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.