Miracle

I have been walking around Paris this week, thrilled (and chilled) to the marrow. I learnt in some sweltering primary school science class that water becomes solid at zero degrees. And I still get a spine-tingling kick every time I see that distantly-gained knowledge confirmed somewhere other than a freezer.

Having grown up in Sydney, where you buy ice from the service station to put in the bathtub to keep your Christmas beer chilled, the fact that it can be so cold outside that water freezes is something still so exotic and extraordinary to me that I have been going out of my way to visit bodies of water, just to see if they’re congealed or not.

The lake in the Parc Montsouris? Completely frozen over. The sight of its strange, grey, flat solidity makes me want to laugh with joy, even though my fingers feel as if they’re about to drop off as I doggedly jog through the pre-dawn frost. I watch intrigued as the park gardiens break the ice around the edges of the lake with long-handled wooden mallets, sending thick transparent triangles sliding into the centre. The round lake in the Luxembourg Gardens is frozen too, the central fountain austerely festive with Christmas card icicles. The Stravinsky Fountain next to the Pompidou Centre is solid as well, its bright creaking sculptures reflected dully in the scratched silver below.

It’s all quite wondrous, the cold transforming even the ugly and mundane into things of wonder and allure. Crackling puddles, sparkling gutters, even dog pee takes on a new and fascinating sheen when criss-crossing the pavement in brilliant crystalline streaks.

I know I should be more ho-hum about this phenomenon if I’m ever going to be a real Euresident, but the little boy from Sydney in me can’t help but be enraptured by this marvellous wintry mystery. This miracle of the season. May the novelty and wonder never fade.

Warmest wishes for a glittering Christmas!

Do you speak Vélib?

It was only a matter of time before someone published a collection of all the new words which have been cleverly coined since the rise of the Vélib phenomenon. Anne Abeillé has put together the Dictionnaire du Vélib to highlight some of the inventive neologisms which have (unofficially) entered the language almost overnight. Some of her favourites: “Vélibation”, meaning a boozy night on the Vélib; “Vélibabouchka”, a Vélib-riding granny; and “Vélibataire”, a single guy on a Vélib (from the French word célibataire, meaning bachelor).

It seems an English version is in the pipeline, so I couldn’t resist adding a few of my own suggestions (in no particular order):

Vélinguist n.
Someone obsessed with the language surrounding and inspired by Vélib.

Vélligerent adj.
Suffering from Vélib Rage. “Don’t get Vélligerent with me, mister. It’s not my fault there are no more bikes left.”

Vélebration n.
Festivities resulting from the opening of a new Vélib station near your home.

Vélincident n.
Any unpleasant occurrence or mishap whilst riding, such as accidentally swiping a parked car.

Vélitigation n.
The potentially unfortunate outcome of a Vélincident.

Ad Vélibber n.
A person who is unsure of their cycle route. Can also be used as a verb: “I don’t have my map with me, I’ll just have to Ad Vélib it.”

Véli Belly n.
The queasy feeling resulting from cycling home after a particularly large meal.

Jellib n.
The state of one’s muscles after riding up a long hill. “That Ménilmontant’s a bitch – my legs have turned to jellib."

Chain Gang n.
A group of delinquent youths who delight in vandalising and damaging innocent Vélibs by pulling the chains loose, for example.

Flat Chat n.
The words exchanged around a Vélib station when determining which bikes have deflated tyres.

Hell’s Bells n.
The painful cacophony of ring-ding-a-lings which betrays a group of excited first-time Vélibbers (Vélib Virgins).

Vélegance n.
The natural style and grace of an experienced Vélibber (a Vélib Veteran) as he or she swipes and swooshes away.

Heartburn

This is my pet hate. Next time you watch Star Academy, look out for it in the shots of the audience. I guarantee you’ll see it: some pathetic tween making a stupid heart with her fingers. There’s always one, and you can bet the camera will somehow manage to get a shot through the finger-heart, framing the performer; a touching and powerful image of the love shared at this deeply moving occasion. Excuse me while I throw up a little in my mouth.

Is it just a French thing, or has this heart disease spread globally? Do you see it at Anthony Callea concerts? I tend to think not, having watched the most recent series of Australian Idol, which remained mercifully heart-free.

Yes, I think it must be a Franco-saccharine phenomenon, which has even spread from TV variety shows and teeny-bopper pop concerts to the sports arena. I’m referring to the French swimming champion Laure Manaudou, who became a pin-up for the power of l’amour when she left the French swimming team to follow the love of her life to Italy. The sickening image of Laure finishing a race, ripping off her goggles and finger-hearting to her lover boy made me retch for weeks.

I can’t explain this reaction I have; it’s not like I don’t enjoy seeing, feeling and celebrating that loftiest and most beautiful of human emotions. I don’t go around shouting at couples to stop holding hands. (Although don’t get me started on public snoggers. I mean just get a room.) This aversion reminds me of a friend who simply cannot bear that hand sign people make, thumb and pinkie extended, to represent the telephone. Makes her physically ill. That’s what the hand-heart does to me. The mere sight of it, childish and cloying, makes me nauseous.

I suppose you could say I’m heartily sick of it.

The votes are in...

and the winner is... Kylie! Our very own pint-sized pop princess is France's favourite Star Academy mentor, beating the equine Québécoise with a 16% margin. What with one thing and another, I'm quite a proud Aussie at the moment.

Fantasy

Last weekend I lived out a long-held dream and sang Patricia Kaas in public. With a microphone.

I fell in love with Patty back in the Winter of 1989 when, as a student in Paris, I spent long hours in front of the TV watching the afternoon teen music shows (to perfect my aural comprehension, obviously). Kaas had just released “Mademoiselle Chante” and was on high rotation. I rushed out to FNAC and bought the cassette which I played obsessively on my walkman. (That sentence makes me feel so old.)

Every morning my head would fill with her husky, jazzy, sophisti-pop voice, all the way from the Porte de Clignancourt to St. Michel. I would step lightly up the boulevard as dawn broke, humming with pleasure at the exhilarating arpeggios: “Elle voulait jouer Cabaret…” Turning into the place de la Sorbonne: “En buvant dans les verres, Un fond de picon bière…”. Taking my seat in the Amphithéâtre Richelieu: “Je peux vous dire qu'elle en rêvait, D'un jazz band sous un clair de lune…” And all the while feeling swooningly Continental.

No doubt any French readers are pointing and laughing at me now: I’ve probably just outed myself as the biggest dag on the planet. (While I’m at it, I might as well tell you that my other favourite chanteuse was Mylène Farmer. I know.)

