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.