket and an evil child abductor swoops down to steal her from me and punish me for my lapse of vigilance. I think reading ‘The Child in Time’ by Ian McEwan was responsible for putting these morbid ideas into my head. I can’t read the passages where a child is abducted without feeling physically ill. I’m afraid I have no idea whether the woman found her daughter, the next time I turned around she had also disappeared from sight.

By the sixth or seventh window we had finally worked out that the best viewing strategy consisted of getting close to the platform with Tadpole still strapped into her pushchair (because once she is out, there is no guarantee that she will go back in without a fight) and hoisting the pushchair up to a level where she could see. Regardless of the reactions of the people in the crowd around us, as we were past caring at this stage. We were rewarded with little Tadpole saucer eyes and even a delighted ‘ook! pretty!’, so it was all worth the effort in the end. Or so I tried to tell myself.

Note to self: next year plan visit for 3am, take a taxi both ways. Approximate cost €30. Which is less expensive than therapy needed to get over trauma of last Sunday.

*Note to Mr Frog – these Lacroix soft toys are on sale for a modest € 29, and if you value your life there will be one under my Christmas tree.

Once upon a time, I had a holiday job working in a Thomas Cook foreign exchange bureau on the rue de Rivoli, opposite the Jardin des Tuileries.

It is fortunate that I do not suffer from claustrophobia, because this involved being locked in all day behind the (probably not) bulletproof glass (because the safety instructions mentioned ducking as well as pressing the panic button) until a security man came to let me out in the evening. And the office was rather cramped.

Fun aspects of this job were that I got to open a proper combination safe every morning – like in a James Bond film: 10 to the left, 100 to the right – to get my hands on the cash stash. Then there was the fact that I could read a book when there were slack spells, or sing along to the radio, and no-one saw/heard. I also got an (albeit small) thrill from wheeling and dealing. The French Franc was in its death throes and consequently the exchange bureaus were all in fierce competition with one another to make as much money as possible before the introduction of the euro wiped out half of their business. In order to win over customers who were wisely shopping around before changing their money I had to haggle. The rate shown on the board was for mugs. My goal was to entice people to change more cash so that I could give them a (slightly) better rate. I pretended to do lots of complicated sums on my calculator and this usually did the trick.

Bad things about the job were that I had to deal with a lot of very dodgy/ignorant people on a daily basis. There were the gypsy ladies who probably put Romany curses on me when I refused to change their huge bags of centimes into Francs (I wasn’t allowed to) and hassled my customers. Being in a glass bowl like a goldfish makes you rather impotent in such situations . There were shifty looking men (pimps?) who came to change vast amounts of low denomination dollar bills late at night, and didn’t take too kindly to my confiscating the forgeries that they had slipped in for good measure. (I was trained to recognise forged dollars: a missing tree here, insufficient detail on a president’s face there.)

Then there were the tourists. Some of the things they came out with left me speechless.

Female tourist: ‘Honey, I don’t understand. Can you tell me why the restaurant over there won’t accept dollars?’
Petite : ‘Ah. That’ll be because you are in France and the only legal tender in France is the French Franc…’

I then proceeded to change her dollars at the rate on the board because clearly this customer would not be doing any negotiating.

or

Female tourist to French colleague: ‘Oh my gawd, isn’t it cute the way everyone speaks French here? Y’all are so clever.’

I struggled to make sense of this one. Finally realisation dawned that she thought that every human being was born speaking English and that French people had learnt French as a second language from an early age. No really. That was what she meant.

The most distressing part of the job was however the International Money Transfer service. How I hated taking hard earned cash from some poor immigrant worker and sending a tiny fraction of it home to their needy relatives. Those services are outrageously expensive, but people without bank accounts have very little alternative but to use them. When I was working alone I broke the rules by trying to explain the cost of each transaction, but either I couldn’t make myself understood or the customer knew but wanted to send it regardless.

If you are travelling to France with large amounts of cash or travellers cheques, a word of warning. Life is harder for exchange bureaus these days, and they are consequently meaner. Don’t assume that because you have euro denomination cheques they will be exchanged without commission. I learnt this to my cost when my well meaning mum gave Tadpole some money in M&S Travellers cheques. There was a 10% charge. I was livid. No negotiation possible. Walking away and pretending to go to another agency didn’t have the desired effect (i.e. of them calling me back over to make a new proposition).

Evidently the rules of the game have changed since I last played.

Call me a prude, but there’s a saucy ad campaign running in the métro at the moment which really puts me off my croissants first thing in the morning.

The Galéries Lafayette department store has been working with photographer Jean-Paul Goude (think Vanessa Paradis on a trapeze for Coco de Chanel) and Corsican supermodel Laetitia Casta for the past couple of years. Personally I’m not a big fan of the campaign, which has shown an elongated, photoshopped-to-within-an-inch-of-her-life Casta (or a body double with Casta’s head, it depending on who you choose to believe) in various states of undress, disguised as a man, and giving a piggyback to Henri Salvadore. The Galéries have undeniably forged themselves a distinctive brand identity, whereas the other department stores – La Samaritaine, Le Bon Marché, BHV and Printemps don’t do a great deal to differentiate themselves from one another. But what I don’t need, at 8am when I am feeling a bit queasy wearing my heavy winter coat in a packed and steaming métro carriage, is Casta/some Brazilian floozy’s rear, liberally greased with baby oil, mooning down at me in every station. I shan’t be shopping there this Christmas.

