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.