Which is why it took so many beers to get me up on stage in that fabulously low “gayraoke” bar last Saturday night to fulfill my teenage fantasy:

“Mon mec à moi il me parle d’aventures, et quand elles brillent dans ses yeux, j’pourrais y passer la nuit. Il parle d’amour comme il parle des voitures, et moi j’l suis où il veut, tellement je crois tout c’qu’il m’dit.”

For those present, thank you for your generous and indulgent support.

Wrinkly

This is what I’m going to look like after the weekend. I’m going to fill the bath with blistering water, lower myself slowly, monkey-like (oo oo ee ee aa aa), and luxuriate endlessly, pinkly, warmly. My toes will be nimbly prehensile, turning the tap for countless hot top-ups, my body reveling in steamy bliss as I marvel at the luxury of having it again: hot water. On tap.

It’s been seven days. A week of icy showers; boiling the kettle to wash up; freezing showers; messages left with the plumber; glacial showers; waiting in the apartment; calling the landlord… and really, really cold showers.

It’s not normal to have blue hands for a whole week.

And that’s why I am going to have the longest bath in history, and emerge looking like a Giant French Prune.

Delicious.

Filthy habit

I’m going to get all strait-laced, thin-lipped and tut-tutty for a moment. I’m sorry but I am. It’s just this: why oh why do people have to spit in public?

Every early-morning jog is invariably marred by having to dodge countless blobs of froth-slimy hideousness. Why do people feel the overwhelming need to get rid of their saliva when running? Granted, it can tend to get a bit thick and gloopy (sorry), but surely this is reason to conserve it rather than dehydrate the mouth further? I certainly don’t eject it and I’ve never choked on my own spit. I just don’t think it’s necessary. Perhaps those who exercise outdoors feel they have some special dispensation to perform anti-social and disgusting acts because, well, they’re rugged and active and that’s what sportspeople do?

Now if this were legitimate (and I’m not conceding for an instant that it is, let's be quite clear), it makes it even more inexcusable for non-exercisers to hawk and spatter all over the street. Yet I see it everywhere and at every time – people discharging mid-conversation, spritzing and hissing with odious abandon. Vile sputters of mucous-drool leaving glistening gobs of festering filth behind them…

Am I overreacting?

In trying to think why this makes me shudder so, I dredge up a particularly sick-making childhood memory of walking behind a man in Hong Kong (where spitting was even more distressingly common than it seems to be here). Either it was a particularly breezy day, or the pedestrian traffic was moving at a faster-than-usual clip, because it seemed only a split second after hearing the sickening hack that the resulting phlegm smacked wetly on my neatly pressed shirt. Scarred for life.

The other reason I really dislike the habit is because I think it is often done with intent. Let’s go back to jogging for an explanation. I have noticed that the more attractive you find the person running past, the more likely he is to spit in passing. It’s as if, sensing some incoming ogling (not that I ogle, but you get my point), a sputum-defense mechanism swings into action to make the object of appreciation less appealing. A sort of gaydar jamming technique, so the gentle thrill of any innocent eyeballing is completely ruined. Fiendishly and depressingly effective. Because really, who could ever look with appreciation at a common expectorator?

All spit, no polish.

Flappers

Yesterday I charlestoned my way through a day in the life of a thoroughly modern woman of the 1920s at the Musée Galliera exhibition Les années folles: (1919 – 1929). A delirious collection of couture dresses and accessories captured the innocent decadence of this breathless decade, from sporty “anyone-for-tennis” ensembles to glitter-dripping cocktail frocks. Poiret, Lanvin, Worth, Patou – the names almost as dazzling as the outfits themselves. My favourites were the utterly chic little black dress from Chanel and the intriguingly named “Lesbos” dress by Lanvin – an exquisite absinthe-green and silver creation shown at the 1925 Paris exposition in the “Pavillon de l’élégance” (see the sketch above).
The crowds and the claustrophobic layout made it a bit of a challenge to move between the displays, but it did mean I got to hear some wonderful snatches of conversation. Like the elderly lady in raptures before the woollen bathing suits studded with brocade and sequins, only to turn away, shaking her head and saying to no-one in particular, “of course they itched dreadfully”.
Too too thrilling!

Toussaint

It was almost festive in the Montparnasse Cemetery yesterday, tombs bright with chrysanthemum and cyclamen, the aisles between the headstones crowded with visitors; gossiping, strolling, commemorating the faithful departed. This is the custom, it seems, on these days of All Saints and All Souls.
Granite glinted dully in the struggling November sun as the living bent to the task of sweeping, scrubbing, weeding and remembering. Some grim, some cheerful, some weary and resigned. Duty? Grief? Habit?
It is a tradition which I find foreign and old-fashioned, and yet I can appreciate that there is comfort to be found in ritual. Even if it seems strange to me to nominate one particular day each year for remembering those we have lost.
Great for the florists, though.

Surprise

It’s so typical of Paris. Just when you thought she’d revealed all her sightseeing secrets, she casually casts another jewel in your path. So it was on Sunday we stumbled across the Domaine National de Saint Cloud. I’d seen a picture of it on one of those Monuments Nationaux flyers you see in museum cashiers and hotel lobbies. Not having heard anything else about it, we’d assumed it would be some third-rate park or wannabe Jardin de Versailles.
It turned out, of course, to be a magnificent surprise. Four hundred and sixty hectares of manicured lawns, ancient forests, breathtaking vistas and monumental fountains, all perched above the Seine at the western edge of the city. There used to be a grand château; home to Catherine de Médicis (she got around, didn’t she?), Marie Antoinette and Napoleon amongst others, it was burned down during the Prussian siege in 1870. Now all that remain are the expansively lovely grounds laid out by le Nôtre, empty and echoing. They are an enchanting fusion of formality and wildness, with grandiose water-features (a 90-metre Grande Cascade) in stark relief against densely wooded groves. For us, the melancholy sense of lost grandeur was deepened deliciously by the red autumnal richness of the soft and mamfy* day; fragrant wood-smoke curling from half-hidden tea houses nestled rustically amongst the trees.
Enthralling to realise that all this is so close to the tourist-trodden trails of the capital, tucked away at the end of Métro lines 9 or 10, a serenely evocative treasure to discover. I am filled with delight by this city which continues to astonish me with new wonders and unexpected riches.

* from the self-styled acronym for "mists and mellow fruitfulness", with apologies to Keats.

