sneaky preview of my new business...

Thomson & Scott

Beautifully crafted wines and champagnes in collaboration with talented artists and photographers

Thomson & Scott search out beautifully crafted wines and champagnes.  In their exclusive collaborations with artists and photographers, the limited edition signed prints on the boxes perfectly complement the artisan wine. 

Amanda Thomson and Michael Scott spend months of the year meeting wine makers and tasting, tasting, tasting.  Their attention to detail is obsessional, so you can trust that whatever wine they bring you, the quality will not be in question. And the art simply enhances the drinking experience.

The pair hunt down stylish, innovative artists with shared high-end sensibilities; sensibilities shared not just with the wine makers, but importantly, with Amanda and Michael too. 

Originally from Houston, Texas, Michael Scott has had an international upbringing, schooled in Japan, Hong Kong and Vietnam. His initial love of wine was a happy accident. While in Singapore for a tax internship, he became interested in fine French wine through friends in the trade. This led him to study French language and more recently, Wine and Management in Paris, where he met his business partner, Amanda Thomson in 2011. Their one year Diploma at Le Cordon Bleu, Paris was taught in French and English under highly esteemed French wine professional, Franck Ramage.

Amanda Thomson is an English BBC journalist who worked for many years as an arts broadcaster. Her work in the film industry, specifically at the Cannes Film Festival, led to her developing a keen interest in champagne and later, wine. Amanda saw her move to Paris to study wine as an extension of her arts career, intertwining gastronomy and the arts world.

Amanda and Michael are strong believers in personal connections and while the internet is important to their business, ultimately they encourage all interested buyers to meet with them, talk with the wine makers and artists at their launches, and fall in love, not just with the wine itself, but also the story behind it, which will ultimately set it apart from being just another fine wine.

Thomson and Scott only deal with small quantities of wine and champagne, fuelled in essence by their choice of producer, who typically may make only a few thousand of each bottle. The French wine business remains – at least from a UK perspective – very traditional. Putting aside the wine as futures market, artisan producers have such small allocations of their wines that they can afford to be selective about who they sell to. This is where relationships become all important and Amanda and Michael operate on exactly the same premise.

To find out more about Thomson & Scott  and discuss their future tastings, please contact; Amanda amanda@thomsonandscott.com or Michael@thomsonandscott.com

I have graduated!

Finally. I have just completed a year's intense study in wine and now hold a diploma from Le Cordon Bleu, Paris. I can come up for air.

At last...

"I really love you" she said. "Is that the champagne talking?" he asked. "No", she laughed, "That's me talking to the champagne".

The trip I've waited all my life for. With the above mantra, I cannot wait to visit legendary champagne house, Krug and Cristal's Roederer. And finally. Spring has sprung in Paris. What's not to love?

Lost in translation...

Couldn't resist Le Kooples black/sheepskin jacket - half price in the sale. Been below freezing here with snow yesterday and I start shooting my French wine documentary pilot tomorrow so need to be cosy. Being pulled in two directions with the plan to return to the UK in the Summer, yet the feeling that our Paris relationship isn't yet over. We went to our first all-French dinner party at the weekend and I was reminded how fast Parisiens speak to each other. Felt like watching a fast mens' singles tennis final, with my head going one way then the other, trying to follow the conversation. Managed to drop myself in it by saying we lived in the apartment with our friends, rather than the same apartment building. There are so many conversational pitfalls in translation. Happy to provide laughs. Isn't that what the English are good at?

Officially a wine snob.

A lovely hotel manager friend always struggles to drink wine in a place where the list isn't up to scratch, the glasses aren't clean enough and/or the wine serving temperature isn't quite right. I used to think that was a snobbish approach. And now, confession time; that's me. HB and I left a place the other night without eating, right after our aperitifs, when it was the sommelier's night off (on a Saturday night. Really?!) and the hot looking but useless hostesses couldn't find our reservation and left us waiting far too long. Boys. Surely even for you, it's pointless having pretty girl serve you if she's awful at her job? Hmmm. Don't answer that.

Bonne Anée. This time two years ago...

It was this time a whole two years ago we arrived here in Paris. This year, I'm just back from New York. Still jet lagged. Honestly, need a holiday to recover but that's a story for another time. Dinner at the Waverly Inn felt like stepping slam into the Big Apple scene when the restaurant's owner, Graydon Carter (Vanity Fair's Editor),  moved tables for legendary film producer, Harvey Weinstein's party right across from us. Made friends with the fabulous sommelier there who was happy to talk US wine with me - my knowledge at present is primarily with French. Found out mid trip that a bikini designer had been drowned by her boyfriend in our luxurious bath in my cool hotel room, which, combined with time difference didn't help with my sleeping either. Anyway, back in the 7th arrondissement and I have a big Burgundy test looming for my wine diploma so since it's midnight, guess it's cram time. Bonne Année.

New York here we come...

With Le Grand Tasting done and dusted, there are just a couple of weeks countdown until the Christmas holidays. And New York! Working at one of the most prestigious wine events in the world had its stressful moments for sure, but proved to be an incredible experience where we all had our dedication challenged, and for the most part, succeeded. Newsroom training had turned out to be imperative for me, having worked at both ITN and the BBC under tough, macho editors where a mistake may cost you your job, not least your pride. My obsession with treble-checking meant there was no way the vintage Krug that looked pretty much the same as another year entirely, could in no way be poured mistakenly for the master classes we were running. It was funny seeing journalists on the panel and as guests at the tasting, having in the past been one myself (in the arts world), and therefore being looked after at events rather than on the other side; one of the team catering to their whims. I lived to tell the tale and found the French wine world represented here - mostly men - to be quite charming.

Locked out. And winter is here.

Spent two hours assisting the locksmith in trying to pick the seemingly impossible lock to my apartment with my French neighbour's expensive nailfile, a borrowed wire coathanger and an x-ray, in my hastily assembled 'burglar' kit. The locksmith meanwhile had a roll of the x-ray paper too, so not as bonkers as it sounds, along with an array of threatening looking metal implements, not to mention a very loud drill.

When I had left in the morning, my key had literally crumbled in the lock - broken in half. The joy. Guess what worked though? Yup, the coathanger through a hole to hook onto the inside bolt handle trick. Super low-tech and (whispers) my idea. The locksmith couldn't decide whether to be happy for me or not when it worked, since his pride had taken a bashing. 120 whole minutes though. With my kids high on chocolate jumping around in the lobby.

My friend whose husband is manager of a chic Paris hotel warned me that when I understood wine, I'd only be able to drink the 'good stuff' thereon. I scoffed at the idea of ever being that fussy about anything other than men. But here I am. As a celebratory toast to my return indoors, the Pinot Noir is screaming 'drink me!'  But it just ain't up to scratch.  I put the kettle on for an English Breakfast tea.

My fave London bits this Autumn 11

Strangely I feel in a much better position to pick out my truly favourite London spots now that I travel more than I did when the city was my only home. 

Not only does living elsewhere give you a more objective take on the city's best bits, it also means that once back in the loving arms of Britain’s capital, you hone in on those destinations that are really special.  So, in no particular order, I humbly present my non-official guide to London hotspots in the hope that you might just fall in love with them.  Oh and on that note, I'd love to hear about your recommendations too!

