Skinny Cappuccino on Red Carpet

No sex on the beach.

I’m sitting on a terrace overlooking the Croisette and the sun is almost shining but if it makes you feel better, I am wearing goosebumps and a cardigan. But. And this is the good but. I do have a glass of rose and nothing to get up for in the morning. I must be one of the only film crowd who doesn’t have to be out of bed bright and early. I say they have to be but that doesn’t of course mean will be. Now husband famously came this close to being sacked by his then PR company when we met and he was a junior earning 25 Euros a day or something. Or was it the Franc then? Many years ago.

Roll on 10pm and we hit the red carpet for the premiere of Mike Leigh’s Another Year. And did it feel like it?! I’m a big Leigh fan but this movie could have done with a heavy edit. Now you don’t come out of a ML movie in the mood to party but husband and I decided a cheery nightcap was in order so we didn’t have depressing dreams. To escape the Brit crowd we headed to the Martinez where most people can’t afford to drink. That’s us too of course but hang the budget for the privacy and husband not being harangued by drunk jounos/clients at 2am. Three whisky sours later (him) and (me) a Sunshine Sparkler ramped up by an Espresso Martini (why do non-alcoholic cocktails have more cringeworthy names than their full-on siblings? Scrub that. I remembered Sex on the Beach), we hit the sack. I tried to sleep then realised the coffee rule applies not just after 12pm but after 12am too.

But. It's Cannes.

The good news is I’m off to the Cannes Film Festival in the morning. Yay. But. And isn’t there always one? Whether it’s men or a pay rise. But… what shoes to take since I’ve signed up for hand luggage only. My recent Bon Marche treat; Ash peep-toe navy suede ankle boots are a must. Love to wear my Laboutins but since I’m not Eva Longoria – won’t have cause to simply teeter from limo to the red carpet. Converse too casual. Patent Pretty Ballerina pumps. Yes!

Staying with shoes and the bad news is that I’d booked a Sex and the City 2 girls night out for my birthday with London/UK country friends flying over. Then the Parisiens only go and enhance their awkward reputation by opening the film a whole week later than London and NY, thus missing my 29 May plan. Oh and for the card you’re planning on sending, it’s actually the 27th. The Saturday is the big night out. That is smaller now. Or at least different. We’ll have to create our own sex and the city. Without much sex as most of us are married. Ho hum.

Getting in the Festival mood online checking out Wall Street 2 shots on the Croisette and so cannot wait to revisit Gordon Gekko. Not literally you understand. Though it seems Catherine doesn’t mind stepping out with her father figure.

Sun, sun, SUN, purlease. I’ve been to the Festival for the last twelve years and bar Year 1 (when I shamefully remember being drunk, drenched with rain and late for an interview with an actor who shall remain nameless after being up all night ‘cavorting’ on a yacht), it’s been hot. If my then Editor ever reads this, that incident is up there with most regrettable lifetime antics. And there are more than a few vying for the top spots if I’m frank. Yes, that 80s cheesy DJ was a huge mistake too. Then there’s the strawberry-blonde (ginger?) ski instructor, unkindly christened The Gnomb by friends for obvious reasons…Oh and the paranoid banker who asked me to take my shoes off, handed me a carrot juice and a copy of The Road Less Travelled with highlighted sections, at his penthouse. (All similarities to real people have been err…edited. Ish!) Let’s leave it there. My brain was terribly fuddled for those lost party years in my early, or was it even more embarrassingly, mid, even late twenties? Ouch.

Parteeeeee...

It's 03.22 on Saturday morning, the longest I've been up for a while. Such a fun night with my gorgeous new Parisien girl friend. One of my best guy friends of old has just left Paris - he who won't settle down; incidentally, a guy friend I've never had a thing with, for the record. Anyway, he spent last weekend here with said gorgeous girl and we all ended up together for Sunday brunch at the delightful Café de Flore (my new Wolesley), joined by the most fah-bulous gay, London journo friend who's our neighbour having relocated years back. I did my whole Jewish mother schtick with bachelor guy friend and had him married off by Monday, if only because I was desparately coveting his cool Parisien plus one as my b.n.F.f (best new French friend).

So I had supper a deux with b.n.F.f at Le Coupe Chou, the most heavenly, romantic, old-fashioned French restaurant in the 5eme. Delish food, charming service and a perfect coupe de champagne or two salon. She's a darling. Super smart film finance exec with a naughty sense of humour. Hey, it takes one to spot another. The NSOH that is, sadly not the super smart bit, dammit. Are acronyms so 2009? Noted. It's gone midnight and we're the last to leave the restaurant. The Paris party crowd weren't at the Coupe Chou that's for sure. They were all at Derriere (in the Marais) most likely, but more on those nights another time.

To be continued...