Converted

When it comes to cathedrals, I’ve always been a Gothic kind of guy. Addicted to the vertical high of a soaring Gothic nave, I have dragged LSP* across half of Europe in search of spidery stone buttresses, jewelled rose windows, fan-vaulted cloisters and flamboyantly filigreed facades. (Phew. Alliteration overload. Sorry.)
Howsomever.
Eight days in Burgundy have opened my eyes to a different style of architecture: the Romanesque. Older, simpler and sturdier, this precursor to the flashy frippery of the Gothic has a particularly strong presence in Burgundy, with every village seeming to have an older, more steadfast example. And there are of course the stirring masterpieces of Fontenay, Vézelay and (what’s left of) Cluny which anchor this region so robustly in the Romanesque.
So what is it about this style which has converted me? Compare the following images:

The first is the gloriously Gothic crossing and transept of the Eglise St. Ouen in Rouen. Delicate, dizzying perfection. The second is the aisle of the Romanesque Abbaye de St-Philibert in Tournus. Rough, massive and uneven; and yet, to me, so much warmer and more eloquently moving. Because I realise that what captivates me about Cathedrals is not so much the genius of the architecture itself, or the beauty of the buildings. Rather, it is the people who built them, and the subsequent generations of men and women who came to worship and marvel, who leave such a powerful imprint on the place.
Somehow I feel closer to the countless artisans and pilgrims before me when I can see the flawed humanity of their creation – the rough-hewn chisel marks forming an infinitely more immediate connection than the exquisite coolness of smooth stone.That’s not to say I’ll never go Gothic again in my historical ramble through religious architecture… but for true resonance, it’s (good, old) Romanesque for me.

* Long-Suffering Partner

Elegy/Apology

Dad used to love telling the story of the time he took my brother and I to see Marcel Marceau. I’ve always been a bit mystified by Marcel’s choice to tour Australia in the 70s, and by Dad’s decision to take two toddlers to see him, but I guess French mime was seen as incredibly sophisticated children’s entertainment back there and then.
The story goes that we were each bought a box of Jaffas (just in case Marcel failed to excite us, it was thoughtful to provide a crunchy sugar/chocolate rush as well).

All the Australians reading this will know exactly where it’s going.
After a silent rollercoaster ride of gesture and expression, walking against the wind and feeling along invisible walls, Marcel was working up to his final image of exquisite pathos. The hushed audience edged forward in their seats and held their breath as time seemed to slow... and then… and then… a shattering candy cascade was unleashed as hundreds of Jaffas bounced and rolled deafeningly down the aisle.
Dad maintained that Marcel never truly recovered, and would wake up in cold sweats at the memory of that fateful Sydney show.
I’m sorry Monsieur Marceau. I don’t really remember your show, but as far as the Jaffa incident is concerned, I’m sure it was my brother’s fault.
I hope now you’ve found quiet. And peace.

Trying times

It’s Rugby World Cup time in France, and the oval ball is everywhere – even on the Eiffel Tower, transformed into giant goalposts for the occasion. Everyone has jumped on the rugger wagon, and you can’t turn a page or a corner without seeing an oval-shaped object: chocolates, phones, books, hats. Everything is fair game (I kill myself). This being Paris, you can even pop into Chanel to get your gear on the way to the game.
Every company, brand and institution is falling over itself to prove its close ties to the game. There is Société Générale, the financial partner of the IRB; Toshiba, official TV provider; Eden Park, official clothing brand of the French team, and Vivien Paille, official provider of dried pulses and vegetables. (True.) My favourite advertisement, however, is this one: You know the World Cup is in France when rugby has its very own foie gras. Initially unconvinced by this tenuous link between ball sports and duck liver, my skepticism is blown away by the logic of the copywriting: "rugby and foie gras, two expressions of the same terrain". Of course! Rugby is really popular in the south-west of France, and that’s where they force-feed poultry to make foie gras! Crystal clear. That’s not drawing a long bow at all. Or, to use a more appropriate metaphor, kicking a very, very long goal.

Pavarotti's Botti

The sad death of Luciano Pavarotti yesterday reminded me of my favourite apocryphal story about the great tenor. It seems he was being interviewed on a live satellite cross as part of a televisual tribute to our very own antipodean diva, Dame Joan Sutherland. When asked what special message he would like to give to the soprano, in front of millions of viewers, his loud, effusive and heavily-accented reply was:

“I would like to give her a big kiss from my bottom…”

Cut to a frozen-smiled Joan, blinking to camera. Pan to a mortified host, silently sweating. Pull back to a bemused studio audience, holding its breath. And gingerly cross back to Luciano, finally ready to finish his sentence:

“…of my heart.”

Considering where it came from, that’s a BIG kiss.

Bravo!

Parisaurus

It's almost 18 months since we moved here, so I thought I'd mark the occasion by sharing some terms I've come up with to help describe the unique experience of being an outsider in Paris.
If you've ever lived in, visited or even read about this city, I'm sure you can think of many more... feel free to share any others you come up with and I'll compile them in future posts!

aisle high n.
The dizzying sense of euphoria experienced by Australians when they see the range of alcohol available in French supermarkets.

bark de triomphe n.
The self-satisfied yap uttered by a poodle when it sees you step in its freshly-laid crotte.

Dionify v.
The mystifying tendency of the French to elevate Canadian singers to god-like status.

expatois n.
The curious brand of franglais spoken between expats with varying proficiency in French. “Why don’t you pop in chez moi pour un apéro around six-thirty?”

FNAC jacket n.
Extra-thick skin required to shop at the customer-unfriendly retailer of cultural and electronic consumer products. “The guy in the DVD department just laughed at me when I asked for help… lucky I had my FNAC jacket on.”

haught couture n.
A certain look and attitude cultivated by sales assistants in the boutiques along the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. “Epitomising haught couture, the Chanel shopgirl looked down her nose and spat at me as I gazed at the window display.”

height stroke n.
Seizure caused by climbing too many monuments to get a bird’s eye view of Paris.

hellivision n.
Saturday night in France without cable.

kafkardiac arrest n.
The heart-constricting climax of frustration when, after 8 hours of dehumanising bureaucracy, you are told you need 2 more passport photos, 17 more copies of your birth certificate and another chest x-ray before you can get your Carte de Séjour.

métrognome n.
A diminutive underground train busker, usually playing the accordion. “The mournful strains of the métrognome halted abruptly as I tripped over him.”

mood poisoning n.
A sickening change in outlook caused by a random act of rudeness. “He was really cheerful this morning, but picked up a nasty case of mood poisoning from the bitch in the Post Office.”

phlegm brulée n.
A special dish served by proud French chefs when Anglo-Saxon philistines send back an “underdone” steak.

sacré blur n.
What a tour-group tourist sees of Paris in 48 hours.

sneer campaign n.
The relentless process between entrée and dessert whereby a waiter completely undermines your self-confidence and makes you question what on earth you’re doing in Paris.

unwhinged adj.
Describing the sudden evaporation of negative thoughts precipitated by a glimpse of unexpected beauty. “I stormed out of the Préfecture in tears of anger, cursing and swearing, when I looked up to see the spire of Sainte Chappelle glowing in the afternoon sun, and I was instantly unwhinged.”

waterlouvre n.
The sinking feeling experienced in a museum when you finally surrender to the fact that you can’t possibly see everything in one day.