Pollen St Social from English chef du jour, Jason Atherton, is hard to find even though at the very heart of West One.  Nestled in spitting distance from Conde Nast's Vogue House and bulging with fabulously expensive Brit art, you get to wave at cute chefs through the glass whilst they perform their culinary theatre.  The food is beautifully presented - check out the edible flowers in the broad bean and pea salad.  It's fashion dahling.  Almost too pretty to actually eat.  Fear not, carnivores.  There's also a cote de boeuf weighing in at 1kg for sharing. http://www.pollenstreetsocial.com/

Frame in Shoreditch is where to head when you're energised and ready to shake up your exercise routine and fashion-style.  Check out the rock ballet class (yes, really) or tone that butt to Beyoncé's booty workout.  Make sure to sport your best fluorescent workout gear.  Sweaty Betty or Stella McCartney for Adidas have hip selections.  Or you might fancy a yoga/spinning fusion - merge the Zen with the sweat.  It worked for Bikram, right? http://www.moveyourframe.com/

Ella's Bakehouse is where to head post-workout since you'll need a treat after all the exertion.  Like the best cities, London is all about the yin and the yang.  We Londoners worship excess on every level - it's in our DNA.  So, let us eat red velvet cake here, and my, what gorgeous baking this is from model turned chef, Lorraine Pascal.  She's the new, pretty Jamie Oliver, doncha know.  Inspired?  You may like to check out her new book, Homecooking Made Easy. http://ellasbakehouse.co.uk/

The hottest new resto/club opening this Autumn is Dorsia in Kensington, which was named after the impossible to book fictional restaurant in Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho.  http://www.thedorsia.co.uk/   Dining reservations open this week so fingers on the buttons.   And hairdo for the night out?   À la New York, blow dry bars are popping up all over London.  Check out Top Shop's and pick from the menu.  http://www.hershesons.com/contact   Or, if you're a girl - or even guy - super short on time, and, with enough hair, rock a neat ponytail.  Definitely the catwalk look du jour - high or low, it's the style that gets you max fashionista points and is beautifully simple, even working on dirty hair for that morning-after styling.

Back to Top Shop and like The Wolseley (one of my all time fave restaurants), this fashion store is firmly embedded in London culture and transcends trends if you will.  Visit the Oxford Street mecca on a Monday morning when you'll almost have the place to yourself.  If you must shop on a Friday/Saturday, head for the small but perfectly formed Knightsbridge branch, which offers a high-end edit of the store's new ranges.    http://www.topshop.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/TopCategoriesDisplay?storeId=12556&catalogId=33057

Have a lovely evening and catch up soon. I'm off to paint my nails Gucci jewel purple for my Dorsia Friday night out. Perhaps I'll see you there.

A perfect wine moment.

I am just back from dinner with the couple who run my place, and a perfect wine moment here in Preignac; a 1937 Chateau Gillette Sauternes. Parfait. Sharp reminder after a healthy measure of their 2009 Chateau des Eyrins Margaux, that work starts early tomorrow. But there is always time to mention that my fellow harvesters today thought I was ten years younger than I am. The Bordeaux light is clearly incredible with Autumn just beginning. Not an awful day at all. Sleep well.

It can only get better. There is no worse.

My vision of a semi-swanky Bordeaux mini break was shattered BAM when I saw the place where the harvesters - that was me - sleep. Ouch. It made motorway motels look like The Four Seasons. Truly awful. From this description on I promise not to exaggerate. I have had many moments this week thinking hell is wine making. If it wasn't for the most fantastic guy I work with - my cellar boss - I may well have hung myself with the rope that's used to wench objects up to the VAT walkway on high. Health and safety n'existe pas in this biz here. If I fancied clambering onto 25 foot high slippery vats for the pumping over process (yup, real term), I was more than welcome. I have so much to tell you, I barely know where to start but suffice to say, dirty back-breaking manual labour ain't my thing. Don't get me wrong though. I have too much respect for those who get stuck into this side of the business.

Fast forward to where you find me writing. A heavenly resto in Sauternes. Eating what is basically a fancy French version of scrambled eggs and mushrooms but picture in the Michelin style of... I feel as though I've found religion here in this gorgeous village. Incidentally, I'm having a glass of the sweet wine of the same name as I write. It was ordered as an aperetif but since I'm tout seule was still half full when the eggs arrived. Technically a textbook terrible pairing. Eggs are notoriously tricky. But this is my new recommendation. Eggs with Sauternes after a horrid experience. It should, I hope, make you feel a whole lot better. I do. In spades. Helped by checking into a stunning hotel on credit card after driving around the region for hours with no room at any inn. Some kind of wine seminar apparently means every hotel, chambre d'hote, free cupboard within a 30K radius of Bordeaux was full. Apart from my new spiritual home here. It seems the Japanese couple due to take the master room at the chateau, took a diversion, so I got a 30% reduction. I almost told the dapper Monsieur in charge that at that point, after driving in the cellar van for two hours without sat nav, he could have quite literally named his prix. No joke.

And please let's not return to the no doubt necessary explanation of pumping over as I'll probably kill you. The process haunts me at night. And the grapes. Don't even get me started. Thinking about the process, I'm shocked I'm actually enjoying this glass of Sauternes now. The improvised chambre d'hote I slept in the previous night (improvised in that it was in fact just a random old house - friends of a hotelier who was full), had no lock on my door and an over friendly older guy who I wish I'd known was in fact very kind and not liable to creep into my room at night, as I may not have barricaded myself in with a chest of drawers, large chair and stand up fan.

Anyway, here I am getting distracted in the resto by my new iPhone wine notes app which techie husband thought may be useful. And the reality is that if desert here is as good as my eggs, I should throw all caution to the wind and indulge, putting on the kilos I've lost with 3 days of harvest. Did I mention that I spent an afternoon harvesting? Hand picking the grapes. Which also reminds me that tomorrow I'm assisting with the allegedly tricky Sauternes harvest. Lucky I've almost finished this glass. Or the fear would absolutely put me off.

Oops. I think I've just made the same error I make with Italian food where you are full with the pasta starter and forget the main course will still arrive. They appear to have treated the eggs as my entrée. A legume delight filled plate is arriving. The first time any French chef bar Alain Ducasse seems to actually like vegetarians; courgette terrine, ratatouille and raisin risotto (strangely it works beautifully). I was about to get the waiter's attention and discuss a red wine food pairing before a) greed got the better of me and b) I checked myself that a 6am work start and/or the vision of being over the limit in charge of a van in the wine region  was best avoided. Park the chocolate fondant please. It may make me want another glass of Sauternes. Plus I don't need the calories. Back to skinny Paris scene vendredi.

Anticipation. And then. Pain.

Writing on the TGV to Bordeaux after very little sleep, I realise I am more nervous than expected about the trip. The Chateau I'm off to is owned by a husband and wife team who look kind on their website. The place looks stunning online, real picture book stuff and when I learn that the couple are friends of my course leader, I am relieved. You're usually safe with personal recommendations, no? I'm armed with a giant suitcase (vineyard work clothes combined with outfits for dinner) and a Mulberry handbag stuffed with wine notes. I decide a three hour plus train journey is best used revising vinification process so I'm better prepared for what lies ahead but keep being distracted by the Japanese fashion crowd to my right who are intent on peeling eggs, applying eye liner and loud gossiping the whole journey.

Fast forward to the reality of immersion in a Bordellais harvest and I am gasping for a cigarette (I don't smoke). Or a tequila slammer. Anything to numb the pain. I pray to the God of Massage for help with aching limbs, back, head, it all simply hurts. Brain pain too due to crash and burn information overload but boy, is it all fascinating. Utterly different from concepts outlined in the books. Never again will I criticise a bad glass of wine. Not being fully aware of the blood, sweat and tears - literally in my case (not quite the blood) that go into the 25 foot high vats, and after, each sip.

Cordon Bleu Sommelier Course begins...

My first week of sommelier diploma is now done and dusted. The more I learn about wine, the more I realise just how much there is to learn. Our teacher is fantastic. He was a highly respected sommelier at Le Crillon and has a wealth of experience, plus, importantly, he has that rare ability to impart information in an engaging, coherent way, peppered with entertaining anecdotes where appropriate. I am so lucky.

