Girls, girls, girls

This morning was stressful. Soon my shiny new office will be ready and we will be able to start welcoming students to the new médiathèque. It may also be getting a rebranding, so that's really exciting - names are important, but not as important as the thing, as Juliet was so keen to point out - a Rose by any other name would smell as sweet. It's true; if you have a friend called Rose, ask her to pretend to be Jennifer for a day, and you'll notice she still smells of rainforests and sunlight. And sweat. Just a bit. She's human. We all are.

The problem with a shiny new office, however, is that it needs shiny new fittings and shiny new lights and that means shiny new drills need to be used to bore holes in walls, which would be absolutely top-hole and spiffing if my new office were not next to my current office. Making phone calls while a workman kicks his power drill up to 11 and goes to town on the poor wall is impossible, and conversation in the office became a little strained. Still, I powered through the tasks that needed doing, and before long I was ready to head into my basement to measure more things. My supervisor wants a plan ready for the new occupants of my basement office, and so I'm measuring and teaching myself Sketchup and very frequently cursing under my breath because I've accidentally spent twenty minutes making a gorgeous desk and only just realised it's floating two metres off the floor. And I have no idea how to get it to obey gravity, so for the moment whoever moves in next will need to make do with an anti-grav desk.

We also finally sorted out the books that we're keeping and the books that we're giving to anyone who wants them along with a load of VHS tapes and cassettes, in case Doc Brown turns up.

Not the Doc Brown from yesterday's blog. (Although thank you for reading so regularly.) The other one. Big hair. Owns a Delorean.

That's the bunny.

Incidentally, did you recognise him the first time you saw him as that destroyer of childhoods Judge Doom, from Who Framed Roger Rabbit? I did, and it was not a pleasant moment. I kept expecting him to do this:

And he didn't. I got to the end of Back To The Future and was so tense I couldn't stand up. My mother actually used me as a doorstop for an hour before I relaxed. Sensible women, my mother.

All of that was a lot of verbiage for the joke that we have VHS tapes and they're old fashioned, but I am quite sure you'll agree it was worth it. If you are a student in the place in which I work and, for some reason, have a VHS tape player, you may come and see me and help yourself at lunchtime.

I had my first French class today, which was interesting. We focussed on the future simple tense, which was quite fun. The teacher is very animated and the exercises are quite fun, so I may well appropriate them for my own classes because plagiarism is the highest form of flattery. I would say without boasting that I am one of two students with an already good level, but it's really interesting to see how I've gotten rusty through needing only relatively basic French and tenses. Several times I found myself struggling for words that I really ought to know, but it was nice to get back into the swing of speaking French with a variety of people.

It's also interesting to see where I've changed; I've not been in a classroom setting (as a pupil) for quite some time, and so I was surprised to find myself encouraging my classmates to answer and pushing them to take centre stage. Those who remember me from shared classrooms in the hazy days of youth will attest to the fact that I was an insufferable know-it-all, a boy whose arm was the greatest short-twitch muscle ever seen. I could answer a question the teacher hadn't finished asking. Hell, sometimes I even answered questions they hadn't planned on asking. I was the uncool kind of disruptive kid, the one the teacher and the rest of the students hate.

I am now a thoroughly more chilled out chappy, though that's not to say I don't get a bit cross when things like this

Taken from artist's Tumblr, http://roseaposey.tumblr.com/post/39795409283/judgments

(which, by the way, is a piece of art criticising the slut-shaming, it's-your-fault-because-you-dress-like-that attitude which is way too fucking pervasive) appear on my feed titled "Use this as a reference guide." I'm bound to get a tiny bit irritated with anyone who is so apparently unable to control their animal instincts, so stuck in the Stone Age that they need women to cover up from neck to ankle. What utter twattery.

Do you know how to tell if a woman is asking for it?

She opens her mouth and she asks for it. 

She can be as naked as the day she was born and if she isn't asking then you need to man the fuck up and walk on.

Gorram, we live in a world where we have instant access to all humanity's knowledge, we live longer, we can fucking fly through the air and I still have dumbasses posting this as a "reference guide" like we're still living in caves and hunting saber-toothed-tigers and are literally only prevented from committing sexual assault because our potential victims cover themselves up. 

Gor-ram.

It's not my place to lecture anyone on feminism but: if you're a girl or a woman and you agree with that picture then think about what that means. It means you think guys should have the right to decide how you dress. It means that sexual assault is partly your fault.

And they don't. And it isn't.

The Picture of Dorian Gray

There are two parts to this blog. The first will interest those who, for reasons unbeknown to myself, are kind enough and interested enough to read the petty going-ons of my life here in France.

The second is entirely for me, and is utterly self-aggrandising. You will forgive me, I hope, but it is only a little moment and it is entirely pointless.

So: today has been a most excellent day, in which I have spoken more French than I have spoken at any other point so far. My English colleague was unfortunately snowed in today, which has meant that I have spoken nothing but French all day. Wonderful times. I will confess, however, that of all the days on which I am permitted to speak only French, today was not the perfect one - we found a disparity of some 18.000€, which is most alarming. The root is proving tricky to find when my grasp of accountancy French is not as strong as it perhaps might be.

I signed some more people up for English lessons at lunch and booked the rooms for language lessons for next week - last term I let it get on top of me, but I've learnt my lesson and will book them well in advance from now on - and then had a most interesting discussion with a young man called Juan, regarding the Bible and the "nuclear family." I am always fascinated by the process of logic by which an otherwise sensible young man throws years of education to one side and insists that although his only proof is God, it is sufficient proof to condemn gay men and lesbian women who wish to marry.

This is not the place for a furious diatribe on why, exactly, that is bollocks from beginning to end, but suffice it to say that I am for equal marriage, and anyone who wishes to oppose it will find me as their opponent. A man who says he has friends who are gay but would oppose their right to marriage does not, in my opinion, understand the meaning of friend.

Or perhaps understands it so well that he wishes to save his friend from that particular hell, but I suspect that is not the case.

In the afternoon I became my alter-ego, Technical-Help-Man, and aided in the conversion of two stubborn files for my colleagues. It is so exciting to see the older generation - I have no fear of saying that because one day, and I am sure that day is not in the distant future, that label will be applied to me - embracing technology with such fervour. I think it's important to keep everyone in the loop, and tech is becoming such an important social measuring-stick that we must all be kept up to scratch.

I left the office this afternoon tired but happy as my colleague took over to run her TOEIC preparation classes. I can foresee more classes being needed before long and a return to a later reveille but also a later départ, which I am not so keen on. We shall see. I also start French lessons tomorrow; having met some of my classmates I am confident that my level of French will be in the top quarter of the class, but we shall see what we shall see.

And now the second part, which is entirely self-indulgent. My university amateur dramatic society is putting on The Picture of Dorian Gray by Mr Wilde, a man whose tomb I recently smooched. It is one of my favourite books and to see it turned into a play without me is awful. I feel as though I have fallen asleep on Christmas Eve and woken up on Epihany. I have missed everything I have waited so long for. It is heartbreaking. It is a tragedy. It is utterly melodramatic; that is to say, I am making a great song (melos) and dance about it.

As a result I have made like Dr House and filmed my audition from a far off country. You may view the audition below or you may continue on your merry way without pause.


I apologise for the wordiness; reading Wilde always makes me so.