Pop goes the Pinacothèque

It’s almost a week and I’m still smarting from the slap of being ripped off. I went to slake my curiosity at the newest cultural attraction in Paris – the Pinacothèque, opened in mid June. It is a privately owned museum magnificently sandwiched between the gastronomic temples of Fauchon and Hediard on the Place de la Madeleine. Its opening exhibition highlights the work of Roy Lichtenstein, the primary-coloured king of comic-strip Pop Art.
Now I’m generally a glass-half-full kind of guy. And I will say that I enjoyed the exhibition itself; it was an illuminating and surprisingly intellectual study of the artistic process and the derivative/transformative nature of inspiration. (Gosh – even I don’t know what that last sentence means… how impressive is that? I might have to consider a new career as art critic or wine connoisseur.)
Howsomever.
I couldn’t help but feel that this particular glass was on the half-empty and outrageously overpriced side. Firstly, the space has not quite finished being transformed from its previous incarnation as the Baccarat Crystal Museum (which apparently was as tacky as it sounds). So the paint is still fresh and smelly, the concrete unfinished and the electrical wiring still disturbingly visible. The Lichtenstein exhibition is in the basement, so it feels like you’re looking at pictures in someone’s garage.
Secondly, the guards all seem to have graduated from the Rude and Surly Academy of Museum Personnel, with first-class honours in Aggressive Photo Prohibition, and a minor in Unnecessarily Heavy-Handed Direction-Giving. Before descending to the substratum, we had wanted to have a quick look around the ground floor’s light-filled spaciousness. One of the guards actually shouted at us, instructing us to go down the stairs to the exhibition. Other guards, possibly needing a break from strip-searching art lovers and confiscating cameras, actually stood gossiping sourly right in front of the canvasses, breathtakingly oblivious to the polite neck-cranings and throat-clearings of the frustrated aficionados.
Finally, and most gallingly, there was the price. Eight Euros. You’ll appreciate that this is a not inconsiderable sum for an Expatrician. Not that I condone anything as crass as putting a price on Art, but when you consider that you pay less than that for access to numberless masterpieces at the Musée D’Orsay, it does seem insultingly steep for a hundred-odd works, no matter how good. So unless you’re a Lichtenstein loony, I’d think twice about popping in to the Pinacothèque.
Call me a philistine, call me cheap. I guess I’m just looking for a bit more brush for my buck.

image © Estate of Roy Lichtenstein New York / ADAGP, Paris (2007)

Outrageous fortune

Apologies to all my readers for the blog lapse – and thank you both for your patience. Naturally I have an excuse for my postlessness; I even have a doctor’s note to prove it. It seems I have suffered a traumatisme and have une épaule fragalisée – a fragile and very tender shoulder.
We need not go into any lurid detail regarding the cause of my accident: let’s just say that I’ll think twice the next time I consider riding a vélib home after a few quiet drinks at a friend’s place. What I would like to discuss is my new-found appreciation for orthopedic appurtenances and physiotherapeutic paraphernalia.
The doctor I eventually found, obviously bitter at being the only one stuck in Paris in August, had filled a page of prescriptions with even more indecipherably spidery handwriting than strictly necessary to sustain the cliché. The pharmacist duly worked through the list, building an impressive mountain of analgesics, calmatives and relaxants, but eventually had to admit defeat concerning the last item. Four pharmacies and much head scratching and colleague-consulting later, I found someone willing to hazard a guess. And so I became the mystified yet impressed owner of une contention bandoulière: a shoulder-immobilising arm sling.
It took me a good hour to put on. It has so many straps, velcro tabs, adjustment buckles and padded bits that even now I’m not entirely sure I’ve got it on the right way. So I went (clumsily, left-handedly) online to look for some helpful diagrams or simple instructions. Here’s what I found:
What do you notice about the above sling shots? That’s right. All the supposedly post-traumatic sling wearers are smiling. Cheerfully, inanely, and in that disturbing last photo, sultrily. Now you have to take it from me; if you’re wearing an arm sling, chances are you’re not smiling. And you’re certainly not feeling sultry. I’d like to see some models with a bit of verisimilitude: wincing in pain, sheepishly bruised and orthopedically unsexy. Broken bones are not fun... or are they?

Just when I thought I’d seen it all, I discovered Broken Beauties, “bringing a more uplifting and appealing look to your broken arm or arm injury.” What next – bedazzled neck braces? Crocheted crutch covers?
Speaking of crutches, I have a theory: French doctors prescribe almost all patients with crutches, regardless of the injury or illness. It is incredible the number of people you see in the streets of Paris, walking briskly along, waving a crutch about. No limps, casts or bandages in evidence. Whenever I see someone with crutches now I try to guess the ailment: sore throat? Insomnia? Pink eye? The next time you’re out and about in Paris, keep an eye open for healthy crutch-bearers. I guarantee you’ll see them everywhere: parking their car in disabled spots, jumping the queue at the post office, elbowing ahead of you in the marathon, edging you off the dance floor with a high-kicking Charleston.
Of course they probably did have something wrong with them, and their doctor actually did prescribe antibiotics and eye drops, but the pharmacist just couldn’t read the handwriting, and wanted to get rid of those dusty béquilles in the back of the shop.

Another step

Panting up Heartbreak Hill at the Parc Montsouris this morning, I called on an image which often comes to mind at such exhausted-to-the-point-of-giving-up moments.

It is a sweltering Sunday morning in Hong Kong. I am nine years old, and sulking. As part of his campaign to get me interested in physical exercise, my father has taken me jogging. I am dragging resentfully behind, gasping and gulping the viscous heat, considering tears. We are plodding up a dusty road to the headland reserve above Clearwater Bay, where the cliff top pagoda shimmers distantly. Hearing my exaggerated huffs of pain, Dad turns and waits while I, sweating and scowling, catch up.