We have just had the somewhat dramatic news broken to us that we will be off to assist with harvesting the grapes next week. It all sounded desperately exciting until we learned of not just the hard labour involved, but also the animal friends we will no doubt be becoming very close with during our back-breaking grape picking activity in France. Think spiders and field mice - I'm assuming most of the snakes will have gone to ground by then!

I'm off to Bordeaux. For a fortnight. I've been instructed that my wardrobe should consist of gardening clothes for mucking right in with every aspect of wine production, not Dolce & Gabanna for any Grand Cru tastings.

Fellow students are of all ages from all around the world. P - my initial fave - has already produced her own wine in the Sonoma Valley, California. Back to the sartorial side and Friday saw a number of us gals close to tears when we had our initial try on sesh for our course suits. Stop reading if you're easily offended but one of my course members took one look at me in my navy blue 100% polyester get up and said I looked like Claire Balding's wrestling partner. I just needed DM boots. The trousers were so high waisted - far from a retro fashiony cut - that my chest rested on the waistband. The synthetic seam was cut so high between our legs we feared infection. And don't get me started on the jacket. Thank the Lord that our teacher's intelligence even stretched to fashion. I looked at him in his stylish suit, he looked at my clownish garb and the Cordon B Director made a snap decision that we could never be taken seriously in the wine world looking like that. We're off to Zara Monday morning first thing.

My new spiritual home.

Poolside at Locanda al Colle, Tuscany

While I may be late in the day to wax lyrical on Tuscany, I simply can't help myself from a veggie loving culinary perspective. I ate what was undeniably one of the most delish meals of my life last night at a hidden mountain-top resto, Osteria il Vignaccio in Santa Lucia. Its view was almost too postcard cliché to be believed. Riccardo, my gorgeous new Italian friend, runs Locanda Al Colle that I'd really rather keep a secret for fear too many indulge in my atmospheric love affair with what is surely one of the most beautiful, small hotels ever. Riccardo's ex-fashion and boy, does it show in every detail from the Jasmin Diptique burning candles in the lounge lobby to just the right shade of olive for the deckchair wood. I really must persuade Riccardo to create a member's card for me so I can always get a room. Since we raved about the slice of Tuscan heaven to Laurent who runs uber chic Tablet Hotels, Locanda is fast being added to the stylish site.

I've been lucky enough to eat at some terribly smart places in my time but this food - one of Riccardo's many spot-on recommendations - was heart-breakingly good in its taste and simplicity, where every flavour took turns introducing itself to your taste buds. This was especially true of the Panzanella (translated as old bread salad but please don't let that put you off). Without fail, in restaurant reviews there's a caveat and appreciating the laws of traditional story-telling, one needs the flaw. I couldn't find one here. Each course was as perfect as it should be - no bells or whistles. Simple suckling pig for my HB; my carnivorous nemesis who felt obligated to chow down on the speciality dish, which he declared made my vegetarianism a straight-up travesty of justice.

Team Locanda al Colle - (l to r: Andrea, Riccardo, SCap, Andrea)

HB and I split a half-bottle of smooth yet lively Italian red; Morellino di Scansano. And yes, apologies to all my UK friends who assume the above is akin to worshipping at the alter of sobriety. In HB's defence, he was driving back the hotel, negotiating hair-pin mountain bends in a Fiat 500 with less poke than a moped. We've all had the fear of the Italian Polizia instilled in us from the movies, even the news, right? And that leaves me to come up with my excuse. It has something to do with obligatory Limoncello shots post-dining.

Sommelier by 2012

With the tv job in limbo land due to French channel funding still up in the air for relevant documentaries, I revert to plan A. My wine studies start in September - full on, right through to Spring 2012. Imagine what a nightmare dinner party guest I'll be. A vegetarian wine snob. I should start a new religion. Or charity. Perhaps there'd be tax breaks in France... The sympathy vote for not tucking into steak tartare on a bi-weekly basis like every good Parisien does.

Backbends and Butts. Pah. Bring on the mime...

Went with a friend to Crazy Horse in Paris last night. It was surprisingly stylish though after so much of the same, I was pleasantly surprised when the mime artist came on. And the constant backbends must hurt girls, no?! Two glasses of champagne and a sneaky fruit-based cocktail, along with a litre of Badoit at Pershing Hall afterwards and I smugly assumed I'd be up with the larks ready for my spin class. Boo. Is this what being almost 30 plus 10 feels like? I'm nervous. Greige may work well when embracing the fashion colour-block theme, but not when it's your face.

Shallow. Moi?

I write this on the flight to Cannes (Nice) which I made quite literally by the skin of my teeth! With hindsight, I'd have taken a moto-taxi but as it was I was stuck on the aeroport bus for almost two hours as there was an accident on the ring-road. Eeeek. Anyway, I called the husband on route and asked him to check online if I could buy a later flight, with any airline, and of course, with the festival, all flights were sold out. The elderly Jewish Isreali guy who clearly did the Tel Aviv/Paris commute weekly, (we didn't talk politics. Luckily. What with my bigger concerns... Superficial, moi?!) next to me tried to help with calculations and was convinced I would make it. Just. So I got off at the first terminal (not mine), and legged it in my high heels across to the opposite terminal. Made it by 3 minutes. Only to find out we were delayed! Cue chilled glass of Chenin Blanc. Weird wine offering for France. Delicious. Though even Beaujolais would have tasted good after my stressy journey. Ironically, I'd had a killer massage the night before with OMG - the hottest masseur you can begin to imagine. A bit uncomfortable when he tucked the towel right down low into my knickers and started rubbing the very base (almost arse) of my back. Was confused as to whether was ok to enjoy it or not. Anyway, I digress but basically the pendulum of stress release swang back the other way earlier. But then I reminded myself there are horrendous problems in the world and even beginning to feel a touch sorry for myself about the possibility of missing Cannes made me a shallow twat.

After three meets over the course of the past year...

I have a real Paris job. Apologies if my blogs are rather sporadic but my new position is one where it will absolutely be worth me putting the time in so there go... lunches, shopping, meandering thoughts and in comes focus. Yup, I'm ready. And spring has sprung in Paris which means I even dared to introduce my neon Chanel pedi to the 7eme arondissement.

OMG II

Going to NY for Christmas. How much can I not wait.

German pilates with leather shorts.

I've just had my first German pilates class. The teacher said she'd speak a mix of German and English and then proceeded to take the whole hour in German. Tough. I'm halfway to cracking French pump and yoga sessions in my swank Paris gym but this is a whole alien concept. Suffice to say I got through it. Just. Meanwhile, The Noise has been doing his usual I don't ever, ever like to Sleep routine with the parents on babysit duty in Paris. Ouch. Perhaps I didn't give step-ma and pa enough warning as to just how bad it is. Then again, they may have changed their about doing the childcare if the truth was out there. I made all the appropriate empathetic noises on the phone and offered to pay for the sitter to entertain him should they say the word. Never ones to admit defeat, they refused. Note to self; decent thank you pressie absolutely required. Oh and I'm wearing leather shorts tonight. In a German sorta lederhosen way.

The Surprise Party. And now, the Berlinale...

I have just thrown a surprise party in London for my husband's '30th plus 10'. An expression I'm keen to endorse since I'll be there at a non-specified date too. Incredibly, I pulled it off too after months of stressful planning. You try getting a bunch of friends that includes journalists and publicists to keep something quiet. I know. Impressive, right. Some dear friends even flew in from Morocco for the night which was my double-bluff since E was shocked enough when they were waiting in the hotel bar for our fictional dinner date. So now, 48 hours on and I'm sitting at the bar of the newly opened Soho House Berlin for the film festival. Tired but happy.

Better late than never?

