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.