Schoolgirl Error.

It's snowing again today. Pretty, sure, but bloomin' freezing. How is it that Parisiens look so damn chic in their hats while if I have my trilby at the jaunty, cool angle, I can't see out at all as it covers my eyes? And don't get me started on hat-hair syndrome.

My coffee habit is out of control so it's no wonder I struggle to sleep. That and an obsessive Mad Men addiction are leading to insomnia, if eventual sweet dreams about Dan Draper. The classic unreconstructed Alpha Male. You just can't help yourself, can you? Yummy. That gravel meets velvet voice...Ooooh.

Two of my fave UK country friends arrive this week then best London friend the next so it's time to turn on full-on entertaining switch. There goes yoga, here come bubbles. Champagne flowed delightfully at one of the chic-est (sic) restaurants in the city on Saturday for husband's birthday. We very nearly didn't get out at all as I only realised at 2005 that booking the sitter for Dimanche was a huge mistake. You see - language skills developing at snail's pace. That was a schoolgirl error, I know. Thought about blaming it on the sitter. But she's too damn nice.

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?

Fashion and Feet

Found an apartment! Phew. Everyone who knew anything about the city had hyped me up into a state of emergency surrounding the difficulties renting something I might not be too depressed living in. Guess we got lucky. It's in the 7th which I'm told is chic. I had no idea about that arrondisement as I have only built any kind of relationship with Le Marais to date. Fashion had called me there. Zadig and Voltaire... Yum.

Friend G hosted a gig at the O2 last night and almost ruined her Comme Il Faut shoes* jumping up and down with excitement when she took in my move to Paris news. Fashion is G's middle name. Her Blog, Gigi Rocks Frocks and Cocktails is a great introduction to one of my loveliest friends. So, there we were, backstage at the stadium, like excited schoolgirls planning her trip already. Funny how so many friends are already scheduling weekends. So much keener to visit than when I had my television show in Birmingham. Funny, that.

Picking up the keys tomorrow so it's real life not playtime anymore. The apartment's delightfully old-fashioned with a metal pull-door lift and duck egg blue hallway. There are parquet floors and L and The Noise even have an oh-so-romantic view of the ubiquitous tower from their balcony, which runs most of the way round the apartment. Too tempting for The Noise. Perhaps we'd better keep the door shut. It's soooo easy to picture him hurtling round, chucking Thomas engines on unsuspecting visitors' heads below. Get hit by a train smoke puffer and it could take an eye out. Now I have a vision of the concierge telling us we have to move out. Unless it's a year into our stay, I may not understand the French but yelling's yelling, right? Back to reality and the concierge does look 'fierce' but in a non-fashion sense. The lovely Italian apartment owner assures me that she is in actual fact charming, despite a scowling exterior, and, importantly, that her daughter babysits. Note that I must befriend immediately. How...A basket of English jams? But they don't really eat croissants in Paris, do they? Not to stay 'as good as skinny feels'.

My country friends threw a supper party for us at the weekend. It was supposed to have been a surprise but I found out everyone who was coming. I'm awful with secrets. You know how it is; you adore the idea of them but can't bear not to find out what they are. There was a fabulous twist though that really was a fantastic shock. French music, onion soup, moustaches. Luckily just the boys, that bit, or we girls would have all wasted money on the Jolen. Such fun - and they'd gone to so much trouble it made me almost cry. I don't cry much but was really touched. The best bit was the gift that I have wanted forever. I've coveted cashmere socks for so long I was almost over them. Almost but not quite as I have cold feet to end all cold feet. It has put people off sleeping with me in the past. Really. An affliction I have no more as my feet have now been officially welcomed into toastie-toe world. I'm smiling just thinking about it.

Happy too that Grazia magazine is a weekly in France as well so at least I have back-up language lessons in translation. Not sure how useful my latest learning is though; 'Choc! Angelina à tenir le premier rôle à côté de Johnny dans le film chaud et humide. Au cas où Vanessa et Brad avoir peur?' could kill my Parisien dinner party invitations stone dead. It's highbrow conversation that's required surely. Won't my fantasy brooding, young gardener be free for regular coffee and chat? Bet they're all desparately well educated tending the topiary there. Oh no, I'm on the sixth floor. So, that's the jardinier dream out the window then. It's window boxes and talking to myself all the way. My soon to be learnt French fashion speak must be worth something though.

*Legendary Argentinian tango shoes that I tracked down for her in Buenos Aires. Must confess, after all that work, I couldn't resist treating myself to a delicious pair too.

Eeeek! Not long now...