Ok, I know it's been a while since we spoke but if you want the truth, it's not for want of trying. My techie uselessness is to blame; the fact that everytime I tried to sit down and write, late at night, Bordeaux stem in hand (y'know how Paris is!) I couldn't remember my login details and the French explanations for access were alluding me. See. Dull, dull, dull. And there were you thinking I'd run off with my gorgeous French teacher. He is gorgeous. Uber Parisien and Oooh, all of 70. Yes, I know Anna Nicole didn't mind but she had different reasons.

Listen, let's talk more when I'm in London for s'thing exciting next week - more later - and then onto Berlin for the film festival. Yay. Oh and v belated Happy New Year.

Be quiet. Now.

So I got told to be quiet for the second time in a Paris resto. Admittedly, on both occasions I was with an American. The first time, there was also an Australian with us at dinner, a nation who I have since learnt can give the yanks a run for their money on the decibel scale. Of course, us Brits aren't known for being loud (obnoxious, maybe), but as the husband verifies, my voice travels across the Seine. So I still claim both reprimands weren't down to me but I have to put my hands up partially as the only party present on both occasions. It's so shocking when someone tells you off at 39, you are literally dumbstruck so it works in that respect. But...on balance I have had a great day so far and nothing can change that, not even the fact that my gym scales seemed to say I have put on a kilo.

OMG. Post-champagne shoes rock...

OMG. I just treated myself to the most darling pair of Miu Miu shoes. Yes, I 'fess up, they were a post champagne girlie lunch purchase but aren't they always the best? And, unlike one night stands, after dealing with the regret (expense rather than remorse), you gain pleasure every time you gaze lovingly at them afterwards. Cruise collection 2010-11 (check), nude patent (check), sexy high but not impossible to walk in high (check again). Parfait. Now I just need the right occasion. Hell, now. Husband's away. Kids are in bed. There's even a cold bottle of champagne chilling tantalizingly in the fridge. I might even just... Open it and... Put them on. And the love affair continues.

Headstands, rain and cute boys smiling...

Two great things just happened today. I did a yoga headstand in class with a little help and a cute guy smiled at me on the street. Clearly not French as a) over six foot and b) was smiling. The bad thing is the rain just will not go away. Boo.

Some of my fave Paris restos to date are...

Ok, so just before I pass out after a super fun dinner with friends, here are a bunch of my faves in no particular order (inspired by a lovely Brit friend who wanted tips for a forthcoming visit with her new husband);

Chez Janou
www.chezjanou.com
Completely fits the Parisien, cool in low-key, local, cosy kinda bistrot vibe. Small on menu. Big on atmos.

Caffé dei Cioppi
11eme
01 43 46 10 14
Rumoured to be the best Italian in Paris. Seasonal menu changes daily. Only handful tables. Food like it's just been killed/picked. Scrummy.   

Le Fumoir
www.lefumoir.com
Central Louvre location. Cool in chilled way, great anytime. Delicious cheap-ish set menu w top notch food. Pop in for cheeky coupe de champagne or café noisette anytime at bar.  

Derriere
http://www.mylittleparis.com/en/secret-restaurant-paris.html
One of my all time fave fashiony and Shoreditch-y vibe restos. Food just a backdrop. It's all about the laidback 'scene'! Check out the secret Lion, Witch and Wardrobe Fumoir! And get ready for a table tennis match in the centre of the resto. Yes, really.  

Mon Veil Ami
www.mon-vieil-ami.com
Romantic and just simply lovely. Delightful service and location on the l'ile close to St Germain.

Le Square Trousseau
www.square trousseau.com
Great chilled Sunday lunch place squeezing in an apero at Le Baron Rouge wine bar around the corner.

He who must be obeyed at all times. And isn't the husband.

It's been a while since I wrote. Busy times. The Dinard Film Festival which we help organise has been and gone. It attracted much more press this year, primarily as we secured Sienna Miller for the jury and Peter Mullan as a special guest.

Away from work and The Noise has turned into something else entirely; He who must be obeyed at all times and I mean all times or will throw almighty tantrum and most likely attack you. Also, is He who will not ever, never go to bed. Oh yes, happy days. A big part of the reason why I have no writing time. My life is one big toddler wrangle. I am attempting the art of deep, internal breathing since I'm continually reading that shouting at the very top of ones lungs right back (yup, that's me not him), may not be desperately helpful and might just scar the little bundles for life. Surely the most impossibly difficult teen would be easier than... This.

I'd turn to drink but since he's not sleeping properly, the sane side of me recognises that that would lead to perpetual hangover madness. Also, there's the terribly relevant issue that I'm about to become a serious wine student studying for my Sommelier Diploma at the one and only Cordon Bleu School here in Paris. I know! I'm awfully excited if a touch nervous as the nine month course culminates in a placement as a Sommelier's No 2 at a prestigious Paris resto!!

Where's the Zen?

I ran off to a yoga class at 9am in desparate need of some nebulous, Zen-like quality to wash over me. A distraction of a somewhat different sort came in the form of the very hot, (and no doubt very gay), teacher. Fashion designer de jour, Marc Jacobs' gym, so inevitable I guess. Was rather enjoying said teacher's strong hand pushing down in the small of my back. And husband's only been away two days.

Hit the vin at apero o'clock - yep, lunchtime - when San Diego, horse-obsessed, married with one child friend - treated me to a delish lunch in one of my delightfully chic locals, Le Bosquet with a carafe of St Emillion. The Noise, who has just started school, even managed, completely against type, to keep quiet due to a wonderful new babysitter. The iPad. Lightning McQueen with headphones. Divine tranquility. Until pineapple juice spills all over it...

Dead fish in the city

I have a new fave Italian resto, Le Cherche Midi in St Germain. Firmly wedging oneself back into Paris life doesn't take any time as long as you have an available babysitter on hand at regular intervals, otherwise, hey, you'd feel like Rapunzel locked in your apartment block while a fabulous colourful life happens around you. Kids are fine, just not at night... Or at lunch, but that's still on my To Do list. My crazy son can't yet stay for dejuner at his new Ecole Maternelle as BTW, his toilet activities aren't quite sorted. I know I mustn't go into detail that will traumatise him at 15 ("But mamon, how dare you discuss my first pubic hair! That's why I've turned to pot..." so let's just leave it there.

At Le Cherche Midi, you're literally rubbing thighs with the diner at the next table, you're so closely squeezed in. To get into my banquette seat, the waiter pulled the table out for me to shimmy through. I say 'shimmy', in fact it was much more of a 'squeeze' after their heavenly dark chocolate torte. I know, I know, exercise some self-control. Next time. Heavenly Italian food and a fun, flirty maitre de. Perfect combo. I vow to spend more time in Italy. In another life. Who can stretch to Portofino after our Provence blow-out holiday?

When we got back, there was only one fish in sensible daughter's tank. Yet when we left, there were definitely two. "It must have jumped out of its tank to play elsewhere", distracted husband mumbles in between his Hollywood conference call. I desperately tried the (clearly at times complex) art of distraction after spotting some bones. Daughter lets out a blood curdling scream. And I thought goldfish were vegetarian.

Provence meets Chigwell

It's strange really as I've found it unsettling being around so many English again on holiday in Provence. I must feel at home now in Paris as despite having the crazy son myself, it's irritating having other families noisy children biting at your ankles. Honestly though, some of the English parents are even more annoying than their offspring. Surrey WAG was omnipresent with her gormless but no doubt fabulously nouveau riche husband and their brood of three. Assumed number four was on the way but she said she's eaten too much foie gras. Luckily, before I congratulated her. She turned out to be desperately friendly which just makes you feel like a meanie for such negative judging.