I can't apologise for the words, because they are not mine - which would require apology - nor are they Wilde's, in which case no apology would be needed.

Stir crazy

Snow has been falling solidly here in my little corner of France, and unfortunately I'm not likely to be able to pull a fast one and pretend I can't get to work - I can see my office from my window.

The flat hunt continues: I've spotted a couple that are relatively expensive, but the money I'm saving this year is starting to mount up a little bit, so I figured why not? I prefer to have things pre-planned, so I can move straight in and start looking for a job, another prospect I'm actually rather looking forward to - I really enjoy bar work, it's what I'm good at, so the chance to go back to it is exciting. I'm good at plenty of other stuff, but the tips aren't quite as good, although the hours are better and one doesn't usually end up at a casino having breakfast most nights.

Or perhaps you do, in which case I'd love to work in your office.

So it's on to more applications, which are incredibly boring but sadly necessary. I'm currently just making enquiries, because a CV sent now for a job in August is a little too keen, even for me. It'll get put to the top of the pile now, because I've got some good experience, but the top of today's pile is the bottom of tomorrow's and the waste-paper lining of August's. So, like a cash-strapped doctor, we must have patience.

I've got another two students for sunday afternoons which is brilliant, a boy and a girl, so I'm looking forward to meeting them. The snow continues to fall and is about 10cm deep; not much, especially not compared to Aberdeen, but the local government here don't appear to have gritted or salted the roads - so consequently the roads are an absolute nightmare. I don't have sensible shoes for this kind of weather at all; at least not here - back home I have heavy, steady hiking boots that would be wonderful. But I wasn't expecting it to snow here, and so I left them at home - and by the time they get here, the snow will be gone. My advice to third-year-abroaders is, then, pack for literally anything.

My father and brother come back from their trip today, so I hope their journeys are safe and they get in okay. He's taken loads of photos, and it would be hard to find anywhere so vastly different from here - camels and outdoor pools and sand all against a backdrop of azure skies. Here all is skeletal, cold, with white snow against a glowing grey sky providing the background. All the same, we'll see sun before long and I'm looking forward to the spring. Not the summer so much, but certainly the spring.

I've done my good deed for the day and would invite all readers to do the same; a great friend of mine from Aberdeen is hoping to raise money to go to Morocco to build a school, presumably because she felt that being bright and beautiful were not sufficient qualities in a person. She is a shining example and consequently makes me feel like I should do more helping people and less writing, so please donate to her page here and send her off to do some good.

I finally watched Bienvenue Chez les Ch'tis, and I absolutely cannot recommend it enough, especially if you need reminding that even sometimes the French are confounded by the French. The part of France closest to Blighty apparently speaks as though its inhabitants have had top-quality painkillers injected into their jaws. This, of course, is in direct contrast to England, where everyone speaks the Queen's English - nowhere is this more true than in London, our capital city:

Well, I think that's perfectly clear to everyone.

No?

Alright, what about this chap:

The clips above are from the film Adulthood, which is well worth a watch, and the second is a guy called Doc Brown who's just amazing.

Alright, so perhaps we do have some dialects.

In any case, Lille and Calais have a very, very strange accent. I wish I'd known that when I first went with my father and spent what felt like hours trying to understand the very friendly but utterly intelligible butcher. Mind you, that struggle directly led to me improving my French and coming here so, as they would say:

Mershi.

Mon Martre? Ton Martre? Everybody's Martre!

Awkwardly wedged in joke aside, I had a really good day today. My body woke me up at 8, which is kind of cool - although I don't think I'll be ditching my alarm clock any time soon. Far too neurotic to rely on my own body.

In any case, getting up nice and early gave me an opportunity for an exceedingly long and luxurious shower and a browse of this week's news. I read a little Sherlock Holmes as part of a lesson plan - my life is awesome - and made crêpes. It's the weekend, and I am firmly of the opinion that calories consumed over the weekend absolutely do not count. You will see further evidence of my faith in this along the way.

In any case, I thought I was doing rather well when I strolled out at 11 to make my way into the city. On the way out, however, I passed a Dutch friend of mine who had been up for two hours already and had been training solidly on his bike for those two hours. It would be grating if he wasn't such a nice guy.

I also got to read Kate's new blog post, after a hiatus of far too long. My friend Mary is also blogging, so for a uniquely American point of view I recommend her new blog too. Final recommendation is a webcomic that I think is absolutely amazing called Looking For Group. There are lots and lots of pages, and they're hilarious and filled with great nerdy pop culture references. If you're confused about where to begin, then I can only offer the advice of the King of Hearts:

"Begin at the beginning," the King said gravely, "and go on until you reach the end: then stop."

Excellent advice, even if it comes from a playing card.

I digress again; you must forgive these flights of fancy. I made my way into Paris, going first by bus to La Défense and from there taking the RER to the Arc de Triomphe. A stroll along the Champs d'Elysée with only a little window shopping and an awful lot of pictures brought me to the great wheel at Concorde and Cleopatra's Needle, tipped with gold, blazed in the cold winter light. After a great slew of pictures (which I shall try to edit and refine tonight) I made my way to Montmartre. It looked glorious, and the Sacré-Coeur cathedral which perches atop it and commands astonishing views across Paris is a perennial beauty. I took the stairs up and the funicular down, which bizarrely seemed to be the contrary view - coming down I had the little carriage to myself but walked past a long queue of people apparently unwilling to march up the steps. There are 300, but in the freezing cold I was glad of the increased blood flow. I was so pleased, in fact, that I stopped for a solid three-hour lunch.

Lunch consisted of a half-litre of average red, an excellent stew of beef and rice and a cheese plate.

Let me share the cheese plate with you. I can only share the image, but I wish I could have shared it with you there and then, because I'm of the opinion there was half a kilo of cheese on that plate.

Since you weren't there, my friends, I had to make the best of it. It is worth pointing out at this point that I have a mild lactose intolerance. It is not as bad as some people get it, but as I left I could feel my bloated belly straining at my belt and, fearful of buttons pinging off and removing the eye of some innocent tourist, I hastily made my excuses and left, a little merrier for the wine and the small bill. As a result I recommend L'été en Pente Douce, 8 rue Paul Albert, if you fancy an excellent meal at the top of Montmartre. Just make sure, if you order cheese, that you've a friend to share it with. Or a lactose intolerant enemy.

A quick trip home and I found that an internship whose deadline I'd missed had been re-opened, so I've spent the evening recording and re-recording myself, because I like perfection. And finally, finally! I sat down and started writing this. I began at the beginning, as the King recommended, and I have gone on until I reached the end.

So I'll stop.

P.S Here are some photos from today.

The return plan

Another week over. I've got a week to decide whether or not to re-apply to the British Council and find myself journeying off to some other corner of France to teach more English. I'm finding it very tricky to decide; I'm really too old as it is - at this rate I'll be graduating in 2015 with around £30 000 of debt, which is such a large number I might need to go and lie down for a bit.

If I wasn't so confident that this time abroad and the skills I'm learning will ensure me a decent job, I'd be a hell of a lot more nervous. I'm still on the old fees, back in the days when Scotland was cheaper than England and the education of an equal level. Now - I'm sure I don't need to tell anyone reading this - it's £9 000 a year, in bonnie Scotland or green and pleasant England. A three year degree, like the one my sister is doing, is going to land her with approximately the same amount of debt as me. Incredible. Utterly incredible.