“I can’t run any more. It’s too far”
“Come on, you’re doing well. Just think how great you’ll feel when you get there.”
“I won’t feel great. I’ll be too dead. Look how much further we have to go.”
“Don’t think about what’s ahead – just look down and concentrate on the next step. Putting one foot in front of the other. Just one step. Then, concentrate on the next one. Foot after foot, step after step, and before you know it, you’ll be there. I promise you’ll feel great.”

So I pouted, and then put one foot in front of the other, and I suppose I eventually made it to the pagoda. I’m not sure if I felt great or not – I was probably too busy feigning heatstroke or limping with intent. I don’t remember much beyond that one gleaming moment of paternal encouragement, magnified and polished over the years of recollection.

Cherished even more now that, years later, Dad’s campaign has borne such unexpected fruit, and I find myself enjoying my morning jogs, craving the satisfaction of physical effort. I would give anything to run with him now above Clearwater Bay, and thank him for his words which have helped me through all sorts of trials.

Step by step, day by day. That’s how we go on.

I miss you Dad.

Expatrician

I spend more time at the supermarket these days. (And it's not always because someone pays by cheque in front of me.) It's because I've started comparing prices. Any brand loyalty I had is unceremoniously ditched wherever I can save a few centimes.

This penny-pinching behaviour is not really like me at all. I don't enjoy it, and I dread the day I start clipping coupons. There comes a point in one's bank balance, however, when thrift happens.

Back in Australia, coming from a comfortably owner-occupied DINK household, it had been many years since I'd had to worry about price checking. I'd pile my trolley high with premium brands, blue-ribbon cuts and over packaged gourmet goodies, rarely even looking at the total as I punched in my PIN. Yesterday, replacing the outrageously priced packet of heritage Puy lentils with its generically cut-price "Euroshopper" cousin, it dawned on me.

I am an Expatrician.

We're quite common here in Europe. You'll often find us spread out on a picnic blanket somewhere, pretentiously al fresco, quaffing a sensibly reasonable rosé. (Have you seen how much they charge for drinks at cafés here?) We also congregate in the Louvre on the first Sunday of the month (no entrance charge). Free outdoor cinema? The grass is thick with tight little groups of us. Frugal foreigners, trying to wring a champagne experience from a backpacker budget.

I recently met an architect who traded her Sex and the City loft studio in Sydney for a student dive in London. Shared bathrooms, cleaning rotas and no closet space for the Manolos. At least she's earning pounds sterling: I am paid in Australian Dollars, which come in handy if you ever want to play Monopoly. So I walk instead of taking the métro. And do creative things with chickpeas. And suggest drinks at our place instead of going to a bar.

And now you may ask it. The question that's been bubbling and growing inside you as you read this self-pitying bleat of a post.

Why the HELL are you still here if it's all so hard, you pathetic whiny foreigner - why don't you just GO HOME where you were so much more comfortable?

It's a question I've been asking myself a lot lately, as it happens. And in searching for an answer, I've come to realise a few things.

"Back home" in Sydney, I had started believing that my main purpose was to buy stuff. My partner and I would find ourselves with nothing to do on a weekend, and so we'd go and buy a new LCD TV. Or a stainless-steel side-by-side fridge. Or a few Ben Sherman shirts. We consumed out of boredom, not necessity.

Giving up jobs and moving to the other side of the world is, it turns out, an excellent form of priority-shifting shock therapy. It forces a complete reappraisal of what's important, and what you need to be happy.

I'm re-reading a book called Stumbling on Happiness. In it, Daniel Gilbert reviews the research behind the psychology of happiness. He reminds us of a fact which resonates with my newly-embraced Expatrician outlook; that more money does not always mean more happiness.
"Wealth increases human happiness when it lifts people out of abject poverty and into the middle class but [...] it does little to increase happiness thereafter."

So until I hit abject poverty, I must conclude that I am still, essentially, happy. And so much happier to be petit bourgeois in Paris than soulless in Sydney.

Although I wouldn't mind, just occasionally, not having to scrimp at the supermarket.

Working from home: a Procrastination Limerick

I stare at the LCD screen
And go through my daily routine
Of Facebook and blogs
And other "time hogs"
With snatches of work in-between.

Vélib’: a verdict

It's just over a week since Paris unveiled its Vélib’ experiment: a bold scheme offering free bikes for short journeys around town. Over 10,000 bikes in stations every 300 metres or so, growing to double this number by the end of the year.

You can subscribe to the service on a daily, weekly or yearly basis. The first 30 minutes are free, then you are charged in incremental amounts for every additional half hour.

I think this is a brilliant idea; beneficial on every level from the health of the environment to the health of me and my fellow Parisians. I signed up enthusiastically for a year.

Since the grand opening on 15th July, I am pleased to say I've averaged one trip a day by Vélib’. That is not to say it's been all smooth riding.

There have been quite a few glitches and frustrations. Many of the (technologically impressive) stations have been out of service, meaning that it's hard to find bikes available. In fact I had to give up on the very first day; the 5 stations I tried in my neighbourhood were either off line or empty. Many subscribers have found that the system didn't register the return of their bike, resulting in very scary balances: I checked mine on Friday night after a 25-minute morning pedal to find a rental period of over 6 hours, and a charge of 42 Euros on my account!

Recognising these errors, the city has agreed to cancel the debts in these cases; it took a couple of phone calls but my charge was reversed without question. Considering that the whole network was designed, constructed and installed in a ridiculously short time (a matter of months), these kinks are quite understandable.

The scheme has almost been too popular for its own good: I have already witnessed an instance of "bike rage" - two riders fighting over the last available Vélib’ at a station. On the whole, though, the novelty and civic-mindedness of the program results in a warm feeling of friendly solidarity; a shared recognition of the inherent goodness of the idea.

I must say I was quite apprehensive about riding on Parisian roads, but I have been pleasantly surprised by the extent of clearly-marked bicycle lanes along the main thoroughfares, and with the exception of a few hairy moments around the larger roundabouts or the narrower lanes, it has been relatively stress-free.

And the petty inconveniences and teething-problems are so quickly forgotten as the you glide along the banks of the Seine, or bounce cheerfully over the cobblestones of la Butte aux Cailles. It is impossible not to smile - to laugh out loud - with the pleasure of it.

