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.