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?