Obviously having lived in France for some time now, I have had time to get used to the ubiquitous breast and bottom shots. Show me a shower gel/moisturising cream TV ad which does not show a lady rubbing a creamy lather on to her chest (full frontal or profile shot) and rounded buttocks (any shot permitted as long as the front bits are obscured by the aforementioned soap suds).

I am in two (or more) minds about how to react to this. On the one hand, using images of naked women to sell just about everything is wrong on so many levels. These people specialise in protesting against the sexual stereotyping of women by running counter campaigns; other protestors specialise in tagging sexist adverts on métro billboards and they have my full support.

On the other hand, at least the French are not a mass of contradictions. I wouldn’t want to live in the hypocritical climate of post-Nipplegate America. The French documentary ‘90 minutes’ recently devoted an episode to prudishness in the US of A. It amazes me that in a country where Xtina can make a video like ‘dirrty’, a law was being submitted to a state legislature which sought to outlaw the wearing of visible g-strings with hipster trousers. This crime against decency would be punishable by a prison sentence. Now I’m not partial to visible g-strings, but these people are victims. Fashion retailers insist on manufacturing trousers cut in such a way that sitting down without mooning is impossible. What is a girl supposed to do?

I also wonder whether the readership of the Sun newspaper in the UK would be vastly reduced if L’Oréal were allowed to show a bit more flesh during advertising breaks. Would you still buy the Sun ‘for the sports pages’ then boys?

But tell me, am I the only prude girl around here who finds the greasy bottom cleavage shot above a little bit unsavoury?

Back by popular demand, the final instalment on how to survive the Paris métro.

poised to pounce

Most, but not all, metro carriages have blocks of 8 seats in the centre, separated by an aisle. If the metro is crowded, your best bet is to aim to be standing at one end of this block so that a) you will be marginally less intimate with your fellow passengers and b) should someone get up, you will be well placed to grab the vacated seat. Typically there will be a face off between two challengers at each exit of the block of seats.

Unfortunately here it is not speed which determines the outcome. Your fate is entirely in the hands of the person vacating their seat. Should he/she choose to leave via the exit route you are blocking, you will be forced to beat a retreat away from the seat you covet and your opponent will triumph. To avoid this outcome, cunning and vigilance are required. At the merest twitch of a hand on a handbag or closing of a book you must temporarily position yourself firmly in the middle of the seat block. You may have a little trouble keeping your balance, but the seat is as good as yours (unless your opponent plays it dirty and makes a last minute charge).

unwelcome attentions

In rush hour, during strikes or when there has been yet another problème technique or incident voyageur (i.e. an inconsiderate soul has hurled themselves onto the tracks) the metro can get extremely crowded. This uncomfortable proximity can also be hazardous. First, keep your hand on your bag and keep it in front of your body, in case any members of a child pickpocket ring happen to be in your carriage. Second, breathe through your mouth. For obvious reasons. Third, don’t hesitate to ‘out’ anyone whose roaming hands find their way inside your coat, preferably by grabbing the offending hand and shouting ‘anyone lost a hand?’ After countless experiences of public transport frottage, I am now a little paranoid and have occasionally swung round angrily only to find that the guilty party was in fact an umbrella or the edge of a handbag. But you can’t be too careful. Unless you like that sort of thing.

making your exit

This should be the easy part, but rarely is. At peak times drivers don’t leave the doors open long enough for passengers to get off, let alone get on. When you are packed in tighter than sardines (but without the lubricating properties of olive oil) there is no question of anyone moving aside until the doors actually open. Don’t try to maneouvre yourself closer to the door until the train stops, it’s futile and will annoy everyone around you. But as soon as it does stop, don’t hesitate to holler ‘la porte s’il vous plaît’ (if no-one opens the door) or ‘pardon, je dois descendre!’ whilst simultaneously shoving people out of your way. If there are imbeciles on the platform waiting to get on but not even leaving you space to get off, put your head down and charge through the middle. If they try to get on while you are attempting to get off, use your elbows and anything you are carrying as a weapon.

Welcome to the urban jungle. No points awarded for being nice here.

On a day where 75% of blogs worldwide will be devoted to pondering the question of whether the American election organisers can count or not, petite anglaise is proud to bring you some light relief.

Do’s and Don’ts of Métro Etiquette – Part I

Turnstile trauma

It is not unusual when approaching the turnstiles to be asked by an unsavoury looking male who appears out of thin air: ‘est-ce que je peux passer avec vous?’ This is a rhetorical question, because regardless of your response, you will find a crotch pressing uncomfortably into your rear as you go through the narrow turnstile together.

People who do this are perverts in my opinion. Normal fare dodgers just jump over the barrier altogether, no crotch rubbing necessary. I haven’t worked out how to prevent this from happening yet. Any suggestions welcome.

