Dear dear, it has been a while since I've written and all manner of things have happened.
Here is a letter i have written to a good friend who hails from the north east of england, which recounts all my recent news:
Dear Mr K.
I hope this letter reaches you well. Unfortunately, I have been caught short without my usual array of rainbow gel-pens, so i shall have to write to you entirely in diorreah-brown.
So here I am, the sun in my face, sat outside my favourite cafe in Auray. Next to the port. The water which flows under the old stone bridge is subject to violent humours. Sometimes it is scarse and you can see the polluted, muddy estury-bed. Sometimes, it is deep and drifts along calmly. It changes depth and direction depending on the tide. We're near the sea, but not within walking distance.
There's your background info. Next to me on a neighbouring table four good-looking boys, perhaps in their late teens, are joking about in the sort of manner which crosses language barriers. What's funny is that they've each got a big milkshake with fancy glass, and to eat: some sort of big dry-sausage covered in seeds. I just don't think you would see such charming taste among the English youth.
Anyway: things are going generally alright here. After some miserable rainy days the sun is showing it's face. Last weekend, I went to gay Paris to see my Spanish au-pair friend Marta. It ended up being a hell of an expensive trip, and I had some moments of getting thoroughly riled up and questioning whether it had been worth the train fare.
At times, Marta seemed snappy with me and kept dealing me minor criticisms. I take criticism very poorly. Her short temper was perhaps explained when we had to go on a tampon-buying mission. In the next couple of days she seemed calmer, but kept whinging about stomach cramps. Girl stuff. You are quite lucky to be exempt from it all.
Marta is living on the top floor of a big fancy building in a posh neighbourhood of Paris, near to the Eiffle tower. These old houses are constructed to have a cramped little attic where the servants used to live, which can only be accessed by a cramped dirty little staircase to the rear of the building. This is where Marta lives. Her room is tiny, but she has made it cosy. There are other occupants in the other cell-like rooms on the corridor, but they sneak about and only say bonjour reluctantly if you happen to cross them on the stairs.
On the first day, we went to pick up the girls Marta looks after from their school. The school gates are a veritable fashion parade, with the hight society parisien ladies gathered to wait for their children. There were a notable number of twenty-something girls- black girls and latin girls who couldn't possibly be the mothers of the pink cheeked little bundles they were collecting, and hearing their foreign accents it was clear they were also au-pairs.
Marta's girls were very polite and advanced for their age. (they even get sent to an english-speaking school on their day off!!) They seemed to take a while to warm to me, but when they did we ended up having a good time playing some sort of card game featuring witches and faries.
I took lots of photos throughout the weekend and did all the usual touristy stuff. Riding in the metro was surprisingly far less chlaustrophobia enducing than the London one.
We picniced by the river Seine with the Eiffle Tower within sight, and even went on a mission to find the largest flea market in Paris. It turned out to be a grim out of town area where we got threatened by an aggressive man whom we accidentally bumped into. He hissed at us and bared his fangs in a serpentine Hannibal Lector way.
And of course: the french elections. The results were not known until I was on the train home. Someone on the train must have had phone internet, and announced "On a un nouveau president". Everyone where I was didn't react with much emotion, although TV footage of the Paris i had just left showed much celebration and wild open-air drinking.
More news: I'm seeing this french boy called Stephane F.... (his grandfather was Polish). This has certainly helped to allieviate my boredom, and most nights I'm round at his house in his messy little bedroom. It's particulaly pleasant when the weather is raging and stormy outside and you can have a warm and manly body to hold on to under the blankets, slipping in and out of dreams together.
However, his lack of motivation is starting to annoy me now the weather is fine.
He gets in from work at 11:30pm and stays up until about 4:30am (more often then not I'll fall asleep before)
Then the next day he won't get up and moving til at least 3pm and never leaves the house until he has to go to work again at 5:30pm.
I want fun, excitement, windswept beaches, scooter-rides, delicious food, dog-walks, bars in the evening, nighttime walks by the harbour... the simple joys of living. Stephane just wants to play Starcraft on his computer while I want to sleep. It's getting annoying!
I do have another friend who is more up for daytime pleasures. The au pair who has replaced Marta. A chatty overly-joyful Italian called Diana. Although most days, as today, she is occupied with the child.
(the rest of the letter was me nattering on giving my opinions on my correspondant's own personal problems which I shaln't divulge here)
I hope you are well, if indeed these lines to reach human eyes.
Bisous, your english girl reporting from France.