In any case, I'm really struggling because, as I said, I am way too old to be thinking about spending another year abroad and putting off graduation, but on the other hand - looking at my finances for next year is a deeply unpleasant prospect. Flat prices are higher than ever, and the only downside to this year abroad is that my ex-flatmates now have new flatmates. Such is life; I can hardly expect them to turf out someone who's been a close friend for a year just for me. So I repeat my plea; if you know of anyone moving out then I implore you to get in contact.

I did some more work with Sketchup today, and at one point managed to accidentally turn my model inside out. Obviously the first reaction is fear and surprise, but after realising it could be undone with a simple command-z, I spent fifteen minutes trying to recreate the effect. My curiosity will one day be my downfall, but perhaps it illustrates my scientific bent. A comic by XKCD illustrates what I'm trying to say:

The mouseover text, which unfortunately you can't see here, says "How could you choose avoiding a little pain over understanding a magic lightning machine?" I wholeheartedly concur.

I've spent quite a happy little day messing with Excel and making graphs in the morning before clambering around my soon-to-be-moved office trying to find the electric sockets for the room plan I'm making. I found a tool that measures things and fear I may have gone slightly overboard; my latest draft is a mess of numbers that are only understandable if you zoom in to about 2 000%. 

I've got the weekend off this week, and it's come as a bit of a shock. My student is out in Abu Dhabi (I know, poor guy) so I have two days off, and I'm really not sure what to do with them. This is where I hope my readers will come in. Amy has suggested a tearoom just outside Paris, which I'm quite excited about, but what else can you suggest? I have a whole weekend, so if you can recommend a little corner of Paris that you've stumbled upon let me know - comment below or tweet me; @jonodrew.

A Friday tune, because I suspect there's snow billowing outside your window. Have a wee bedroom dance. You can't help it.

Bards and poets and wizards

I am having a student friend for dinner. I am not sure what to have for dessert.

She's coming to sing for her supper - or rather, speak. I think stories are a great way of using tenses with advanced students, because when constructing stories we have things in the past, the past perfect, the imperfect as well as wishes, desires, hopes, dreams, ambitions and so on and so on. That's why a good storyteller is a wizard, and to be a wizard you have to be able to tell convincing stories - after all, what's a spell but a story that starts with a desire and ends in fulfillment?

And everyone has stories to tell, whether they're autobiographical (auto, Greek, meaning self- or one's own, hence automobile - self-moving and autograph, something you wrote yourself) or famous tales from one's homeland. Strange and marvelous things happen to us all the time, and they happen by chance.

Take the story of the crane operator who was an hour late to work on Wednesday and, hustling up his ladder, saw a helicopter smash into the structure above him. Two people died in this awful accident. They died because that day they got up on time, and he survived because he happened not to. That's it. The universe is random and without purpose.

Returning to stories, then, and my autobiography - my story written by me, although since it's typed - but I digress.

I have finally concluded the translation project that I thought I'd finished way back in December, so I'm going to add that to all of the important documents that make up my application for a job when I (finally) graduate. My colleague was so pleased with it that he insisted I put my name on it, and so I am now immortal - or will be, for as long as this unit is taught with this translation. Still, it's something. I've also been finalising a video - for some reason a perfectly gorgeous video in iMovie became absolute, pixelated crap when converted to .avi, but a little research and a solution was found. The internet is brilliant.

I've also taught myself the basics of plan drawing, and using Sketchup - and playing around with a lot, there's a strange sort of childish glee with grabbing a cube and deforming it like putty - I've knocked together something at which I daresay my brother would cringe. On the other hand, he's in Dubai, but because he's a really good guy the minute I mentioned I'd done it, he facebooked me and asked why I hadn't asked him. He's in Dubai and he's still willing to help me out at a moment's notice. My brother is awesome.

In any case, it's been a really interesting day, despite my first French lesson being cancelled. Next one's on Tuesday and I'm actually a little bit nervous.

So here's something fun I've found, because laughter is a natural cure for nervousness: NFL players overdubbed with very bad lip-reading. Hilarious.

You're making things up again, Arnold

I'm extremely keen to see The Book of Mormon, from whence comes the title of this post. The reason for this title is that a student of mine asked for a story, and I was momentarily stumped. I enjoy telling stories enormously; give me a skeleton of ideas and I shall happily lay flesh on its bones - hardly a talent, as I'm sure anyone can do it.

However, to just make something up - to ask for creativity to suddenly rouse itself from slumber and behave in an orderly manner - is utterly terrifying. I applied for something at +Edelman, and have never been so thankful when they gave a solid and interesting creative writing task. I cannot feasibly imagine anything more terrifying than being under pressure and just being told to "Write something" or "Show your creativity."

All of this is by way of explaining that the high point of my day has been retelling a Norse legend about Loki and discussing the Theory of Forms which, to my eternal shame, I ascribed to Aristotle and not, as it ought to be, to Plato. I await with anxiety the displeasure of the philosophers who read this.

In the news today the shock that horsemeat has been found in burgers rumbles on, which I find very peculiar. A person who eats sheep and cows and pigs but is unsettled by horse is surely logically inconsistent. Either you eat meat, in which case you eat meat whether it be horse or pig, cow or cat. There is no reason not to. Alternatively you are a vegetarian, in which case you're probably pointing out the same thing as I am and, maybe, feeling a little smug and superior.

If you are a cannibal then I suspect you've no idea what all the fuss is about, but you might be interested to know that you are etymologically kin to Caliban, the savage in The Tempest, and that both spring from Columbus' rendering of the Carib's name for themselves.

Projects are coming in thick and fast now; a transcription, a video to be edited and more favours to beg of my brother as the move from my basement to an office with windows edges closer. For those teaching English abroad, are there any particularly good resources you can suggest for my new, 21st-century media center?

Exponential views!

My blog will soon pass three thousand (!) hits, and I would like to thank everyone who reads regularly for making me feel like the most important person on the internet. I'm 99.9% sure I'm not, but it feels pretty good to believe so. Therefore - thank you.

I arrived back in France yesterday after a very odd Eurostar journey. We were well into France, perhaps an hour away from Paris, when the most awful din started up. It sounded like the noise that occurs when you drive your car over a newly gritted road, but since I was on a train I could not for the life of me work out what the noise was. It was seriously unsettling, and the baby seated on its father's lap evidently agreed and began bawling its lungs out.

I was struggling to get back into French mode and was hesitating a little at the ticket window when a chap stepped so close to me that I could feel his beard and asked in French if I was going to take much longer. In French, but with a British accent. A British person who had clearly been away for so long that he had forgotten common courtesies. I confess I was a little sharp with the man, who huffed and told me that he was in a hurry.

Had I then dawdled and passed the time conversing with the man behind the window about the unknowable nature of God I daresay karma would have forgiven me but I resisted. I completed my transaction with appropriate haste and made my way down to the station, standing to one side on the escalator for this be-whiskered oik pass at some speed. Despite his alacrity he was,
 sadly - so sadly! - just a little too late for the train. There was another along in three minutes, and he twitched and paced for 180 seconds. I would have liked to know what  the terrible hurry was, but like many of the mysteries we glance in the lives of others it shall always remain so - a mystery.