Platform positioning

Take care when choosing your patch on the platform. Seasoned travellers will be positioned exactly opposite the place where the doors will open in the carriage of their choice, to facilitate a swift exit route in their destination station.

Other variables do have to be taken into account however, such as the proximity of an abusive drunk shouting connasse at every female passer by (métro Pyramides, line 7) or a pool of vomit/suspicious wet patch that might just be urine.

Stake your claim

French metro carriages are typically made up of normal seats, some of which are supposed to be reserved for priority use by the old, infirm, expectant mothers or people accompanying small children. Then there are strapontins, fold down seats used only when the carriage is not too full. If you are intent on claiming a seat, a good knowledge of métro étiquette is indispensable.

If you qualify for a ‘reserved seat’, don’t expect anyone to surrender their seat to you willingly. They will hide behind their books and newspapers, fleeing eye contact to protect their hard won seat. The best tactic I found when pregnant was to butt someone on the nose with my protruding belly and state, ‘I need to sit down please.’ Without the merest trace of a smile or any attempt to appeal to their human kindness, which would only have translated as weakness on my part. Ideally it is best to brandish some sort of official card proving that you really are old/infirm/or an ancien combattant because anyone who has queued up to get one is deserving of maximum respect in this country.

If you approach a free seat at the same time as another person, be prepared for a duel to the death. Don’t assume for example that if you are a woman and your challenger is male that he will give in gracefully. Chivalry is by no means dead in France, but the métro is governed by a different set of rules entirely: the survival of the fastest. So, lower your head, under no circumstances make eye contact, and foncez!

special cases

Beware of the shrewish French lady in her 50’s or 60’s. You may have reached the seat first and staked your claim, but she will make such loud and indignant noises that you really have to weigh up whether you want to sit down but endure her elbow/handbag poking in your ribs and your cheeks flaming at her muttered insults. Calculate the length of your trip, your fatigue levels and the thickness of your skin and act accordingly.

A particularly annoying woman, in one of those horrible fur coats of which some aging Parisiennes are so fond, pulled that stunt on me last week. Moving from a strapontin (immediately pounced on by someone else) towards the seat I had won fair and square, she coughed and spluttered and exclaimed at my ‘rudeness’. Rather than endure her insults, I stood up just as the metro was pulling into the next station and said sweetly: ‘oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise you were entitled to a reserved seat. You look fantastic for 75, it’s amazing what plastic surgery can do these days’.

Then I turned, fled, and changed carriages.

Coward? Maybe. Deathwish? Definitely not.

(to be continued)

I sometimes worry that Paris is not the best place for a Tadpole to grow up – polluted air, crotte covered pavements and the lack of a garden being my usual arguments in favour of a move to the countryside. But given the number of wild beasts we spotted together this morning, I’m not so sure she is missing out on too much…

First, when we turned on the light in the bathroom this morning, Tadpole and I disturbed a couple of slinky silverfish who darted without further ado to their diurnal hiding place where the water pipes disappear behind the bath. These shiny little apostrophes are thankfully the only fauna I have observed inside our flat, and I’m not too worried about them, even if they do seem to be resistant to bug spray. They remind me of a record I once owned called Silverfish and Scrambled Eggs, which is the only reason I know what a silverfish looks like.

Upon opening the shutters of the Tadpole’s bedroom, we marvelled at the sight of a common city pigeon in all its glory defecating on the balcony. Tadpole now thinks these birds are called ‘dirty buggers’. Note to self: must really make an effort to rein in my tongue as she now repeats everything I say.

During our walk to the childminder’s house, which involves cutting across the Buttes Chaumont park, we saw a crow (or possibly a raven, either way it was very sinister looking), some blackbirds, more pigeons, along with much greenish grey evidence of their presence, and some sparrows. Several different breeds of dogs out were also out walking their owners, prompting cries of ‘woof woof’ and ‘wee wee’ and ‘caca’ from the Tadpole.

As we neared the lake, brandishing a chunk of rather solid baguette left over from the previous day, we saw all manner of birds, geese and ducks. According to the park’s website these include black headed gulls, moorhens, black swans, green collared (?) ducks and ragtails. All I know is that some of the duck type things we encountered were rather large and not in the least bit shy, so the Tadpole remained in the safety of the pushchair while I attempted to break the bread into pieces and avoid being pecked to death by impatient and aggressive birds. One poor little duck had to keep dunking his head under the water to avoid a (sea?)gull who kept lunging down at him in an attempt to steal the bread from his beak. When we’d had as much excitement as we could handle, we left the park and cut across the front of the town hall to make our way to the childminder’s flat.

A black cat ran across the pavement in front of us as we neared the bakery. I stopped to contemplate buying a sinful pain aux raisins to combat that Monday feeling, but after seeing a cockroach take a leisurely stroll along the glass topped cake counter, I thought better of it. There’s no point eating one if you have to inspect every single sultana.

Finally, after dropping off Tadpole, out of the corner of my eye I saw a mouse streaking across the tracks as the metro approached. And to round things off nicely, I was bitten on the ankle by a pesky metro mosquito.

