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.