Riding around this stunning city is an intensely exhilarating experience and a perfect incarnation of democracy à la française: Vélib’erté, Egalité, Fraternité!

Tonsurephobia

I hate getting my hair cut. No, it's not a fear of sharp things near my head, nor is it the result of a particularly distressing childhood barbershop experience. (Although there was the time my father decided to save some money by giving us kids a "homestyle" trim involving shears and a bowl. But that's a whole other therapy session.)

And it's not as if things could go spectacularly wrong. Some of my longer-tressed friends have truly harrowing stories of butchered bangs and uncontrolled public sobbing.

So I don't know why I find the experience so unpleasant that I keep putting it off until I reach the "all-over mullet" stage.

Perhaps it's the fact that I can never explain exactly what I want. Every time I'm asked "So, what are we doing today?", I panic. "Um, I'd like it short and neat, but with a bit of length on the top, but not too much, and kind of like the last cut, but something different, and sort of youngish, but not too extreme, and, and..." Really what I'm waiting for is for my stylist to step in and say "Yes I know exactly what will make you look completely hot. Let's do it!" But it never happens. Instead, I get a cut as vague and shapeless as my description.

This is bad enough in my mother tongue; here in France, it is so impossibly hard that when I sit in the salon chair I find myself wishing I was at the dentist.

The next thing I hate about haircuts is the "robe" they swaddle you in. Mankind has not invented a fabric more non-breathingly synthetic than the stuff these are made of.* The temperature outside may be approaching absolute zero, but I guarantee within two seconds of being enveloped in the suffocating embrace of these hellish polyester ponchos, you'll be sweating "like a whore in church", as one of my more sophisticated friends so poetically puts it. Unless you're in a sauna, there is nothing more unpleasant than feeling sweat trickling down your spine.

Then there are the minor irritations. Like not being able to flick the scratchy bits of cut hair from your nose because your hands are bound within the heat tent. Or the awkwardness of having to stare at yourself in the halogen-bright mirror, wondering whether the bags under your eyes always look so dreadfully dark, and then realising that everyone must think how narcissistic you are because you can't tear your gaze away from the haggard vision before you. Or the coiffeuse rolling her eyes and looking at her watch every time you take a sip of coffee.

And finally, the horror of the styling product. When, to make the vague and shapeless look hip and stylish, a few kilos of wax, gel, mud or fudge are slicked and scrunched and twisted through, achieving a look which, even if you'd wanted to, you would never be able to recreate in your own bathroom. So as a last humiliation, you walk home looking like an electrocuted drag queen.

Yes, I hate getting my hair cut. Although I'm proud to say I've just come back from the salon, and I'm not shaking nearly as much as usual. Why? Because I had the brainwave of printing a picture taken of me the last time I was really happy with a haircut (when I was in London for a wedding. I looked hot.) With a raised eyebrow my stylist took one look at the photo, nodded, and reproduced it beautifully. No sweat.

Well, less sweat.

* Yes, I know half of these sentences end with prepositions. As Theodore M. Bernstein says in The Careful Writer (Atheneum: 1968), anyone who calls such expressions wrong will find that he or she "hasn't a leg on which to stand." So there.

Great balls of fire

Yes, the Bastille Day fireworks were spectacular. Watching them glitter and bloom behind the Eiffel Tower with 600,000 other people on the Champ de Mars, I suffered a beauty overdose and actually wept in rapture.

But the highlight of the weekend's festivities was the much-anticipated Fireman's Ball on Friday night. We went to the caserne at Port Royal, paid our 5 Euros and entered a delirious fairyland of lights, laughter and libido. Firemen everywhere. In uniform, out of uniform, behind the bar, on top of the bar, dancing, flirting, smiling, welcoming. I was a little overcome to begin with, so we headed to the champagne bar to sit down with some bubbles and collect ourselves. Then, like kids in a candy store, we launched ourselves wide-eyed into the dancing throng, losing ourselves in the joyous energy. Grooving grandmothers, excited children, drunk girls, whooping boys; the whole neighbourhood enjoying this frenzy of good-natured fun. A surprising and wonderful mix of wholesome decadence, innocent debauchery, and good clean lust.

This city intoxicates me.

Skin Deep

Walking back from the boulangerie this morning, my baguette deliciously warm and fragrant, I looked up and suddenly stopped breathing. At the end of the street, heading towards me, was a distant vision of such staggering beauty that I simply had to stare. Brazenly, Frenchly. It seemed impossible that such a gut-twistingly gorgeous specimen should be sharing my footpath. I finally remembered to breathe again and watched transfixed as he approached. Such shoulders and waist, such turn of leg and cut of jaw. Closer and closer, details popping sexily into focus.

And then, finally, he was close enough for me to get a proper look. I almost dropped my baguette in disgust. Those teeth - like tombstones! That skin - so unfortunate! That eyebrow! Looking away, I hastened home, the disappointment bitter in my mouth.

This ugly duckling in reverse was - alas! - a classic example of what we used to call D.O.A. - Deteriorates On Approach. When we were at Uni, and TV medical dramas were at their height, we had amused ourselves by subverting this acronym (Dead On Arrival) to reflect our more immediate preoccupations. We skipped countless tutorials coming up with pages and pages of these lust-killers. Permit me to share some which come to mind:

DOTA - Deteriorates On Turning Around
DOOM - Deteriorates On Opening Mouth
DORIQ - Deteriorates On Revealing I.Q.
DOIF - Deteriorates On Introducing Friends
DOSU - Deteriorates On Sobering Up
DOSOOT - Deteriorates On Singing Out Of Tune
DODDLE - Deteriorates On Dancing Dangerously Like an Elephant
DOPPITY - Deteriorates On Picking Pimples In Teenage Years

Ah, the gilded superficiality of youth. Perhaps, in hindsight, with the wisdom and wrinkles of age, I should finally add:

IORIB - Improves On Revealing Inner Beauty.

Faits divers

I came across this startling little item last week. Let's talk it through:

You're sitting at home on a Saturday night in your Montparnasse apartment, when you become aware of a nasty odour. You realise it's coming from above. Judging from the stench and the smoke billowing down, someone is cooking up a smelly storm. It's that young man in the maid's room under the roof. Again.

Enough's enough. You screw up your nose, climb the stairs, and knock on his door. He opens, you say your piece.

And then he STABS you in the THROAT. Your husband rushes up to help you, and he gets knifed too. The young man drops the knife, jumps out the window and runs away over the rooftops, finally jumping to his death. Your husband watches helplessly as you bleed, bleed, bleed, and die.