David Attenborough eat your heart out.

Whenever the Tadpole is around I can’t seem to stop myself from providing a running commentary about what we are doing. I don’t know whether all mothers do it, but it comes naturally to me. The Frog would say that nothing has changed as I always have talked far too much; he has been known to beg me to stop on the grounds that his head is ‘full’. I blame the parents for taking me to Ireland and dangling me off the top of a tower upside down by my ankles to kiss the Blarney Stone.

When I was on maternity leave last year and feeling a bit cut off from the world, the one-way conversations with baby Tadpole probably began because I was feeling lonely and missing adult conversation. Tadpole seemed to like the sound of my voice, even if it was the slightly irritating, condescending voice I can’t help adopting when I talk to children. Nowadays the running commentary is supposed to be educational: encouraging her to repeat new words and exposing her to as much spoken English as possible.

The following ‘conversation’ took place while pushing the Tadpole through the park. I was rather out of breath as the journey is uphill and Tadpole + pushchair = 20kg.

Petite, wheezing and panting: ‘Ooh look at the doggy! What does the doggy say? Can you see the doggy? Over there! No, not that way! That’s a crow not a doggy!’

Tadpole, eventually: ‘woof’

Petite: ‘And what’s that? Look it’s a duck. Can you see the duck in the water? What does the duck say?’

Tadpole: ‘cack cack’

Petite: ‘Ooh look at those joggers. That one’s got very nice brown legs hasn’t he? And look at those sexy little shorts. They don’t leave much to the imagination do they?’

Tadpole ‘?!?’

As you can see, I take the Tadpole’s education very seriously.

I almost took part in a threesome on the way to work this morning.

The scene took place in a crowded, rush-hour metro, at 9:05 (although I should have been at work for 9:00). I was uncomfortably close to my fellow passengers, praying that the object pressing into my back was an umbrella or part of somebody’s bag. It being pre-morning espresso, I was not fully awake yet. The soundrack, courtesy of a couple of Eastern European buskers was a rendition of ‘My Way’ on accordian and a tambourine, the backing track blaring out from one of those amplifiers on wheels they all seem to have these days.

At Gare de l’Est a couple got on.

He was in his forties, and had what I call the ’second-rate sales rep’ look. He was dressed in one of those rather unattractive mustard coloured suits that a certain type of Frenchman seems to favour, his trousers just slightly too short, revealing gleaming white socks. Nasty brown suede lace up shoes rounded the whole look off perfectly.

She, also in her forties, looked like his company’s receptionist: a little over made-up, brittle hair dried out from one too many home bleaching kits, outfit on the tarty side.

I am guessing that they had ‘got together’ for the first time the previous night. Which may explain – but certainly does not excuse – their slurping all over each other in the metro approximately 2 centimetres from my face for the entire journey. I tried to escape, but it was impossible to put any more distance between us. Looking down at my shoes didn’t help, as it only served to make me aware of what they were doing with their hands.

I don’t think I’ve snogged in public since I was at sixth form college (and in retrospect I cringe).

I couldn’t think of anything suitable to say as I gratefully beat a hasty retreat upon arrival at my stop. Can any of my French readers suggest a suitable French parting shot, the equivalent of ‘get a room’?

My neighbourhood is changing and not for the better.

Two years ago when we arrived in the 19th arrondissement we loved the cosy, ‘villagey’ atmosphere of our stretch of tree-lined avenue, with its traditional butcher’s, baker’s, delicatessen, greengrocer’s, flower shop and old fashioned café in a cobbled square with its zinc bar . The shops looked like they had been there since the appartment buildings were built, circa 1900, and had a shabby sort of old world charm. Sadly some of this character now seems to be ebbing away.

When our local baker’s re-opened in September after several weeks of refurbishment work, I was saddened to see that the art nouveau shop front had given way to red wood and plastic to mark the baker’s official allegiance to the Banette franchise. The marble counters inside have been replaced with shiny new glass and metal display cabinets. It is now devoid of all character. I still shop there – it’s the only decent bakery in the area – but I can barely restrain myself from chastising the owners for selling out.

The latest development is the arrival Sushi Nina, where previously there was a lovely traditional Charcuterie – Volailles – Fromagerie. It’s one of a small Jewish chain selling kosher sushi and bagels: the sushi is mediocre; our area, which is close to the Belleville Chinatown, was hardly suffering from a lack of Asian food in the first place. And it is just plain ugly: a hideous eyesore in red and black plastic with garish red lights, grafted onto a lovely old building.

What I have always loved about France, is that unlike the UK, although there are some chain stores you find in every town, there have always been plenty of independent artisans plying their wares too. Butcher’s shops with a cows head and pigs’ trotters in the window; the kind of place where there is a label on the meat telling you which farm the animal came from, and possibly its name. Nice piece of prime Ermintrude steak anyone? A cheese shop displaying mature, non-refrigerated cheeses in various stages of decomposition, accompanied by a stench of sweaty socks. A greengrocer’s with pyramids of painstakingly arranged fruit and vegetables. France would not be France without them.