Since my husband turned manorexic (obsessed with eating the right foods) and downloaded the 100 press ups in a minute iPhone app, he's been confidently hanging around the pool. His six pack is almost complete - a new 'I'm almost 40 now' obsession. Son's potty training has gone to s!£@. Literally. I downed a champagne almost in one at the shock of seeing him pee all over the stone floor in full view of the smart restaurant diners. Mortified doesn't begin to describe it. Keen as mustard daughter found another young male admirer - we're not supposed to call them Cougars now, are we? Anyway, Samuel from LA was 6 and had more than a touch of the mini movie moguls about him, speaking in a droll, deep, semi-patronising manner. Daughter meanwhile was far more interested in analysing the 'constellation of stars' than the virtue of the Nintendo Wii in the VIT room (Very Important Teens room) that had been stormed by sugar-high, not so important 5-10 year olds whose parents didn't want to pay vast sums for babysitters while they dined.

Heaven and pees

I am sitting by the pool in Provence en famille after a week in Nice with blonde, 30 year old single mum friend (who claims she's getting old. Hello?!) and her 5 year old beach loving son who worships smart daughter like she's a mini Goddess. 

Here in Provence, 8 year old daughter is having an accidental  private swim lesson. I say accidental as she'd cannily signed herself up for kids club swim which turned out to be a session with a French natation expert extrordinaire. And there was I thinking she'd just be playing with new little friends. A challenging lesson however was just how she likes it. Relaxation is a dirty word in her book. She's an Aries.  

Crazy son trips off to the kids clubhouse in his new mini Havaianas, minus a nappy (only falling twice flat on his face). He's due to start Parisien school next month and nappies are a no no. Where better to train him than in the sunshine at such a heavenly location. It's ok - even I draw the line at him risking the pool au naturel. We'd be arrested for a floating log here I'm sure. This is France. While coaxing him onto the big loo earlier, he endearingly stared up at it and asked if he'd need a seatbelt.        

The Bicycle Thieves

If you're reading this in London, you will have seen, might even have tried, the new bikes for hire around the city. Velib, Paris's version, have been around a while and I first became excited about them when The Noise and Knows a Lot daughter were away with family in the Loire and my oldest friend came to visit for the deliciously sunny weekend. Heaven. In theory. Ordinarily, with kids OBV*, I'm a safety freak but hey, this is summer in Paris and fear of a sweaty head hairdo got the better of me so this was minus a helmet. It's ok - I know you're pre-empting an accident here and luckily there wasn't one - not of the injury kind at least. But a huge dent in my bank balance after I didn't read the Velib small print and realise that every time you stop somewhere, you dock it at the Velib station, rather than using the bike lock, or you can end up with a whopping bill, not to mention the late night search for a stolen bike and a very cross husband to add to the mix. In my dreams, child-free time is chilled, stylish and relaxed. A parallel universe like stepping through the Narnia wardrobe. My weekend that should have been Paris at its best turned into a rather less romantic version of The Bicycle Thieves.
*Just so you know I can be trusted with your little darlings at playdates.

Summer and the City

If there's one thing that makes me feel like I've arrived, really arrived, in this city, it's my bank. The flagship branch, there are carefully placed stone sculptures and delicious French art decorating the walls, and, most importantly, a drinks cabinet. Soft ones of course, no one's yet popped the champagne cork over my balance, but still. And my manager was keen to find out about me and the company. A real social chat. You could sense his interest when my involvement in the film world (helping run an entertainment pr consultancy), came up. The French, of course, being a nation of cinephiles. You can only imagine how many hordes would take to the streets here if government threatened to cut funding in the same way that they have in the UK right now, axing the Film Council.

Summer in the city is disarmingly relaxed. Probably because literally half of Paris clears off to the South or the country or the Islands (Il de Re blah blah). Basically, to wherever their families have second homes. That's why the French rarely leave the country for holidays. Why would you with perfect weather, food and of course, wine, aplenty, just the way you like it.

A naked man waved at us through his window on the Seine earlier. He just stood there, arms flapping, like it was the most normal thing to be doing after one's morning noisette.

Les pompiers

I pleasingly walked into a Dolce & Gabanna ad around the corner from my apartment today. Yup. Only in Paris do the pompiers (firemen) workout in full view of their street audience, smugly flexing toned muscles on the gymnast bars like their life depends on it. My daydream was cruelly shattered not just when crazy son pulled up my skirt but also when one of said hotties stuffed his hand down his shorts for a good old rummage. Again, in full public view. So wrong. 

The Summer holidays are well and truly underway and I'm already out of gin and have hidden all sharp knives in the apartment. And that's just for me. I'm embracing hideously stressed shouty mum with vigour. My inner domestic goddess seems a lifetime away. Who am I kidding? Hell, she didn't even exist in picture book English countryside.   

Teeny tiny Vs cheese and champagne.

In order to get a step closer to the teeny, tiny dancer's body beloved of the Paris set, I order Tracey Anderson's workout DVD, as recommended by Gwyneth, Madonna et al. Or have Trace and Mads parted workout company? Not sure... Anyway, crazy son refuses to resume train track affair in lounge once he spies 'Barbie' on TV, thus hanging off me and making my arm workout even tougher than it was even before they felt like they were parting company from my exhausted body. It hurts. Like hell. Guess that's the point. Perhaps it's easier to break up my beautiful relationship up with French cheeses than go through this. The lounge slash chill out music playing in the background of the workout just serves to torture me further. Where's a good Beyonce bump 'n' grind workout track when you need it?

Young (20 plus 10 rather than me racing towards the 30 plus 10), single, blonde, country friend sweetly invited me to Wimbledon and I'm still recovering. Perhaps that's why I'm less fit than usual, though champagne bottles aren't light. But that's when they're full which is a fleeting affair together with said friend. Needless to say, we saw very little tennis and were nearly escorted from a court when an over-fizzed cork nearly took a player's eye out and we soaked a woman in front with rose bubbles. It was good stuff sure but not the greatest union with white Prada admittedly. Oops.

Fruit and Veg man.

So I'm en route to L'Usine and there's a man opposite grinning at me on the Metro. If you're reading this in the UK, you may not think that so strange, especially as I can still pass for 30 from a fair distance and am pretty sure I have plucked the latest stray grey hair out. Well, let this be hot news off the Parisien press; no one, but no one smiles in Paris. Not really. Unless they're crazy and/or US ex-pats. I couldn't work out if smiling guy and I knew each other or not. He looked familiar-ish. I half-smiled back in that I-might-know-you-but-nervous-in-case-I-don't-and-this-isn't-normal kinda way. Turns out we get off at the same Metro stop and as we're headed for the escalator, he grabs me and kisses me then strides off. Still no idea who he is and all the more strange for the ever so intimate act though everyone kisses in Paris (even non-Gay men), even though they never smile. Buying my bio carrots next day, I reach the cash desk and it turns out grinning, kissing man is the fruit and veg seller. Not sure if that's good or bad. Could get me a hefty discount on cocktail tomatoes which I mistakenly bought at around 2 Euros a pop. And those heavenly raspberries...that oh-so-seasonal asparagus suddenly seems a whole lot less extravagent. What, say 25% discount? Oh and no, not hot unfortunately. I know you were wondering.

Aesthetic heaven.

I almost killed myself in the gym this morning. My personal trainer looks delightful and yet works me so hard I almost weep. There I was surrounded by hordes of muscle-ripped, yummy men while finding it hard to focus due to my press-up hell. They smile, even say Bonjour. Where is this slice of aesthetic Paris heaven? L'Usine at Opera. Fash designer du jour Marc Jacobs is even rumoured to work on his six pack there. I think the pumping iron hotties are mostly gay. Too pretty to be straight. But hey, that's ok, just remembered I'm married. There are female model types too of course, who rarely break a sweat but in their defence, why bother, if there hasn't been an ounce of fat on your body since baby days. With some of the skinny gals here in Paris, it's tough to tell if they are real catwalkers or simply borderline anorexic. I remember as an arts reporter, backstage at London fashion week, finally relishing curve on my body when faced with jutting shoulder and hip bones as the models did their quick backstage changes.