A dispute over cooking smells results in a murder-suicide. I cannot understand. I try to make light of it - how dramatically French to be so offended by culinary criticism - but it doesn't work. I ask myself: what on earth was he cooking? I hastily review tonight's menu and check for offensive ingredients.

But ultimately, I can only shake my head in disbelief at the tragic, tawdry pointlessness of it all. The unknowable illness which caused such a reaction, and the untold sadness left behind by this little paragraph so easily missed on the metro ride to work.

DISTURBARAMA

Check out the cover of Nouvel Obs this week. Is it just me, or does Pete Doherty look freakishly like Liza Minnelli? This image is going to stalk my nightmares for weeks.

Bom Chicka Wah Wah

I'm seeing this everywhere lately. And I'm afraid I love it! Such a sassy expression; just saying it makes you feel all Foxxy Cleopatra. Go on. Try it.

Bom Chicka Wah Wah.

Damn girl you fierce - Shazzam!

It is a superbly useful phrase, and has even been picked up by French trash mags such as Public (above). Now that's an adjective with attitude. (And, much as I'd love to be called the most BCWW personality of the week, you can't help but think that Lorie wasn't too impressed with the photo.)

Of course it's all the result of an infectious advertising campaign for men's deodorant. Here's one of my favourite ads. And here's another, in French. Inappropriate? Certainly. Hilariously.

This is obviously a fairly sophisticated campaign - they've even created (or "sponsored") an entire pop act. It's not the most subtle or progressive of approaches, but heavens above it makes me laugh. Even if I am about as far removed from the target audience as is humanly possible, without actually being Germaine Greer.

So even though I wouldn't be caught dead wearing that sort of deodorant body spray (because to my nose it all smells a bit like shower curtain mould), I am grateful to that doubtlessly underpaid creative ad-type who decided to sass up our world.

Firemen.

There's just something about them.

I was running around a grey Parc Montsouris this morning, willing my love handles away, when the clouds parted and a joyous shaft of gold spangled the bright and shiny object on the steep road ahead. Callooh! Callay! A (fire-engine) Red Letter Day: the pompiers were in the park!

There is nothing more likely to buck you up and put a jaunt in your jog. I know it's too too yawnmaking, but I just think firemen are, well, lovely. Especially French ones. And it's not just the short shorts, the tight blue t-shirts, the crew-cut sharpness of them. It's the fact that they run around the the park in unison, the embodiment of esprit de corps, with such discipline and dedication. These guys are fit, focussed, and oh! so fine. I feel I could collapse with complete confidence in their presence, and don't think I haven't considered it.

Now I don't want to cast nasturtiums, but I used to live down the road from a Fire Station in Sydney, and whenever I walked past, I used to see a couple of beer-gutted blokes watching TV. I'm sure they were heroes in an emergency, but let's just say I was never tempted to feign unconsciousness for a bit of mouth-to-mouth.

The sapeur-pompier parisien seems to be a perfect specimen. Multi-talented, magnificently-thighed, and perfectly willing to undress in public. (The day they got changed out of their trackie-daks in front of their truck I almost did have a coronary. For real.) And it seems they also organise fireman's balls (stop it) on 14 July. Kings of the night indeed.

Pompiers in the park: I salute you for your valour, your commitment, and your downright dishiness. Thank you for brightening my day.

And now do I get a prize for making it to the end of this post without a single pump- or hose-related double entendre?

Drinktionary

After a heavy weekend of research, I have decided to compile a list of new words I've coined to help describe the unique world of excess drinking; an alcoholexicon to which you are invited to contribute your own entries.


alco-poptart: a person who will sleep with anything after a few Bacardi Breezers.

blubbly: describing a person who, having drunk too much Champagne, becomes tearfully sentimental or melancholic.

bordeaux-line: the point after which a meal changes from a sophisticated dinner to a blurry wine-fest.

brandicoot: a species native to the region of Cognac, characterised by a curious stumbling gait and indistinct speech.

calvadross: substandard apple brandy served to tourists in Normandy.

cariff-raff: the undesirables who congregate around a newly-ordered pichet of wine.

chardonnaysal: the whiny tone some people affect after a few too many glasses.

dorkscrew: the unfortunate person you end up sleeping with at the end of a bottle-strewn binge.

incaskeration: the unfortunate state of having to drink wine from a box.

grin and tonic: the irrepressible smile caused by the first sip of a desperately-needed drink.

kir crash: the tragic moment when you lose the ability to speak after one too many aperitifs.

k-martini (also wal-martini): the gut-stripping result of mixing cocktails using cheap spirits.

lagerhythm: the complex, unsynchronized series of internal beats to which people dance towards the end of a pub crawl.

sake-asm: the cutting tone used in a sushi restaurant when asked whether another bottle is really such a good idea.

sancerrity: the state in which you tell your friends how much you love them after a couple of litres of white.

slangover: the distressing aftermath of a big night, when the only words that can be found to express the pain are monosyllabic profanities.

vodkarisma: the savoir faire and confidence imparted by a shot of Absolut.

Becks @ Beaubourg

Yesterday I went to the Samuel Beckett exhibition at the Centre Pompidou. I found it fascinating, thrilling, disturbing and quite wonderfully moving.

Fascinating to view different versions of his plays; side-by-side French and English productions highlighting the brilliance of this self-translating writer. Thrilling to see scores of handwritten manuscripts (surely that's tautological?) with doodles and crossings-out giving insight into the genius behind Waiting for Godot, Play and Oh les Beaux Jours. Disturbing to be assaulted by such powerfully stark images, such unsparing metaphors for the human condition. Moving to come face to face with yourself with a shock of recognition, mirrored in the bleak, buried, broken characters of the Beckettian universe.

Finally, it was inspiring to be reminded what can be done with words. Or, in Beckett's case, with words and the spaces between them. It is above all his language which dazzles. And so let me finish with a few of my favourite Beckettisms:

"All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead. "

"In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness. "

"I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo. "

"Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards, I take the air there willingly, perhaps more willingly than elsewhere, when take the air I must. "

"That's how it is on this bitch of an earth. "

"Words are all we have. "

P.S. Better get your skates on if you want to experience the exhibition: it closes on 25 June.