Of course, having said all this, hypocrite that I am, I don’t actually patronise most of my local shops. Well, would you pay € 20 a roast chicken from the local butchers when it costs € 8 in the supermarket? But I know I should, lest they die out altogether.

On the left is the calorific bouquet I had delivered to the Frog’s office on his birthday. I’m now rather popular there, as even the Frog can’t get through 50 Chupa Chups without some assistance.

The Frog adores sweets: packets of fraises tagada are always mysteriously falling from supermarket shelves into our shopping trolley when my back is turned. If he ever leaves me it will no doubt be for his dentist, with whom he is spending increasing amounts of quality time.

As our expedition last weekend to find a suitable present was unsuccessful (he is very fussy), I thought I’d better have something up my sleeve on the day to make up for it. Actually, that makes me sound much less calculating than I really am: my primary motivation was to make him feel guilty that he never surprises me on my birthday… Not that when he thanked me over the phone through a mouthful of liquorice shoelaces he could have cared less about any intended subtext…

Last night we went out for a meal at Chez Georges, the Frères Costes’ über-trendy restaurant on the top floor of the Centre Pompidou. The experience made me remember why I love Paris: there is a marvellous view of the city skyline and all the major monuments are lit up at night. Inside the restaurant the view isn’t unpleasant either. The waiters are very suave, and the beanpole waitresses look like models. There must be a clause in the girls’ contracts which specifies that at least 1m20 of skinny bare leg must be shown at all times. Their outfits would have been more appropriate in a glitzy nightclub – never have I seen so many sequins (except perhaps in Miss Selfridge).

At the end of our meal, feeling I’d overindulged on rich food and bordeaux I asked our waiter for a carafe of water with the bill: meaning tapwater, not the mineral water on the menu at €8 a bottle (which even I know is ridiculously expensive). He looked at me calculatingly and said “de l’eau municipale?” I’ve never heard tapwater called by that name before, but I concede it is a very clever use of the word ‘municipal’, a word which conjures up images of street cleaners, sewerage works and dodgy lead piping and almost made me have costly second thoughts.

Incidentally, I stuck to my guns and got my tapwater, and as you can see I’m still alive, if a little “hanged over”.

We had two power cuts in our appartment building yesterday.

The first at 4 am meant that we failed to get up for work in the morning – the battery in the alarm clock which is supposed to act as a safety net in such emergencies being helpfully flat. Much bleary eyed fumbling for candles and matches and colourful swearing and ensued. Neither the Frog nor I has the faintest idea how to light the pilot light in the boiler, so I was reduced to heating a pan of water on the gas stove for washing purposes and resourceful use of Huggies cottonsoft wipes. I suppose that’s how people washed (minus the Huggies) in the ‘good old days’ when our appartment building was built, as originally there were no bathrooms.

A great start to the day, all in all, arriving late to work, then praying that all would be well when I got home and that the contents of the freezer would not have to be binned. It was thankfully all sorted, so I set about setting every clock in the flat to stop them blinking at me.

Returned home tipsy later that night after a girls’ night out. Ten minutes later the power went off again. As most of our neighbours appear to be pensioners who go to bed at 8pm I doubt any one else noticed, so a drunken conversation between petite and Electricité de France followed, whereby I tried to convince the rather sceptical man on the other end of the line that the problem concerned the whole building so a technician was NOT to come hammering on my door in the middle of the night, but instead should proceed straight to the cellar where the fusebox for the building is located. Under NO circumstances was I willing to go down there in my nightie with a torch – even if it might be a question of just to tripping a switch – it’s a spooky dungeon-like place with earth floors and stone vaulted ceilings and several catacomb like corridors. I always feel like something is lurking in the shadows watching me. And I have no desire to see what nocturnal wildlife it may harbour.

*shiver*

It occurs to me that had the power gone off ten minutes earlier, knowing my luck I would have been stuck in our miniscule lift between two floors until 5am when the power finally came back on, as this does not appear to have a backup supply of any kind. It measures about 1m by 50cm and has floor to ceiling carpeting which smells of dogs and old people, so I had a very narrow escape.

My worry is that I wasn’t around to quiz the man from the EDF on either occasion and he probably just tripped a switch without caring what the cause of the problem might be. So this will probably go on happening twice a day for the foreseeable future. In the middle of my favourite tv programmes, halfway through publishing a blog post, when it’s freezing cold outside…

I’m a pessimist by nature. In case you hadn’t noticed.

Petite anglaise, strolling carefree through the streets of Paris on a sunny autumn day, casually elegant in her floaty skirt and pale beige mac. (Well, if you must know, she was dashing frantically to the nearest Decathlon sports shop during her lunch break to purchase a swimming cap for the Tadpole, but the rest was accurate).

*SPLASH!!!!!!!!! (or *PLOUF!* if you want to do this the French way)

Petite anglaise swears and gesticulates angrily at the back end of the open-top bus which has just soaked aforementioned skirt and mac. And yes, I do gesticulate when I speak French. It’s compulsory.