It is pleasant, in any case, to be back.

Apparently it snowed

You wouldn't know it from the way every damn person on your various social media collectively lost their minds and ran around taking pictures with their camera phones and exclaiming with glee that actual freaking water was coming out of the sky except colder than normal. 

For me, it was a terrific pain in the arse. Journeys are made continually more difficult by snow in the UK; I have foreign readers so it's quite hard to explain the reaction of the British transport system to snow. I shall try. If you imagine that overnight every single engine in every single vehicle across the entire country suddenly changed into a sugar cube, you have some idea of the confusion and mayhem that reigns across this little island when two centimeters of snow falls from the sky.

In any case, I was journeying up to Loughborough to meet an old friend; a flying visit, but I've been meaning to see her for a long time and the wedding proved to be an ideal opportunity. Those photos will, unfortunately, remain private for the moment (an awkwardness around their bosses' opinions of interdepartmental relationships), but I would really like to share very quickly the cake that my mother made:

 

So that's pretty.

In any case, I arrived at the university last night and we kicked back and caught up; introductions were made and apparently my reputation preceded me - as my friend tapped away at her essay, her flatmate with boyfriend in tow asked for my help with a verbal reasoning test. The test was part of the now-standard battery given to anyone hoping to apply for an internship in any sort of organisation, and while I'm not convinced of their efficacy, it is always a pleasure to pit my mind against the examiners.

We bashed through it with 56 seconds to spare, and I'd like to say that I helped as little as I could - most of the work came from the man himself. A nice guy, built - as all the chaps at Loughborough seem to be - like a brick outhouse, and a bit Welsh. Not too much, but noticeably so - although perhaps I sounded a bit English to him. In any case, I hope he's got it; he seems smart enough but he's basically honest while the questions are designed to be sneaky and catch out normal people.

I wound my way back to my friend's and caught sight of the first few flakes of snow puffing against the window. We stood and watched it fall for a while, and then retired to bed to watch Brave, which I have to roundly recommend to anyone who likes Disney movies, Scottish accents, red hair or any combination thereof. If you are expecting anything other than a 90-minute movie with a solid moral message, a lovely bit of character growth and an extremely well-animated, personality-infused bear then this may not be for you - but as something to chuckle to as snow falls outside and you huddle together for warmth, then it's worth a watch.

We separated to sleep - her flatmate had taken the hit and volunteered to sleep with her boyfriend so that there would be a spare bed, what a trooper - and woke early, so that I could have a chance to look around the campus and partake of the delights of lunch. I have to say that for uni food it was pretty good, and much better priced than my own canteen. She and I ran into a couple of old faces, until we wound up back in her room and watching Africa. 

Now I have no, or hardly any, access to iPlayer from France, so I have missed the most recent glorious example of BBC nature programming. It is, as has been vaunted many times before, filmed at the animals' eye levels, which adds a very odd angle to it - it certainly humanises the animals, although all birds seem to stare at one in the same way that a Glaswegian with eight pints of Tennent's best inside him does. Especially if one uses "one" in everyday speech, even if the context is the correct one.

There was a slightly panicked moment as I turned her room upside down until we realised I'd not had an umbrella when I arrived, and a solid twenty minutes of nervous waiting for me when I arrived and realised that the train I had expected at 2pm did not, in fact, exist. There was a train twenty minutes before, and a train twenty minutes after, but a train on the hour there was not. Considering my Eurostar departed a mere fifteen minutes after the expected arrival time of this train, and French customs had stopped me to go through bags at an agonisingly slow rate before, my nails had been bitten to the quick and I was about to start on the knuckles when we pulled into London.

I made it - obviously - but the sooner the British transport system gets over its fear of snow, the better.

Wedding Belles

I am not a religious chap, in general. I don't like religion of any sort; the tunes are pretty but the words are sort of creepy. However, I do appreciate the role of symbolism and ritual in doing anything. They feature everywhere in life, and religious ceremonies are the best places to find them.

Last night was a triumph; a gorgeous ceremony in a beautiful church and the couple surrounded with love. Love is just as amorphous an idea as God, but I've seen more evidence for love than for God, so love is what I believe they were surrounded by.

We were due to arrive at 1pm, and 1pm is precisely the time we arrived. Although this seems obvious, within my family tardiness is the norm rather than the exception. We actually sat in the car for a minute, struck dumb by shock, before disembarking in the usual shambolic way. I know that in theory it is possible to exit a car with style and grace, but I am yet to discover the secret. We also disembarked the cake, the secret cake the photos of which were embargoed yesterday. It was extremely heavy; we carried not only a 10 kilo cake but the responsibility of the wedding cake. It added to the mass in no small way.

We shipped it onto the coach and made the greetings that one must make amongst family that one hasn't seen since the last religious rite. It's tragic that I only see these wonderful people at times of great sadness or great joy, but that's the way life is - we are brought together only to see it at its best and its word. Reality, that great squisher of dreams, interferes in the idyllic life we would otherwise lead.

The traditional greeting between younger and older generations are always the same: "Auntie So-and-So, how are you? It's so nice to see you! You've not got any older!" And, of course, the standard response, "Jono! It's been so long since we saw you last! Haven't you grown!" That's especially kind in my case, because my height peaked when I was 12 and the only way I've grown is outwards. The coach brought us to the church, an absolutely stunning early Gothic construction. It is Roman Catholic, and so the ceremony proceeded with all the pomp and circumstance inherent in that institution. The words were excellent, and I am glad that someone chose to change the usual ones just a little - cherish has a less misogynistic tone than obey. Their voices were a little quiet, but what do you expect - they were binding themselves together three times, which has always been a powerful number in mystic systems. The Christians still have three parts of a one God, and marriage binds a couple three times - before God, before the State, and before the love of their friends.

Soon the ceremony was over, and it was time for pictures, and hundreds thereof. The couple looked embarrassed and proud and nervous, and could barely stand to be apart. The dress was daring, a sheath with a good meter of train, and the bride was accompanied by her mother. They came out to the traditional shower of petals and cheers; the bride doesn't know it, but she's married into one of the most boisterous and loving families in the world. We went on to the reception, which had a casino downstairs in which my sister managed to win £110 on her first go. Beginner's luck, and I don't even believe in luck. The prices were extortionate and the staff added a service charge to every transaction, and although the setting was beautiful I have no qualms about naming and shaming the Millenium Gloucester as practically criminal. To add a service charge to every drink served is an absolute outrage, especially when a request for a large vodka and tonic was met with the kind of gawping expression one generally finds on a goldfish. I don't mind tipping - I've worked in bars, and I'm proud that I can usually earn a goodly sum in tips - but to just add it to orders regardless is disgusting.

My dad did his speech, and it was excellent, although a collective groan went up when he clocked in at only 8 minutes and 12 seconds - a sweepstake had been run, of course, and my cousin cleared up, having plumped for 8 minutes. My father's ability to ramble is legendary amongst my family, and the conservative estimate had been fifteen minutes. He did incredibly well, and I was massively proud, even if he went off-script a couple more times than I'd have liked. It didn't matter. He captivated the audience.