It's chucking it down with rain like it's monsoon season here in the Hampshire countryside. I'm obsessively checking iphone weather updates around the world and am somewhat dismayed to find that it rains about as much in Paris as in London. I really need to be moving to Los Angeles. Too many guns. Or Buenos Aires. But I can't tango. Reminder to self; moving to France and can't speak French. Thirty-something's the new twenty-something, right? So I still have time to learn all sorts of things like why cool Marc by Marc Jacobs coats never have hoods so shouldn't be worn when there's a chance of wet weather. Can't cool be practical too? Discuss.

Countdown to Paris...39 days. Boxes are everywhere. As is paperwork yelling "DEAL WITH ME NOW!" in angry capitals. I need champagne to deal with the stress. Good job there's a mid-week girlie lunch in the diary. Oh dear. It's on the day that says 'Pack!' in my diary. Ho hum.

The Squeaky Wheel at George V

What could be lovelier than drinks at the swankiest hotel in the city, The George V, with a friend of a friend who's the concierge there? I can't think of much either* but bearing in mind the blow-our-budget semi luxe boutique hotel I've told you that we're already staying in, E vetoes a taxi so we're on the Metro; that's us along with L and The Noise. I asked about babysitters in our hotel but it was felt that 25 Euros an hour was rather extravagant. Spot the financial theme developing here. Perhaps we should have switched to the Euro in the UK after all? No? Ok, so that's a chat for another time.

I asked a smart looking businessman as we left the Metro if he knew where The George V was. I had used my best French, which admittedly still sucks. Anyway, said man replies in perfect English, looking perplexed no doubt at the fact that a family travelling on the Metro may be staying at such a hotel. E at this point pretended he wasn't with us. Why is it that men have a meltdown when it comes to asking anyone for directions? Maybe they feel as though it's a direct attack on their masculinity. It wasn't meant to be, but since E was still getting over a bad case of man flu, his thunderous face could have meant anything. I was happily distracted when I was helped by a charming (frankly hot) young man through the exit gates. Who says chivalry is dead in France? Oh no, I guess no one ever did.

The Noise's pushchair has a squeaky wheel. It's squeaking extra loudly as we get stuck in the revolving doors at the hotel. Luckily, nothing is too much trouble for the reception staff who even manage to smile through what must have been firmly gritted teeth as The Noise charges the six foot tall glass vases of flowers. I need smelling salts. Or a perfectly chilled glass of pink champagne - even better - which is swiftly delivered to our table with our fabulous new friend of a friend who we quickly learn is not only terrifically nice but also somewhat in charge. The Noise, meanwhile, finds stones to eat in the nearby reastaurant flower arrangements but a few sips in to my bubbly, everything is very much all right. Funny that.

*Only stuck on a desert island with Sean Penn, dental floss and Grazia magazine. Or is that just me?

Paris meets L and The Noise

We set off for our Paris preview; the big trip before the move in the new year. That’s me, Amanda, the generally-genial-until- pushed-too-far husband, E, seven year old winsome, well-behaved daughter, L and saving the messiest til last, toddler boy, R, A.K.A The Noise, who brings new meaning to the term nuclear bomb. Yes, lucky that he’s forever complimented on his saucer-like, dark brown eyes, framed by lashes mascara dreams of, BUT – and here’s the thing – you take your eye off the ball for what, 10 seconds and he’ll have thrown apple juice in your face, drawn all over the curtains and clambered up onto the armrest to drop popcorn on the person behind; just three of the less chaotic incidents that happened on our Eurostar journey. The family carriage was full of unsuspecting businessmen who tried not to look too horror-stricken as we made our dramatic arrival. The Noise flung himself around the carriage, screeching. I decided medication was the only way forward and made my way fast as lightning to the bar for wine supplies. Didn’t they used to put brandy in babies bottles? Has anyone tried that – does it work? The cold Chablis gulps from a plastic cup were marred initially by a strong vegetarian stench. E and I played the Your Turn pointing game, which I swiftly lost when his iphone rang at the perfect time. Nappy time. Oh happy days.

Paris and a slice of heaven in our ‘HOW much?!’ hotel. I was confident I’d pulled off a corker with a suite in a delightfully plush, pretty, perfectly located place to stay until E reminded me that the Euro to pound was almost one-to-one so my awesome suite deal at 450 Euros a night meant we now need to re-mortgage our house before the move. Like that’s possible in the current negative equity climate. Not sure double negative equity’s workable. Anyway, I cheerfully remind E that breakfast has been thrown in. He remains ashen faced. Our ever-depleting finances take a further plummet when we realize L has her big school meeting today with only Mary Jane Crocs to wear on her feet. And it’s been raining. The children’s store in the Marais district sees us coming when the only boots that fit L’s dainty, skinny ankles are, we learn at the cash desk once the visa debit has gone through, a whopping 135 Euros. She’ll have to have her feet bound. My French needs to improve. Fast. The store was called Petit Bourgeois.