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.