At long last we wound our way home; jollier and fuller than we'd arrived. And so I write this in the afternoon, with a head that only aches a little and still surrounded by the love of my family. It is something we carry with us always; like the Queen's crown or a wedding ring, it need not always be physically present. When the Queen is in the shower, she is still the Queen. If you wear your ring or not, you are married. And whether you are in the midst of your boisterous family or far from them, their love is still with you. Those still with us and those taken from us in sadness; all are with you and - do not forget this - you are with them.

Le Jour J

Le Jour J is a French idiomatic expression which is equivalent to D-Day; however, in French it can also be used to mean "the big day." It is in this sense that I am using it - I do not plan to invade the beaches of France quite yet.

My cousin's wedding approaches; three o'clock is the hour. Incidentally, Jesus Christ was crucified at the third hour. I'm quite sure there are no similarities between the two events.

My father is still working on his speech. He is a very chilled out man; if he were any more laid back he'd fall off the face of the Earth. My mother and I, on the other hand, prefer to plan ahead - to have things at least rehearsed. You can imagine, then, the tension in our house as the hour draws closer and my father insists that the speech needs the bounce and the banter that comes from having bare bones notes. A large part of me has faith that he'll pull it off, and with panache, but that doesn't quite drown out the other part, which is imagining horrible scenarios in which he forgets everything and just stares goofily around the room.

My mother has made a cake for the wedding, and I'd like to share it with you. Perhaps it's because I'm related, but I think this cake looks - well, you tell me.

EDIT: My editor has told me that these photos are not to be made available to the general public until after the event. 

We apologise for this break in the usual programming. A description follows, for those with imagination.

The flowers on the top are individually hand made and edible. The cake itself is a fruit base with two sponge layers on top. The cake is dressed in lace, which is rolled out on a mould and fitted to the cake.

The box and the lace mould came from Cake Craft World in Sevenoaks, but the work is pretty much all down to my mother, with a little help from a friend who came over for a cup of tea and ended up adding icing pearls to this amazing cake.

Bear in mind that as she did this, she also cooked a lasagne for fix people.

The cake is incredibly heavy and has a seat to itself on the coach we've booked to take us to the wedding. It is the second most important guest of honour and at the moment is dressed a lot better than I am - no lace for me, just a charcoal three-piece.

Yesterday's riddle was a little easy, I suspect, especially for anyone who like Harry Potter. Mundungus is a lovely word that means stinky old tobacco. Interestingly he's also a Fletcher, which is an old word for someone who put the barbs on arrows.

Most of my lawyer student friends spend a lot of time in bars - probably too much. But they're also studying to be a bar-rister. What's the connection?

It looks like it's time to get ready. My darling sister is trying to convince me to have a haircut. I had one less than six months ago, I surely don't need another.

I'm on the road again

I have travelled back to the land of my fathers, where the place known as Hill Hill Hill can be found. Hill in Welsh is pen, and invaders who settled there called it Pen Hill, assuming pen to be the name of the hill. Before long, more invaders had arrived, and over time the hill in question had become Pendle. The same thing happened again, and Pendle Hill, or Hillhill Hill, can still be found in Lancashire.

I am back in these United Kingdoms until Monday and I'm really excited about the weekend ahead. Tonight my parents are making a lasagne, a treat without compare when you consider I have no access to oven facilities in my chic little studio apartment.

Before I left I finished all my work and actively sought out my supervisor to make sure she knew I was leaving - the last thing I need this weekend is a call about an urgent translation, especially as my phone is patchy at best here - and made some minor adjustments to the Student's Association's application for sponsorship to some local businesses.

We're off to a wedding tomorrow, and I've been requested to bring my camera - if I take any particularly good shots I'd love to share them here, but it means I shall have to avoid drinking myself under the table. Weddings strike me as an odd sort of affair, people being given away like presents and members of each party eying each other up in the hope of further strengthening ties between the two families - something that also apparently happens under the tables, so if I drink myself into a stupor at least I'll still have subjects.

I went into the local supermarket before I went home, as I've promised to bring my boss back some Marmite. At first she thought I said marmalade and turned her nose up; "Je n'aime pas des confitures," she said: I don't like jams. "Ah non", I said, "it's savoury, a British delicacy." So she agreed to try this spread, little suspecting that it is one of the foulest things we've ever invented. In any case, I went, I got in line, and after some light flirty banter with the cashier I made it home.

I like flirty banter, and I humbly suggest that more people do it in their day-to-day life.

I'm also going up to see an old school pal in Loughborough on Sunday, where I suspect I shall look entirely out of place amongst the über-fit and healthy students of the university. And then a swift journey back on Monday to London and then on to home and my oven-less studio apartment.

The scent of lasagne is calling me to the table, but before I leave, I ask:

Which character from the world of literature always smells like old, stinking tobacco?

The same tired old refrain (Some swearing)

PR is a fast-moving, forward-thinking industry. In my opinion it simply has to be; you cannot stand about waiting for stories to break or a friendly journalist to take a sudden interest in your story.

Politics (I thought) was similarly fast-moving and forward-thinking; indeed, there shouldn't be many people thinking further forward than politicians.

And yet today I feel like both of these opinions have been utterly squashed. The first was by a PR firm for whom I otherwise have great respect for and the second was by the Conservative party, who are apparently trying to out-shit even their own bloated caricatures.

Firstly, the PR firm. I understand the argument that is suggested, to whit: you are getting an education, and as a result, you should pay towards the cost. I disagree with this idea for a couple of reasons: first, I'm producing content. I will grudgingly accept that I ought to put some cost towards my university fees, although £9,000 (I know, technically I pay only a fifth of that, but I am speaking generally) goes a little past ridiculous and into the realm of the truly ridiculous. All three of my students today, one French and two Russian, expressed utter disbelief that we had such an insane system. Mind you, the Russians also needed convincing I was British because I was, in their words, "Too animated."

It's nice to see the stereotypes of Britain as a nation of stick-up-arse, stiff-upper-lip, what-ho-Jeevesing chaps and chappesses has absolutely not gone anywhere. In any case, the education I receive at university is entirely linear; I am taught, I produce content, but none of it is going to add to the prestige of the university - the books on which we write our essays have already been examined in minute detail, which I imagine is the point. It gives us, the students, more data on which to base our conclusions, thus ensuring our essays have at least the semblance of a well-researched piece of work.

An internship is entirely a two way street. I am still receiving an education, except this time the work I produce will go to directly padding the bottom line of the company who have interviewed me and decided that I am good enough to work for them. They have, presumably, satisfied themselves that I am not going to defecate into an envelope and mail it to their clients. They have faith, I suppose, that I am not going to take photographs of my genitals and post them to the official twitter feed. And while these are extreme examples I also hope that they understand that they are taking on someone who has no more skill or ability than a graduate in this area - and that occasionally they will need to go over my work, as they would the graduate's, because nothing will be perfect first time.

The only difference seems to be that the graduate would be paid his wage, and I would receive £100 per week as expenses. A monthly ticket to the office from my rent-free parent's house would set me back £440. The minimum wage would mean paying interns just under a thousand pounds a month, and increase of £600. That's at minimum wage.

He has a point.

So come on PR firms. Be forward-thinking and awesome like I know you are, and pay your interns what you think they're worth.

And if you really think they're worth £2.50 an hour, then I suggest you fire whoever's recruiting them.

I've nothing to say about the Conservative party, save to share this little nugget where the guy in charge of collecting tax explains how to avoid paying tax.