Parisian streetcleaners have an ingenious way of disposing of the debris they sweep off the city’s pavements. First, it is swept or blown with a leaf-blower type device into the gutter, and then they turn on special hidden taps – whose existence you would never suspect – in the gutters themselves so that water gushes out along the roadside and carries the detritus far away into a distant drain. Special rolled up pieces of mangy carpet appear as if by magic and are strategically positioned so as to ensure the temporary stream flows in the correct direction. I have no idea where these pieces of carpet come from/go at night but they do not look very hygienic and I wouldn’t like to get too close to one.

So of course I wasn’t just wet, I also had bits of leaves and I dare not think what else all over my person.

Another glamorous day in the city of lights.

Well it’s “nice week” chez scaryduck and it has inspired me to (attempt to) sing the praises of things I love about Paris today. Looking back over the archives, many of my posts have been rants so far – so it is only fair. After all, I ‘m the one who chose to live here. Before laying eyes on the Frog. I must have had reasons?

*racks brains*

Here goes…

1. I confess I get a thrill out of the dddrrrriiiinnng noise that my navigo metro pass makes when I go through the ticketless turnstile without removing it from my bag. Occasionally the little green arrows light up without the noise sounding and I am left feeling very cheated indeed.

2. The sublime view from my balcony, across the rooftops of Paris. You should be able to see the glorified pylon that is the Eiffel Tower, but it is hidden behind an inconsiderate block of flats across the road. But I spy with my little eye Notre Dame cathedral and the Tour Montparnasse, and those funny coloured tubes on the inside out Pompidou centre.

3. Crèpes sold by street vendors in paper cones – with Nutella dripping out of the bottom, pains au chocolat from the bakers when they are warm and the chocolate is runny. Miam, as a French person would say.

4. The Marais: a backdrop of stately, ancient hôtels particuliers where you can imagine Dangerous Liaisons being played out by aristocrats in powdered wigs. And all that inaccessible modern day male eye candy.

5. Frequenting the kind of cinema that doesn’t sell popcorn and where people have been known to clap and cheer at the end of a particularly good film.

Five things. Not a bad start, but I don’t think I could keep it up all week…

I just noticed a sign on the door of my local Monoprix (urban supermarket chain – French version of Woolworths or Walmart) reminding the public that they are not permitted to enter the shop on roller skates.

Personally I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing*, but you’d be surprised how many Parisians do don rollerblades and all kinds of protective padding and take to the streets. I imagine they think they look cool. *Grudgingly* I suppose some of the more experienced rollerbladers do – as they glide nonchalantly in and out of traffic, hitching a ride on the back of a bus when they fancy a rest. A guy even grabbed the back of the Frog’s Vespa once. The Frog thought at first that it was my weight slowing him down.

Statistically though, you are more likely to see novices wobbling along the pavement who haven’t yet mastered the art of stopping by doing that nifty little semicircular manoeuvre, and desperately trying to come to a halt at a busy road where there is nothing to grab on to but a pedestrian like myself. I have reluctantly saved several lives this way.

While I am touching on the subject of Parisian pavements and their hazards, let me indulge my poo fixation pause for a moment to reflect on how delightful it must be to clean a crotte off those fancy blades with lots of little wheels on.

The most astonishing spectacle is the rollerblading meet which takes place on Friday evenings, assembling up to 15,000 people for a 30km skate through the streets of the capital. I have on several occasions been unable to cross the road for 15 minutes as they cruised past at a leisurely pace. It’s amusing to watch for about a minute, but I strongly advocate a sneaky beer to pass the time if you are nowhere near a metro station.

My (ahem) “research” for this post also yielded the following: if you are located in Nice you too can join Nice Roller Attitude. Another fine example of the French using the English language in a (vain) attempt to sound cool.

*although I did own some rollerboots when I was ten. I thought they were very fetching indeed: in yellow, blue and red suede with yellow wheels and a stopper thingy at the front. Which I needed, because I must confess I couldn’t execute that fancy stopping manoeuvre either.

Must start a moblog…

…if only to show you the size of the mosquito bite on my heel – sustained while minding my own business on the metro on the way to work this morning.

*scratch*

And now the one on my hand from yesterday’s journey is itching again too.

*scratch scratch*

The line 7bis metro runs in a little loop around the Buttes Chaumont park. Once upon a time, fact fans, this area used to be a quarry, so the metro tunnels here are deeper underground than elsewhere in Paris. It’s cool and moist and local mosquitoes love it (and me), so I am plagued all year round.

Evidently they have mutated into an especially evil breed equipped with razor-sharp proboscises. I can see no other explanation for how Madame Moustique (know your enemy: the female sucks blood, the male eats plants) managed to bore through the skin on my heel. Let’s just say a pedicure wouldn’t go amiss, so she must have been motivated.

So, if you are planning a trip to Paris, don’t forget to pack one of these. I’m told there are alternative uses, so you are unlikely to regret this purchase.

My local park temporarily belongs to the axis of evil in the summertime. Parisians tend to live in miniscule shoeboxes with plastic red geraniums on the windowsill instead of gardens, so the park is a back yard I share with a few thousand neighbours, plus some tourists thrown in for good measure. Finding a patch of grass to sit on is almost as challenging as spreading your towel on a Côte d’Azur beach.

