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?