It should be noted that of course this is young Osbourne. He may have radically changed his ways and not done any of those cheeky things like, say, flipped his house for £400,000 of profit.

Depressing day.

Last tango in Paris

I really like making friends. I like the way we all bounce around life and our friends introduce us to friends we would never have otherwise met.

Such is the case with Paula.

Paula is from the United States and has been mentioned here before, but in brief - she is a person with an enormous personality and a continually bubbly outlook on life. Last night was her last night in Paris, and so she and I went out for dinner.

I confess that things didn't go exactly to plan - which is why I write this at 11:30 ante-meridiem, rather than post-cibum. It began with Paula turning up, as is her wont, a little late, although since this time it was a mere 40 minutes I think I should be quite thankful. We met at the Gare de l'Est, and strolled in the light drizzle that swirled about us to the restaurant, with a brief detour through a homeless kitchen.

The restaurant we went to is called Les Enfants Perdus. A google will give you their site, but unfortunately the link for the menu is currently broken. You can find it at 9 Rue de Récollets in the 10th arondissement, only about five minutes from the station.

When we arrived, the first thing we noticed was the size - it is not large. The bar is extremely small and was staffed by a tall and impressively be-whiskered man while two waiters rushed about in the French style. I believe that at French restaurant schools waiters are taught that every inch of space must be utilised, and consequently the three small rooms that made up the restaurant were thronged with people. Squeezing myself and Paula in was a struggle, but we made it. We had reserved a table, and just as well - two couples were turned away as we arrived.

We ordered very, very slowly. The service was excellent, if perhaps a little over-attentive - but only a little. I gave her a small gift, as a souvenir of Paris - I'm quite she has no others - and we finally ordered. Paula decided to be brave and ordered foie gras while I picked salmon crumbed with sesame seeds. It was served with a sort of vegetable that was utterly delicious while Paula's came with duck pâté and caramelised red onions and solid slides of toast. My salmon was absolutely delicious, the slight saltiness of the fish combining with the sesame and vegetable to make a fantastic mouthful. From the look on Paula's face, her bravery had paid off, although I had to lend a hand with the duck, of which there was a much larger portion.

We had also ordered a bottle of wine, and before the starters arrived the proprétaire, the owner, came over and - having apparently been told we were speaking English - launched into an explanation of the wine we had chosen. Thomas did not sound like your average French restaurant owner, and that's because he isn't - he's an ex-pat from Chicago. Thomas is an absolutely fantastic guy, and he explained that the wine we'd picked was still very natural. Paula and I looked at each other and placed our fate in his hands; the wines are all very reasonably priced and so we asked him to surprise us. He did not let us down, and came back with an absolutely exquisite Marsannay from 2009. If you have one, keep hold of it, because I imagine in three years it'll be even better. As it was it went incredibly well with both the starter and the main.

The main came after a wait of around thirty minutes, which suited us perfectly - neither Paula or I like to rush our food, and our meal took on a distinctly Parisian bent: before long we had covered religion, politics, touched on science, travel and were finishing our plates and moving towards the nature of free will when I noticed that the last train home left in five minutes, a third of a bottle of excellent wine still remained and the bill had yet to be paid.

What could have quickly degenerated into disaster was saved by the friend Paula was staying with, a Greek called Efi who speaks four languages and is studying law. And is astonishingly pretty, which makes no difference one way or another but merely proves that some people have all the luck. She kindly let me spend the night, although we still managed to stay up until three just talking.

We rose again at half past six, dressed quickly, Efi and Paula saying goodbye and clearly unwilling to let go - a last hug was followed by another and another. It will be interesting to see if Efi and I become friends, and would deliver us in a beautifully cyclical manner to the beginning of this piece.

The answer to yesterday's riddle was five minutes past three; the reason clockwise is the direction it is is because it is the same motion traced by a sundial in the northern hemisphere. Had the clock been invented in Australia and the same mechanism been used, clockwise would be what we think of as anti-clockwise. I do hope that made sense, I prefer to explain with the aid of gestures, but I have faith in your imaginations.

Today's riddle is: What place in England is called Hill Hill Hill?

Milestones

Milestones were once simply that: stones that marked the passing of miles. Now they are metaphorical, and they mark important moments in our lives.

This is not so grand as that, but I thought I'd mention it anyway because it's a small source of pride for me, and a little vice here and there is good for you. So I am really quite absurdly proud to say that last night my blog passed 2,000 views, which is a very small number compared to the number of people who watched Psy's record-breaking video (total as of 7pm, 8/1/13: 1,146,732,756).

On the other hand, this is a small blog about my life and despite the fact that there is a whole Internet of brilliant content out there - I know, I've seen less than 1% and it's amazing - you take the time to read about me every day. So thank you very much.

If you only come for the riddles then fair enough, they're pretty good riddles. Yesterday's asked

Why has nobody ever seen Donner?

And the answer is because Donner is German for thunder, and one cannot see sounds.

Today's question: if clocks had been invented in Australia, what time would this be?

My day today has been progressive. I've finally got my translation back with feedback, although the feedback is written in a hand that makes me long for the student evaluation forms again. He has promised a meeting in which I can berate him about his handwriting and we can finally close the book on this particular project. He's a really nice guy who laughs a lot and takes a lot of my teasing with great humour, but he gives as good as he gets.

So that project is nearly over, and it'll be something fun to add to my CV. You know, for a given value of "fun" approximately equal to 0.

I've signed up for French lessons in preparation for the TFI, the Test de Français International which will also look groovy on my CV. There will be groovy all over my CV. I may put an LP as a background to underscore how groovy it is.

I'm going to see if the QI elves can answer this question, because I'm rather chuffed with it. If you can, comment below. Answer tomorrow.

Internal memos and breakfast meetings

I got an internal memo today in the internal post. Some of my readers, including the four Russians (Zdravstvujtye, by the way, and welcome) probably get internal mail all the time. Their desks are veritable mountains of internal memos and notes. But my desk isn't. I've never had an internal memo because I've never worked anywhere big enough for there to be a need for internal post. If something needed to be widely circulated, all twenty of us would be told on-shift. Easy.

But I got an internal memo, and the subject thereof was the many holidays that are coming up. My favourite has to be Ascension, the day commemorating Jeshua-Bar-Joseph's return to Heaven. If you believe that to be true, then you may well spend the day in church, but since the French believe in committing to holidays, I am looking at a five-day weekend in May. I'm seriously excited by this prospect and so I would be indebted to you if you could recommend places in Europe to spend my days. I may even try to find somewhere with a church, because although I am not a believer, the love and care that has been put into - and continues to be lavished upon - cathedrals and their like is worth seeing.

It occurred to me suddenly that I had left a riddle without an answer over the weekend, and I can only apologise. The riddle was Black pool, and it turns out that Blackpool, England is etymologically twinned with the town of Dubhlinn or in English: Dublin, in the Republic of Ireland.

Today's question (these seem to be turning into QI questions) is as follows: Santa has 9 reindeer. But why has nobody ever seen Donner?

In brief, today I finished stamping envelopes and typing up handwritten evaluation notes. I am always surprised when anyone hopes to get useful data from named evaluations, especially when the writers are less powerful than those who will receive them. There is always a worry that the writer will be pulled over hot coals or invited for an interview without coffee, which might be worse.