A textistential crisis

My grandmother once - famously, crushingly - said of my sister: "She's always been a slow reader." It's hard to know quite why my sister was singled out for this crippling observation (she is, I am pleased to attest, a perfectly capable reader). To be fair, we all must have seemed slow compared to Granny's page-devouring pace. But it was my sister who suffered the years of family jokes and gently merciless teasing and, for all I know, cannot to this day pick up a book without having to quash a lurking sense of inadequacy.

This history of persecution is by way of providing background to my latest crise de confiance: I think I may be one.

A slow reader.

I hasten to dispel any special-needs images you may be forming of me bent slack-jawed over the page, mouthing words and tracing text with a clammy fingertip. Let me explain. I borrowed a book from the library three weeks ago and it's almost time to take it back... and I'm only a quarter of the way through it. In my defence, it is a 600-page doorstop of a book (Babel Tower by A.S. Byatt). And I haven't really given it a chance: a paltry few paragraphs in bed each night (often the same ones, over and over). I haven't really sunk my teeth into it, let the characters matter to me, caught myself up in the plot. And I tell myself that I've been taking time to savour the language, rolling sentences around in my mouth, re-reading especially lustrous phrases, catching cadences with little cries of delight. That's what I tell myself.

But the fact remains that I have to take this beast of a book back to the library in three days' time and make a decision. Do I return; or do I reborrow?

I can't think of the last time I gave up on a book. I've always been one of these determined types who will plod through to the last page for the grim satisfaction of finishing. And in the hope that it might get magically better. But let's be honest, if I haven't been captivated after 160 pages, is my life really long enough to read resentfully on?

I'll give it another three days to get its claws in, then I'll return it and move on, no regrets, to a new book. Something clever, captivating and, above all, concise.

I think my sister would agree with me when I say that sometimes it's not the reader who is slow: it's the book.

Cheque Out

I know it's boring but I have to vent. Yesterday I went to the supermarket in the glamourous Italie 2 Centre Commercial (the closest thing Paris has to Fountain Gate Shopping Centre). After gathering the ingredients for my mouthwatering Thousand-and-One-Nights-Chicken (I must give you the recipe some time), I approached the check-out and joined what seemed to be the most promising queue: no old ladies clutching coupons, no dangerously overloaded trolleys, a relatively perky check-out chick (sorry, "Cash Hostess"). Things were moving along nicely, I was calmly resisting the Hollywood Chewing Gum impulse display, and the woman in front of me had remembered to weigh all her fruits and vegetables. The Hostess told her the total, there was a brief pause as she reached into her handbag, and then my world came crashing down.

She pulled out a chequebook. Are there any words to express the heart-sinking, inward-groaning, teeth-gnashing despair of someone caught behind a cheque-paying customer? (Well apparently there are, and they're all double-barrelled.) The fumbling for a pen, the asking five times for the amount again, the searching for I.D., the shaky signing, the careful tearing, the cash-register printing, the writing of the licence number on the back, the deep, drawn-out, undiluted pain of the whole process is enough to make even the mildest-mannered shopper start looking for something sharp.

Apart from homicide, I've found the best way to deal with the situation is to turn around and look at the people behind you. You're not likely to get a sympathetic smile (because, this being France, at least half of the people in line will also be paying by cheque). What you need to look for is the person in the queue with only one item. It's usually a bottle of water or a packet of Petit Ecolier biscuits. This poor sod has got to wait even longer than you, and all for a measly sip of water or sugar hit. (Although, frankly, I have no pity for this sort of person either. If you're only buying one item, just go to the corner shop, pay 1 more centime and get a life back.) Once you've bathed in some healing schadenfreude, you can turn back and keep unloading. Then it's your turn to dazzle the supermarket with your speed and grace as you pack your bags, punch in your PIN, and harrumph past the cheque-payer as she fumbles hopelessly amongst her 20th Century tangle of paper, pen and pocketbook.

This reminds me of one of my favourite observations from rhino75, who remarked that everyone in front of you at a French supermarket seems to be buying groceries for the first time in their lives. Unfortunately, it's not just supermarkets where people produce chequebooks. I once waited for 30 minutes at a tabac while a woman bought a lottery ticket with a cheque. My blood pressure still spikes just thinking about it.

Some old-fashioned habits, like waiters wearing long aprons, are charming. Others need to go the way of steam engines, slide rules and S Club 7. Unfortunately, this particular anachronistic addiction seems to be far from dying out. I suppose there's really no point in causing a scene. I mean, what could I do... write a letter?

No. Like all truly modern whingers, I'll just go and start a Facebook group about it.

POW!

"Ha ha. Very punny."
"You know the word pun is an acronym."
"Is it? What for?"
"Play On Words."
"Oh yeah, of course... No... hang on. That can't be right. It's P U N, not P O N."
"Oh my God. Isn't that weird? Maybe it's actually Play UPON Words?"
"Yes, Play Upon Words. That must be it. Pass the ice cream."

This is a transcript of a conversation I had with my best friend some years ago, at the tragic tail end of a particularly messy night. It marks, I believe, the beginning of my absurd love affair with acronyms.

I say this now because I suspect my future posts will be littered with odd little groups of letters, giving the impression that most of the vowels have fallen off my keyboard. It's a habit born of a love of corny wordplay, combined with years working in the Travel Industry, which is an acronymic paradise (or hell, depending). Imagine my paroxysmic delight when consulting the FFA* for an IATA fare from CDG to JFK. Nowadays, in the corporate training world, I'm in a new kind of heaven. I am in the process of writing a Negotiation Skills course teaching BDMs how to SWOT their BATNA. And my boss just asked if she could TIS my BOF. (Excuse me while my toes curl.) I am especially excited by a good TLA.

So now you've been warned... keep reading AYOR.

--------------------------------------------------
* for the acronymously challenged:

FFA = Fares From Australia
IATA = International Air Transport Association
BDM = Business Development Manager
SWOT = Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities, Threats,
BATNA = Best Alternative To a Negotiated Agreement
TIS = Total Information Share
BOF = Brightness Of Future
TLA = Three Letter Acronym
AYOR = At Your Own Risk

And we're off.

So the thing is to just start writing.
There is a certain expression I have been seeing a lot lately. It is a curious blend of blank amazement, dumb incomprehension and cloying pity which makes me feel very small indeed. It is the expression aimed my way when someone finds out I don't have a blog.
Well, bullseye.
I have joined the cult and present my newborn novice self, shakily mixing my first metaphor and hoping for indulgence.
I comfort myself with the thought that no-one will see these first Fisher-Price posts, so will not spend too much time preening and polishing.
I suppose the next step is to have something to say.
Oh well. At the very least I can now say this: C'est parti!