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?