Fashionistas check out Zara now! I was drooling over JBrand Houlihan trousers on Net-a-Porter; skinny, combat styling. Delish. But. It's there again. Sorry. I couldn't find them any cheaper than...breathe in...£285. Happened upon an 'homage' at aforementioned chain store and am now gloating, sporting a khaki pair which I Amex-ed alongside a black pair (couldn't help myself) for less than a Paris dejuner a deux. Who needs salad aux chevres when you've got super cool trews? Rhetorical question. Now I've just got to convince accountant that they're a business expense as that credit card's only supposed to be for work. Ouch.

Skinny Cappuccino on Red Carpet

No sex on the beach.

I’m sitting on a terrace overlooking the Croisette and the sun is almost shining but if it makes you feel better, I am wearing goosebumps and a cardigan. But. And this is the good but. I do have a glass of rose and nothing to get up for in the morning. I must be one of the only film crowd who doesn’t have to be out of bed bright and early. I say they have to be but that doesn’t of course mean will be. Now husband famously came this close to being sacked by his then PR company when we met and he was a junior earning 25 Euros a day or something. Or was it the Franc then? Many years ago.

Roll on 10pm and we hit the red carpet for the premiere of Mike Leigh’s Another Year. And did it feel like it?! I’m a big Leigh fan but this movie could have done with a heavy edit. Now you don’t come out of a ML movie in the mood to party but husband and I decided a cheery nightcap was in order so we didn’t have depressing dreams. To escape the Brit crowd we headed to the Martinez where most people can’t afford to drink. That’s us too of course but hang the budget for the privacy and husband not being harangued by drunk jounos/clients at 2am. Three whisky sours later (him) and (me) a Sunshine Sparkler ramped up by an Espresso Martini (why do non-alcoholic cocktails have more cringeworthy names than their full-on siblings? Scrub that. I remembered Sex on the Beach), we hit the sack. I tried to sleep then realised the coffee rule applies not just after 12pm but after 12am too.

But. It's Cannes.

The good news is I’m off to the Cannes Film Festival in the morning. Yay. But. And isn’t there always one? Whether it’s men or a pay rise. But… what shoes to take since I’ve signed up for hand luggage only. My recent Bon Marche treat; Ash peep-toe navy suede ankle boots are a must. Love to wear my Laboutins but since I’m not Eva Longoria – won’t have cause to simply teeter from limo to the red carpet. Converse too casual. Patent Pretty Ballerina pumps. Yes!

Staying with shoes and the bad news is that I’d booked a Sex and the City 2 girls night out for my birthday with London/UK country friends flying over. Then the Parisiens only go and enhance their awkward reputation by opening the film a whole week later than London and NY, thus missing my 29 May plan. Oh and for the card you’re planning on sending, it’s actually the 27th. The Saturday is the big night out. That is smaller now. Or at least different. We’ll have to create our own sex and the city. Without much sex as most of us are married. Ho hum.

Getting in the Festival mood online checking out Wall Street 2 shots on the Croisette and so cannot wait to revisit Gordon Gekko. Not literally you understand. Though it seems Catherine doesn’t mind stepping out with her father figure.

Sun, sun, SUN, purlease. I’ve been to the Festival for the last twelve years and bar Year 1 (when I shamefully remember being drunk, drenched with rain and late for an interview with an actor who shall remain nameless after being up all night ‘cavorting’ on a yacht), it’s been hot. If my then Editor ever reads this, that incident is up there with most regrettable lifetime antics. And there are more than a few vying for the top spots if I’m frank. Yes, that 80s cheesy DJ was a huge mistake too. Then there’s the strawberry-blonde (ginger?) ski instructor, unkindly christened The Gnomb by friends for obvious reasons…Oh and the paranoid banker who asked me to take my shoes off, handed me a carrot juice and a copy of The Road Less Travelled with highlighted sections, at his penthouse. (All similarities to real people have been err…edited. Ish!) Let’s leave it there. My brain was terribly fuddled for those lost party years in my early, or was it even more embarrassingly, mid, even late twenties? Ouch.

Parteeeeee...

It's 03.22 on Saturday morning, the longest I've been up for a while. Such a fun night with my gorgeous new Parisien girl friend. One of my best guy friends of old has just left Paris - he who won't settle down; incidentally, a guy friend I've never had a thing with, for the record. Anyway, he spent last weekend here with said gorgeous girl and we all ended up together for Sunday brunch at the delightful Café de Flore (my new Wolesley), joined by the most fah-bulous gay, London journo friend who's our neighbour having relocated years back. I did my whole Jewish mother schtick with bachelor guy friend and had him married off by Monday, if only because I was desparately coveting his cool Parisien plus one as my b.n.F.f (best new French friend).

So I had supper a deux with b.n.F.f at Le Coupe Chou, the most heavenly, romantic, old-fashioned French restaurant in the 5eme. Delish food, charming service and a perfect coupe de champagne or two salon. She's a darling. Super smart film finance exec with a naughty sense of humour. Hey, it takes one to spot another. The NSOH that is, sadly not the super smart bit, dammit. Are acronyms so 2009? Noted. It's gone midnight and we're the last to leave the restaurant. The Paris party crowd weren't at the Coupe Chou that's for sure. They were all at Derriere (in the Marais) most likely, but more on those nights another time.

To be continued...

Schoolgirl Error.

It's snowing again today. Pretty, sure, but bloomin' freezing. How is it that Parisiens look so damn chic in their hats while if I have my trilby at the jaunty, cool angle, I can't see out at all as it covers my eyes? And don't get me started on hat-hair syndrome.

My coffee habit is out of control so it's no wonder I struggle to sleep. That and an obsessive Mad Men addiction are leading to insomnia, if eventual sweet dreams about Dan Draper. The classic unreconstructed Alpha Male. You just can't help yourself, can you? Yummy. That gravel meets velvet voice...Ooooh.

Two of my fave UK country friends arrive this week then best London friend the next so it's time to turn on full-on entertaining switch. There goes yoga, here come bubbles. Champagne flowed delightfully at one of the chic-est (sic) restaurants in the city on Saturday for husband's birthday. We very nearly didn't get out at all as I only realised at 2005 that booking the sitter for Dimanche was a huge mistake. You see - language skills developing at snail's pace. That was a schoolgirl error, I know. Thought about blaming it on the sitter. But she's too damn nice.

Shopping bag with wheels

Despite being in desperate... No! Scrub that. Starting afresh...

Despite being in (non-desperate) pursuit of the innate chic-ness that swarms around me here in Paris, I've succumbed not to a small dog in a knitted coat but to a shopping bag on wheels. Yes, really.

Bringing Sexy Back.

We spied a middle-aged guy in nothing but indecently short denim hotpants, a teeny denim waistcoat with full, hairy gut and cowboy boots, a baguette under his arm, skipping along the street this morning... In sub zero temperature. Fabulously odd. Smug, delightful daughter is visibly shocked; "Is that his bottom, I can see, Mummy?" she whispers aghast. Frankly, I'm relieved that's all she refers to.

Rumours abound that Kate Moss will descend on Paris in spring. Imagine the media scrum. One of my best Hampshire country friends; gym bunny, single mum, fashion blonde, informs me it's a cert - Grazia says so - as she excitedly books her trip to visit me next month. Even UK fave fashion store Top Shop is obsessed with all things Parisien right now. You can't move in there for breton stripes and Eiffel towers, she says. Since she's arriving in just a few weeks I need to line up potential French suitors. She's keen to have a date for her 30th in April so the clock is ticking. 30th! Those were the days.