My English-teaching colleague is back today, and my French-teaching colleague on Wednesday, so with any luck I might be teaching and learning again before long. A brilliant reason to teach came from my Monday student today who, incredibly sweetly, has bought me a French film as a Christmas present. It's called Bienvenue Chez les Ch'tis and is, by all accounts, the funniest French film in the history of the world. I absolutely cannot wait to watch it, but I have to get an early night, as I have a morning meeting tomorrow.

Again, I know there will be rolling of eyes as veterans of the morning meeting read this but again, I say, this is new to me. I have worked in bars for most of my career; the earliest meeting we ever had was 3pm. The prospect of coffee and croissants while discussing a project in French with a co-worker is really very exciting, and no amount of eyeball-rolling will make me think otherwise.

So: a morning meeting, an early start (which means an early finish), an opportunity to put on a recipe for pork and sweet potato stew that I got from my Aunt and a fantastic French film to watch as it cooks.

Tomorrow looks absolutely marvelous from here.

Complainte de la Butte

Lamenting is, quite frankly, what I feel like doing. The Moulin Rouge was, perhaps, once graced by dancers who enjoyed what they were doing, who got a thrill out of the nudity and the panting men who slavered over their exposed legs. There must have been a wonderful feeling of naughtiness, of things being done that are not generally done.

Now, of course, if I gave you zero money and I asked you to come back with ladies go around with no clothes on you would go immediately to the internet and find some site (I know not what) and you would come back with an awful lot of pictures. You would not have disabused me for taking photos, you would not have seated me next to a maudlin chap who looked as though he was having less fun than the girls, and the girls you brought me might well be smiling.

In short, I am deeply disappointed by the Moulin Rouge. The show was essentially a group of mediocre but perfectly proportioned dancers whose only purpose was to show off the extravagant and - admittedly - gorgeous costumes. They were, unfortunately, out of time, unsmiling, and clearly bored out of their minds by the monotony of doing three shows a day.

I am quite sure that three shows a day, every day, are enough to turn even the brightest of characters into a Scrooge of the highest order, but if you cannot muster the act of enjoying yourself, if you cannot make every show as fresh and bright as if it is the first and only time that you are doing the thing, then you are in quite the wrong place. I saw a group of beautiful but completely unsexy people; mannequins for the wonderful costumes.

I also saw why Swarovski's shops are so bereft of anything worth buying; every crystal in the entirety of France must have been sown or stuck to one of these bodies. The stairs were full of them. The stairs. 

I will say that the staff are flawless; within two minutes I saw a bouncer speak French, English, Chinese and Russian. I would love to see a bouncer back home in Aberdeen speak English and Chinese, or English and French, or even English.

In any case, it was something to see, and a thing to tick off my list. But I have to say that it is the first time that in a room containing semi-naked women and me not a person was having fun.

And quite frankly

In short, don't bother with the Moulin Rouge. It is a terrific waste of time and money.

No, it's not even terrific. It's just a waste.

Mr Hemingway, I presume!

"Mr Hemingway, I presume!" is, in fact, a quote I just made up, based on the famous quote "Dr Livingstone, I presume?" which is quite the correct way for an Englishman to greet another Englishman, even if the latter has been missing for seven years on the "Dark Continent."

In short, it appears we English are remarkably unwilling to demonstrate any emotion at all save politeness and a willingness to journey halfway across the world to ask about another chap's wellbeing.

This may explain why even though I had tickets for the Moulin Rouge tonight, on my birthday, where whispered suggestions implied that chaps who go on their birthday meet the cast for photos - although, of course, such photos could never end up here because (for a start) my mother reads it - I gave them away.

I say gave, but that's quite untrue. A very eager American couple bought them off me for twice their face value. I was not touting - the aforementioned suggestions had me clinging tightly to the tickets - but they made a compelling case on the basis that tonight was their last night in the city, and they were so keen, and they didn't realise you had to book, and before long I had agreed to let them have the tickets for face value.

Karma, who is normally the sort of lady who hangs about for quite some time before dishing out rewards, turned up with the sort of speed with which this chap clearly approached the dinner table and before I knew it he had pushed a wad of notes into my hand, babbling that since it was his last night he had no more need of it.

I was on the point of reminding him that one can find an exchange service on the corner of almost every street in the world when my companion gently took my arm and led me away. It is pleasant to have friends who lean toward the vice of avarice. For a start, it has made me a modicum wealthier. In any case, we have rebooked for tomorrow, with a half-bottle of champagne each, and I am rather excited about how exactly I'm going to get home. Meanderingly, I suspect.

Before giving - and promptly receiving - we had a drink in the Hemingway Bar. Well, sort of. The Hemingway is closed, as is the Ritz, until 2014, so we had a drink in the Vendome, which was exceedingly pleasant and eye-poppingly expensive. Have you ever seen a cartoon where the character goes from being louche and debonair to the over the top, eyes shooting out of the eye sockets and whole body in a sort of complete spasm?

I do not recommend doing that, especially not in the Bar Vendome. One must maintain the casual and debonair air, even as one wonders how much one's kidneys are worth, and if the wonderful barman would mind taking it himself. I should make it clear that the service was incredible. The waiters have perfected the art of waiting. They are essentially invisible until some desire for a top-up or an extra pastry enters the mind, and then they are there, as if they are gliding on castors or skateboards. They are the opposite of, for example, my keys, which are obstinately in the way of everything I try to do until I leave the flat; at which point they disappear completely and can only be found by muttering the prayer to the god of lost things. This is accomplished by repeatedly patting down one's pockets while muttering the name of the lost object. Extra points are awarded if you utterly empty your pockets and then pat them down again, in the vain hope that what you seek is hidden somewhere in the lining.

They never are.

Instead one finds them on the desk, or in a pocket one has already checked ten times or - only once, but memorably - in the fridge. I've no idea what they were doing there.

Probably just chilling.

I'll depart on that, but I'm happy to give the answer to yesterday's riddle and today's.

Victorious people (feminine) young goatherd.

victorious - you could have Victoria, the Roman goddess, or Nike, the Greek. You might also have picked Andraste, the Celtic equivalent, but if you had you'd be wrong, although that Celtic knowledge may come in handy with the next question. 

People - Latin populus, which doesn't appear in many names, or Greek laos. We may be getting somewhere.

Victoria-populus is not a name, but Nike-laos could be squidged a bit (and, indeed, was) to form the anglicized Nicholas. The feminine of this has several versions: Nichole, Nicola, perhaps even Nikki.

Young goatherd was a bit cheeky; it might have been easier as young goat herder. A young goat is a kid, (a word still used in English to describe a child in a casual manner) and the person who looks after them would usually be a man.

Nichole Kidman!

That was a tricky one to start off with, so let's try something easier.

The riddle is Black pool. It's a European capital.

Good luck. 

Words, words, words, I'm so sick of words

Although actually, unlike poor Eliza, I'm actually jolly keen on words and even more so on their roots. Where words come from is a source of constant fascination, and I'm really rather hoping that I can find some etymology courses when I return to university.

A small note of thanks at the top of the page to Third Year Abroad, who are the best resource on the entirety of the web if you are hoping to spend some time abroad during your degree. I discovered them far too late, and they were still brilliant. Discover them now if you've not gone anywhere yet!

