Shopping bag with wheels

Despite being in desperate... No! Scrub that. Starting afresh...

Despite being in (non-desperate) pursuit of the innate chic-ness that swarms around me here in Paris, I've succumbed not to a small dog in a knitted coat but to a shopping bag on wheels. Yes, really.

Bringing Sexy Back.

We spied a middle-aged guy in nothing but indecently short denim hotpants, a teeny denim waistcoat with full, hairy gut and cowboy boots, a baguette under his arm, skipping along the street this morning... In sub zero temperature. Fabulously odd. Smug, delightful daughter is visibly shocked; "Is that his bottom, I can see, Mummy?" she whispers aghast. Frankly, I'm relieved that's all she refers to.

Rumours abound that Kate Moss will descend on Paris in spring. Imagine the media scrum. One of my best Hampshire country friends; gym bunny, single mum, fashion blonde, informs me it's a cert - Grazia says so - as she excitedly books her trip to visit me next month. Even UK fave fashion store Top Shop is obsessed with all things Parisien right now. You can't move in there for breton stripes and Eiffel towers, she says. Since she's arriving in just a few weeks I need to line up potential French suitors. She's keen to have a date for her 30th in April so the clock is ticking. 30th! Those were the days.

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.

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?