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?