So, picture the scene: after half an hour of pushing a grizzly toddler around while searching for a some unoccupied territory, I finally find a shady spot, take a (medicinal) swig from my hipflask, unstrap toddler, unpack toys…

…and as if by magic, the shopkeeper park warden appears, whistle blowing angrily. He stands over me, hands on hips, brimming with self-importance, giving me plenty of time to admire his carefully ironed uniform, should I wish to.

“Can’t you read, Madame? This grass is out of bounds! It’s au repos.”

I couldn’t help but wonder: when he was a little boy, did he daydream about becoming a defender of the nation’s lawns? Did he fantasise about owning that uniform?

I’m familiar with the concept of a sports car, a throbbing motorcycle or an electric guitar as an extension of manhood. But a whistle?

The French language has the ability to make even hideous things sound divine, or at any rate a little more palatable than they do in English.

Take “déjections canines”. Anyone who has visited Paris will be aware of the perils of allowing one’s eyes to stray above pavement-level to take in the sights. The oft-quoted statistic is that 200,000 Paris-dwelling dogs (1 for every 10 Parisians), despite their deceptively ornamental outward appearance, produce 16 tonnes of excrement every day. As most Parisians refuse to scoop, and the number of dog-squad officers imposing spot fines is woefully inadequate, street cleaners armed with high-tech vacuuming devices do the city’s dirty work.

All people not being equal (contrary to the republican motto), neighbourhoods are vacuumed more or less frequently according to the affluence of the local population. The pavements of the 7th arrondissement, home to government departments and MP’s townhouses, are enviably pristine. Motocrottes are often to be seen gliding along the Champs Elysées. But I’ve yet to see one in my modest neck of the woods.

A recent TV ad for the Le Parisien newspaper neatly summed up the attitude of Parisians to this issue (and to fellow Parisians):

A smartly dressed businessman is seen carefully wiping a velvety crotte from the heel of his expensive shoe onto a ‘welcome’ doormat. The camera pulls back as he turns to open the front door of his appartment…revealing the soiled doormat belongs to his next door neighbour.

Le Parisien. Il vaut mieux l’avoir en journal.

August is almost upon me again. A tedious time of year to be in Paris, unless you happen to be a tourist and you can get away with wearing shorts and flip flops. My neighbourhood has effectively closed down for the next month: favourite clothes are trapped at the dry cleaners until September, there are no decent bread/croissants on sale within a 500m radius, and the tobacconist has now buggered off too. No more cigs for the Frog (he might actually have to stop smoking instead of just pretending now).

Temperatures are soaring, and I think it’s time to call on Holmes, my trusty butler fan, so that he can stir the stale, polluted air round and round the flat. Follow my advice: never rent a flat with only south facing windows. I managed to fry an egg on my balcony last year. Top temperature measured in my bedroom at midnight: 40°C (using the thermometer which my exercise bike kindly defaults to when in ‘idle’ mode, its preferred state).

During the 2003 killer heat wave that significantly reduced the pensions shortfall in France and kept undertakers in business, I was on maternity leave and trapped at home with shutters firmly closed.  I’m almost thankful to be at work this time round, even if the transition from 16°C in the air conditioned office to 30+°C outside can be a little brutal.

I’m the one you saw on the metro this morning with a cardigan on, blowing my nose.

Every time I pass on of these high-tech loo pods in the streets of Paris, it calls to mind a story I once heard about a drowned toddler. I carried out some internet ‘research’, but found no proof that this actually happened, so presumably it is urban myth. Regardless, however desperate I might be, I can’t bring myself to use these automated contraptions.

Firstly, I am suspicious of the automatic door which closes behind you. Just how long would I have before it glides open? What if it malfunctions, revealing me at my most vulnerable, underwear around ankles, to a bustling Parisian street? And what if the cleaning mechanism kicks in and spray me from head to toe in disinfectant? Does the floor really open when this happens? I don’t think I want to find out.

The alternative of course is to use a café toilet. You don’t usually have to pay for the privilege, but you may get more than you bargained for. The queue for the cubicles is often directly opposite the urinals. Not exactly eye candy whether these are in use or not. This proximity is unlikely to be a source of distress/embarrassment to the average French male. Don’t forget, he has no qualms about relieving himself in the street in broad daylight.

What the French call “Turkish” toilets (i.e. holes in the floor) are still fairly common, even in Paris. Females beware: if wearing trousers, any minor miscalculation of trajectory will result in an unpleasant splashback effect.

On a more positive note, I did discover on my fairly extensive tour of Paris conveniences (when heavily pregnant) that metro/underground toilets are not as horrific as I imagined.  At Madeleine they are art nouveau, kept in pristine condition by the Dame Pipi (the attendant who takes your 30 centimes) and have shoe shine throne if you fancy a break and a bit of French polishing.

Starbucks recently opened their first Paris coffee shop a short distance from my place of work to great fanfare. I have been secretly hoping it would fail, as I rather like Paris the way it is, that is to say without too many global brands repeated ad infinitum on every shopping street.