Dating Friends...

I'm not far off being Parisien now. I mean, hell, winsome daughter has had a French bob cut, for goodness sake. Today, just like that, we threw tout le caution to the wind and ta-da, there it was and looking pretty damn good for a barber shop haircut. A few inches of her locks and a Chupa Chupa lolly were stuffed into her hand, by way of souvenirs. Just as I was about to suggest starting a Paris scrapbook, momentarily inspired by the occasion, I thought better of it and took a hasty iPhone photo instead. Who's got the energy for craft activity after a day out in a new city? Who's got the energy, period, unless consumed at least five noisettes and anti-depressents*? Noisette = my new fave French coffee with hot milk. No skimmed here. There's the oxymoron as of course, as we all know, Parisien women don't get fat.

The Noise just had his Small Faces bowl neatened up so he could see out from under his fat fringe. Poor thing has a double-crown like me. And a flat-head at the back under all his hair (which I don't think I share. Not knowingly). I console myself with the fact that at least he can never be a skinhead.

It's strange having no friends. But I do have yoga... I've found a fabulous studio just 5 minutes from our apartment and I even struggled through an Ashtanga class, Saturday morning with a semi-hangover. I say, 'semi' as I'd be ashamed to admit to my English friends that a bellini and two glasses of rosé could possibly make one feel greige in the morning. It's the post-new year, French me. A 2010 lightweight.

We were lucky enough to have an invitation to an achingly cool new restaurant in our neighbourhood from an charming and well-connected friend of a hotelier contact in the UK, along with his entertaining and delightful, American pilates teacher wife. Our first proper Paris invitation. A chance to make friends, perhaps. It was starting to feel like dating. I'd already taken The Noise to one ex-pat playgroup in a bid to be social and help the 2 year old find like-minded tantrum throwers, to boot. While the host was warm and genial, someone I'd genuinely like to see again (see, told you it's like dating...) I couldn't help but feel like a shark swimming against the tide. Humour too dark, perhaps. Mine that is, not the Aussie's or the German's. So many Americans here. Have met few Brits however. Not sure if that's a good or a bad thing?

Saturday night was a revelation. Shattered after a fleeting visit from family, we were set to pop into a French film party. I say 'pop in' as, although we've found a sitter, French events don't start til gone 10pm and our sitter had to get the bus home, so we were set to party for Oooh, about an hour tops. We had been invited for pre-party drinks by dry humoured, gay, London showbiz journo, who'd moved to Paris 10 years ago and lived with a fabulous, cute Parisien lawyer. And what fun they were! I haven't had a best gay friend since my 20s and I'd forgotten how much I missed him. I begged them to introduce me to their girlfriends sometime and they assured me we could have some future fun together in Paris. Just need a sitter who doesn't turn into Cinders at midnight.

*Which I'm not on. Yet.

We have arrived. Really, we have...

We’ve arrived! It’s 2 January and we’ve made it - against all odds, quite frankly. After a New Year’s Eve party laced with four brandy/champagne cocktails too many, I woke up in a child’s bed with a swollen lip and hair stuck to my face. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. Or sight. The husband was nowhere to be seen and I wasn’t even sure who I was, where I was or how I’d got there. Yes, I’m the wrong end of my 30s and yes, of course, I should have known better. So, there I was shamefully trying to stop myself from passing out and/or being sick, with a whole ten hours of house packing still to do. Regret it? Bien sure.

Rewind to Boxing Day when all was civilised and a week to go until the Paris move. We came back from Miami on Christmas Eve for festivities in the country. ‘Holiday’ is a loose term, frankly. As delightful though he is, after a full-on fortnight with The Noise and no childcare, we could have sold him for shark bait. Miami’s five-hour time difference added to the chaos with the children’s sleep patterns gone to pot. I’m still mystified, in awe even, over how my dear friend, Country Domestic Goddess, can wrangle five children, four of them boys, and not be on anti-depressants and lighter fuel.

Back to 26 December – yes, I know we should have been packing – we set off for Telly Scally friend’s house in Barnes. It’s best to diet for 24 hours before a visit as Droll Scottish Culinary God husband is a trained chef who thinks Vegetarian is a star sign so views my family as malnourished, due to my hippie ways.

Clearly, a Christmas day ration wasn’t plausible so I vow to do a run first thing tomorrow morning, texting Neighbour Who’s Become Dear Friend’s 15-year-old offspring - Delightful Daughter - to persuade her to join me. They live next door but one and I miss them dreadfully.

Also at lunch are Telly’s parents. Her father’s a stand-up comedian so always great social value, and their fun friends, Banker Yank and Irish Blonde, who spent twelve years living in Paris and were oh so eager to give us the lowdown on the French capital. The post-mortem all started out terribly positively, especially as they lived in the 7^th too, so we were soon armed with names and numbers for the best local Italian… the most romantic Bistro… where to take the kids on a Sunday afternoon to feel like you’ve lost them but haven’t really. Blah, de blah, de blah. Clearly useful stuff. But the more we all drank, the keener Irish Blonde was to reveal why, despite loving much about Paris, she was overjoyed to be back in South West London. The rudeness, she claimed, drove her crazy in not so Gay Paris.

“You’ll find it impossible to make any Parisian friends,” she guffawed, as they’ll be entirely disinterested, even disdainful towards us. Yank suggested she concentrate on what she loved about the city that was to be our new home. “No, carry on…” I argued, “It’s interesting and forewarned is forearmed, no?” I have to practice disdain. I’d already been told that that was soooo important. Anyway, I figured, for quite some time, even if Parisians are rude to me, I won’t understand what they’re saying so who cares.

So, back to today and 4 January 2010. It’s been utter chaos here and that has naff all to do with me picking up the pieces from my New Year’s Eve; a huge bruise across my forehead and a nose that may or may not be broken. Not to worry, says the husband, you can have a nose job while you have it fixed. Gorgeous Country Goddess II New Year Party host friend texts to say she can’t make Paris after all next month. The circle of shame is complete. Eeeek. Was I really that dreadful? It’s a rhetorical question and I’m guessing the apology flowers didn’t help.

The Noise continues to take us to uncharted audio territory with his screaming and if he wasn’t so goddamn cute to look at with a single dimple and lopsided grin, you’d thwack him one (if not thrice says husband from the bathroom). Isn’t whacking your kids legal in France anyway? I’ve decided it’ll be a bloody miracle if I make even one friend here in Paris, from anywhere at all, let alone a Parisian, as The Noise’s consistent yelling acts like a rape alarm and no one dares comes within a hundred yards of me. Pitying stares from aged facelifts covered in mink.

Husband miraculously has retained a sense of humour when all around him crumbles. My low point today was sitting on the floor in tears surrounded by fairy cake mix and broken glass. Goodie Two Shoes daughter tells me I “really should know not to put glasses on the side of a table.” Husband even managing to work despite Armageddon ensuing in the apartment. Thank goodness, as our astronomical Paris apartment rent far from justifies tonight’s Chateau Lafite and Camembert with Bio (organic) crudités. Budgeting is not my middle name despite a whopping tax bill hanging over my head. Vive La France, non?

Fashion and Feet

Found an apartment! Phew. Everyone who knew anything about the city had hyped me up into a state of emergency surrounding the difficulties renting something I might not be too depressed living in. Guess we got lucky. It's in the 7th which I'm told is chic. I had no idea about that arrondisement as I have only built any kind of relationship with Le Marais to date. Fashion had called me there. Zadig and Voltaire... Yum.