However, I gave into temptation this morning on the way to work as I was feeling a bit low and managed to convince myself that a cockroach-free medium skinny caramel latte to go would help cheer me up.

The French have clearly missed the point of Starbucks. First of all, un café latte moyen avec lait écrémé, et sirop de caramel à emporter s’il vous plaît takes rather a long time to say. Then, after ordering, the experience is similar to French MacDonalds in that the global concept of fast food (or drink) has been translated in France into a “service” which is anything but. I was tempted to get behind the counter myself to speed things up.

The Frog in a suit in front of me wanted a café crème. When asked what kind of milk/coffee/sized cup he wanted and where he wanted to drink it, he looked vulnerable and lost, and stammered that he just wanted a café crème.

Bless.

When I was at school, the textbook we used in French lessons was called Tricolore.  Two cartoon strips provided a bit of light relief at regular intervals:  one was called Claude le Clochard (about a vagrant named Claude) and the other was Fifi la Folle (a madwoman). With hindsight I think it is a little odd that the French nation was represented by these two characters.* But having said that, there are plenty of Claude’s and Fifi’s in to be seen in the streets of Paris.

The difference between the homeless people I see in England and France is this: in England Claude is typically a cheeky chappy with the gift of the gab selling The Big Issue outside Marks & Spencer. In France, Claude is more likely to be found horizontal, sleeping/comatose on the pavement adjacent to a warm air vent, or in the metro with his belongings in a plastic laundry bag by his side, and a few empty screw top wine bottles. If you are unlucky he might be conscious and verbally abusive. One whom I see regularly in the metro calls all the ladies who walk past dirty whores. Verbal abuse I can deal with, but one of my greatest fears, particularly on public transport, is of being thrown up on by a drunk. It hasn’t happened yet, but give it time.

There are also ‘career’ beggars who spend the whole day riding the metro and giving their potted history over and over again. It must be soul-destroying stuff and so I am refraining from poking fun at them. But I am quite amused by the fact that when the euro became legal tender, their spiel changed overnight from asking for “un franc ou deux” to “un euro ou deux”. Nearly seven times more.

I wish my employers had applied the same logic.

*In my German book, Deutsch Heute, the cartoon strip was about a talking pig called Fränzi.

There is a coffee machine in the kitchen at work, quite a serious beast which grinds its own beans accompanied by a sound not unlike an electric drill and with the coin slot disabled so that caffeine is free to the masses. A double espresso is my drug of choice, and without it I am of limited use to anyone before midday.

I opened up the machine one morning to fill it up with fresh coffee beans and water and noticed that the dried blob of hot chocolate paste I had seen out of the corner of my eye had legs and was moving. Just as I found a suitable implement with which to remove the intruder, it scuttled off to hide inside the machine. Presumably it lives there. With its extended family.

A casual enquiry at the café downstairs confirmed what I had feared – cockroaches (cafards) frequently take up abode in coffee machines in Paris because it is nice and warm and there are coffee grounds to nibble on when they get peckish. I was assured that they don’t find their way into your cup of coffee and in answer to my question “how do you get rid of them?” I got a typical gallic shrug. Which means that they don’t do anything. Live and let live…

Mine’ll be an instant from now on then please. With a pro-plus chaser.

The French revolution’s kick off is celebrated every 14 July with a very long (televised) military parade on the Champs Elysées [stifled yawn]. Good old Chirac showing off his tank and plane collection. Boys will be boys.

The ‘festivities’ start the night before with firemen’s balls [insert double entendre here] held in fire stations nationwide. These are allegedly a good place to pull if:
a) you can stand the distressing music (think bad wedding dj and multiply by a cringe factor of 10),
b) you are partial to being groped by lairy, pissed Frenchmen, and
c) you are not too worried about someone puking on your shoes.

The next day Paris will smell even more strongly of urine than usual, as to a Frenchman, heavy drinking = a licence to relieve himself anywhere he chooses. If you are lucky, he will turn his back before he gets his hose out and your feet will not be on the receiving end of an unwelcome golden shower.

I’m at a loss to explain how any of this is related to the storming of the Bastille.

Personally, as the babysitter and her Dior handbag [more about her another time] have gone on an extended holiday I have a watertight excuse not to get involved in the ‘revelry’…

My metro ride to work this morning was très surreal. A very earnest busker killed me softly with “Yesterday” sung ever so slightly off key and with a French accent (“my trobbles seemed so far awaiy…”) and played with odd little extra flourishes on a saxophone. He alternately sung a couple of lines and then continued with the sax. All this to a taped backing track played on one of the little portable amps the buskers all seem to have these days. He was so into his performance that he had his eyes shut. I hope his takings were somewhere safe from the pickpockets.

At the other end of the carriage, a group of Japanese/Chinese with surgical masks on. Do they know something I don’t? Has SARS hit Paris? Or like me, do they have trobble coping with collective French morning mouth in confined spaces?

Wish I hadn’t handed in the packet of Xanax my toddler found on the floor of the departure lounge at Charles de Gaulle airport this weekend.