Friend G hosted a gig at the O2 last night and almost ruined her Comme Il Faut shoes* jumping up and down with excitement when she took in my move to Paris news. Fashion is G's middle name. Her Blog, Gigi Rocks Frocks and Cocktails is a great introduction to one of my loveliest friends. So, there we were, backstage at the stadium, like excited schoolgirls planning her trip already. Funny how so many friends are already scheduling weekends. So much keener to visit than when I had my television show in Birmingham. Funny, that.

Picking up the keys tomorrow so it's real life not playtime anymore. The apartment's delightfully old-fashioned with a metal pull-door lift and duck egg blue hallway. There are parquet floors and L and The Noise even have an oh-so-romantic view of the ubiquitous tower from their balcony, which runs most of the way round the apartment. Too tempting for The Noise. Perhaps we'd better keep the door shut. It's soooo easy to picture him hurtling round, chucking Thomas engines on unsuspecting visitors' heads below. Get hit by a train smoke puffer and it could take an eye out. Now I have a vision of the concierge telling us we have to move out. Unless it's a year into our stay, I may not understand the French but yelling's yelling, right? Back to reality and the concierge does look 'fierce' but in a non-fashion sense. The lovely Italian apartment owner assures me that she is in actual fact charming, despite a scowling exterior, and, importantly, that her daughter babysits. Note that I must befriend immediately. How...A basket of English jams? But they don't really eat croissants in Paris, do they? Not to stay 'as good as skinny feels'.

My country friends threw a supper party for us at the weekend. It was supposed to have been a surprise but I found out everyone who was coming. I'm awful with secrets. You know how it is; you adore the idea of them but can't bear not to find out what they are. There was a fabulous twist though that really was a fantastic shock. French music, onion soup, moustaches. Luckily just the boys, that bit, or we girls would have all wasted money on the Jolen. Such fun - and they'd gone to so much trouble it made me almost cry. I don't cry much but was really touched. The best bit was the gift that I have wanted forever. I've coveted cashmere socks for so long I was almost over them. Almost but not quite as I have cold feet to end all cold feet. It has put people off sleeping with me in the past. Really. An affliction I have no more as my feet have now been officially welcomed into toastie-toe world. I'm smiling just thinking about it.

Happy too that Grazia magazine is a weekly in France as well so at least I have back-up language lessons in translation. Not sure how useful my latest learning is though; 'Choc! Angelina à tenir le premier rôle à côté de Johnny dans le film chaud et humide. Au cas où Vanessa et Brad avoir peur?' could kill my Parisien dinner party invitations stone dead. It's highbrow conversation that's required surely. Won't my fantasy brooding, young gardener be free for regular coffee and chat? Bet they're all desparately well educated tending the topiary there. Oh no, I'm on the sixth floor. So, that's the jardinier dream out the window then. It's window boxes and talking to myself all the way. My soon to be learnt French fashion speak must be worth something though.

*Legendary Argentinian tango shoes that I tracked down for her in Buenos Aires. Must confess, after all that work, I couldn't resist treating myself to a delicious pair too.

Eeeek! Not long now...

It's chucking it down with rain like it's monsoon season here in the Hampshire countryside. I'm obsessively checking iphone weather updates around the world and am somewhat dismayed to find that it rains about as much in Paris as in London. I really need to be moving to Los Angeles. Too many guns. Or Buenos Aires. But I can't tango. Reminder to self; moving to France and can't speak French. Thirty-something's the new twenty-something, right? So I still have time to learn all sorts of things like why cool Marc by Marc Jacobs coats never have hoods so shouldn't be worn when there's a chance of wet weather. Can't cool be practical too? Discuss.

Countdown to Paris...39 days. Boxes are everywhere. As is paperwork yelling "DEAL WITH ME NOW!" in angry capitals. I need champagne to deal with the stress. Good job there's a mid-week girlie lunch in the diary. Oh dear. It's on the day that says 'Pack!' in my diary. Ho hum.

The Squeaky Wheel at George V

What could be lovelier than drinks at the swankiest hotel in the city, The George V, with a friend of a friend who's the concierge there? I can't think of much either* but bearing in mind the blow-our-budget semi luxe boutique hotel I've told you that we're already staying in, E vetoes a taxi so we're on the Metro; that's us along with L and The Noise. I asked about babysitters in our hotel but it was felt that 25 Euros an hour was rather extravagant. Spot the financial theme developing here. Perhaps we should have switched to the Euro in the UK after all? No? Ok, so that's a chat for another time.

I asked a smart looking businessman as we left the Metro if he knew where The George V was. I had used my best French, which admittedly still sucks. Anyway, said man replies in perfect English, looking perplexed no doubt at the fact that a family travelling on the Metro may be staying at such a hotel. E at this point pretended he wasn't with us. Why is it that men have a meltdown when it comes to asking anyone for directions? Maybe they feel as though it's a direct attack on their masculinity. It wasn't meant to be, but since E was still getting over a bad case of man flu, his thunderous face could have meant anything. I was happily distracted when I was helped by a charming (frankly hot) young man through the exit gates. Who says chivalry is dead in France? Oh no, I guess no one ever did.

The Noise's pushchair has a squeaky wheel. It's squeaking extra loudly as we get stuck in the revolving doors at the hotel. Luckily, nothing is too much trouble for the reception staff who even manage to smile through what must have been firmly gritted teeth as The Noise charges the six foot tall glass vases of flowers. I need smelling salts. Or a perfectly chilled glass of pink champagne - even better - which is swiftly delivered to our table with our fabulous new friend of a friend who we quickly learn is not only terrifically nice but also somewhat in charge. The Noise, meanwhile, finds stones to eat in the nearby reastaurant flower arrangements but a few sips in to my bubbly, everything is very much all right. Funny that.

*Only stuck on a desert island with Sean Penn, dental floss and Grazia magazine. Or is that just me?

Paris meets L and The Noise

We set off for our Paris preview; the big trip before the move in the new year. That’s me, Amanda, the generally-genial-until- pushed-too-far husband, E, seven year old winsome, well-behaved daughter, L and saving the messiest til last, toddler boy, R, A.K.A The Noise, who brings new meaning to the term nuclear bomb. Yes, lucky that he’s forever complimented on his saucer-like, dark brown eyes, framed by lashes mascara dreams of, BUT – and here’s the thing – you take your eye off the ball for what, 10 seconds and he’ll have thrown apple juice in your face, drawn all over the curtains and clambered up onto the armrest to drop popcorn on the person behind; just three of the less chaotic incidents that happened on our Eurostar journey. The family carriage was full of unsuspecting businessmen who tried not to look too horror-stricken as we made our dramatic arrival. The Noise flung himself around the carriage, screeching. I decided medication was the only way forward and made my way fast as lightning to the bar for wine supplies. Didn’t they used to put brandy in babies bottles? Has anyone tried that – does it work? The cold Chablis gulps from a plastic cup were marred initially by a strong vegetarian stench. E and I played the Your Turn pointing game, which I swiftly lost when his iphone rang at the perfect time. Nappy time. Oh happy days.

Paris and a slice of heaven in our ‘HOW much?!’ hotel. I was confident I’d pulled off a corker with a suite in a delightfully plush, pretty, perfectly located place to stay until E reminded me that the Euro to pound was almost one-to-one so my awesome suite deal at 450 Euros a night meant we now need to re-mortgage our house before the move. Like that’s possible in the current negative equity climate. Not sure double negative equity’s workable. Anyway, I cheerfully remind E that breakfast has been thrown in. He remains ashen faced. Our ever-depleting finances take a further plummet when we realize L has her big school meeting today with only Mary Jane Crocs to wear on her feet. And it’s been raining. The children’s store in the Marais district sees us coming when the only boots that fit L’s dainty, skinny ankles are, we learn at the cash desk once the visa debit has gone through, a whopping 135 Euros. She’ll have to have her feet bound. My French needs to improve. Fast. The store was called Petit Bourgeois.