With that in mind, I shall offer a cryptic clue with etymological roots. It will (hopefully) delight and perplex you, and if it does not, you can simply skip right past it. Answers will be offered the next day, and I shall mention anyone who gets the answers.

Today has been a productive day, but not enormously stimulating. We have 1,500 books to mail out, and since I am a lot cheaper than the outside company we use for the task of sticking labels and stamping envelopes, I have been sat in front of a gradually diminishing pile of envelopes all day. It's not the most exciting job in the world, but it left my mind free to wander, which is never unpleasant. It's also quite pleasant to see one's work as a physical thing; finishing today the number of envelopes I'd stamped and stuck made a pile that rose up to my shoulders, or the stomach of a normal sized man.

I also printed all of my posts out for my colleague, who tells me I'm amusing, but also said that there were some references she didn't get, some humour she couldn't quite figure out. It's quite strange to see that even in 40 years, what is "current" has made huge leaps.

It's also been a day full of planning; on my lunch breaks I discovered that an awful lot of excellent PR firms offer apprenticeship schemes for graduates. It's really exciting to line up what I want to do and to know what the process is like, and I can start researching the firms in which I want to work.

Nerdy, but with any luck there could be a job at the end.

The weekend is ahead, and I'm planning on heading into Paris, finding an excellent restaurant and eating with Orlando. Leave a comment if you know any particularly excellent restaurants, and if you don't know Paris, here's a gorgeous timelapse video to enlighten you about the City of Lights. Nota bene the twin Eiffel Towers at 2:14, which are an absolute tourist trap but well worth seeing.

Finally, my cryptic and etymological conundrum which is a star of film: Victorious people (feminine) young goatherd.

It took me twenty minutes to work that one out. I hope you're quicker.

Tampons, and other false friends

I have never needed to ask for a tampon. It is not a source of pride, nor is it something I feel has been particularly missing in my life. It's simply something that I have never had any need to do. Nor, in fact, have I ever been asked for a tampon. My rough cheeks and gentlemanly manner have apparently notified anyone who needed one that I was a tampon-free-zone.

Imagine my surprise, then, when my colleague asked me if I had le tampon. My brain promptly melted out of my ears. Did she mean un tampon? Had my gentlemanly manner deserted me? Had my smoothly shaven cheeks given her the slip?

My mind rebelled at the very thought. I recovered (manfully) and managed to ask for clarification.

"Le tampon," she repeated. She pointed in the direction of my desk, and then made a stamping motion.

This was sufficient for me to realise, in a sudden rush, that un tampon is also a stamp. Not the kind you stick to letters, but the kind with a pad of ink (which was used before we had the one you stick, explaining why we use the same word. English is essentially very lazy.)

I handed it over with relief. She gave me a very strange look.

The rest of the day passed without great incident; I finished typing up the comments from student evaluation forms - I'm getting very good at typing in French on a French keyboard but consequently have a weird five minutes when I get home and q is in a's place and some silly person has swapped the m key with the colon/semi-colon. And a full stop is now easily accessible, whilst on a French keyboard one needs to first apply the shift key. Utter mental confusion reigns.

And of course when I go in tomorrow, the opposite will happen, and I shall seethe for several minutes as I try to work out who put my w on the bottom row and why the @ symbol has been shifted to the other side of the keyboard. Occupying two brain spaces is quite difficult, but we shall overcome.

And, best of all, my private lessons restart this weekend. Really excited to see the students again. Especially because the one I help with homework got an A+ for the projects we were working on. Seriously chuffed. 95%, get in.

It's only half past six, and my mother bought me a crêpe pan for Christmas. Let's hope I don't make a total pig's ear of this...

Pig's ear, by the way, is cockney rhyming slang for beer. Likewise tiddley wink means drink. That's why in England people sometimes get a bit tiddley, meaning drunk.

People in Scotland don't get tiddley. They just get drunk.

Ghost Town

First up, housekeeping. To the right of this post, if you're reading it online, is an email sign-up box. If you'd rather get these blogs out and about, or if you're not tech-savvy enough to know about feed readers, you can put your email in there and get these posts straight to your inbox. Which is handy if you've got email set up on your phone, because it should mean you can read them as you sit on the bus or ride the Underground or snatch five minutes between hectic shifts at your job at Great Ormond Street Hospital. Gosh.

It was my first day back at work today, and I'm happy to say I really missed it. It's interesting to find that even though I've been learning this language since I was about 8, I still get really nervous speaking it around Actual French People. Or even Actual English People Who Moved Here When They Were Nineteen. It's good that I'm nervous, though, because it means I pay far more attention to my endings, agreements, and the various other bits and pieces that I tend to forget after speaking for a while. It's really, really easy to get complacent when speaking a language one has a good level in. The fact is that native speakers let you get away with an awful lot so as not to appear stand-offish or rude.

My colleagues are all lovely, and as a result I really have to urge them to pick me up on the mistakes I make. Re-reading What Every Body Is Saying by Joe Navarro is also helping a little; if you're interested in body language then I can't recommend a better first read. It's helping me to look for the signs when I make a mistake; generally it's a half-hidden smile or a small frown, depending on the size of the mistake and the social faux pas that I've made.

Faux pas is probably best translated as misstep, although in English we tend to use mistake.

In any case, the term begins again tomorrow and the students have been returning in dribs and drabs, a phrase of uncertain origin which may have roots in Irish prostitution. We've also got some new students who hail from Russia and are unsettlingly good looking. The sort of good looking that makes you seriously consider giving up your resolutions and committing death by chocolate. 85% cocoa solids, if it comes to that. I want my end to be like my life. Bitter, but somehow moreish.

That sounds morbid, but I assure you it's not.

So my tasks for the year have started to accumulate already; I have around 150 pages of raw data to turn into graphs which is fantastic because, well, give me data and Excel and tell me to make graphs and I am as happy as Larry. Larry was probably an Australian boxer who never lost a fight and took away a purse of £1,000 on his last fight - which in today's money would be about £399,000. That's enough to make anyone happy.

However, I also have to overcome the obstacle of bad French handwriting. There are two parts to this. The first part is the French; they form letters in a very different way to English writers, but it's relatively easy to overcome - one simply has to learn the pattern. So far so good.

If this oddity is combined with handwriting that would puzzle a doctor, however, there is literally nothing I can do save stare at the scribbled mess and wonder bitterly if a court would accept this as evidence that the student's death was entirely understandable. There is nothing more frustrating than bad handwriting coupled with the writer's assumption that the reader will know what they are saying. And the worst thing about this is that I know that someone dear to me will read this and laugh, because my handwriting is akin to a drunken spider with inky legs.

In any case, my challenge is set, and I'm excited by it. Huge amounts of data excite me, because they offer huge amounts of possibility. So much information can be gleaned from it.

My other challenge is equally exciting, but in quite the opposite direction - I have been asked to write a small email greetings card, and to write a poem within. One of my colleagues has made a sweet little animation, so all I need do is a tiny little four line poem. She's left the rhyming scheme and the meter up to me.

I have never been so paralysed by my lack of vocabulary. Not in all my born days. I was suddenly rendered utterly incapable of counting syllables, of matching sounds. I look into my English vocabulary and words practically fountain out. I look into my French vocabulary and it looks a little bit like the bag of letters at the end of a Scrabble game.

However; my deadline is the end of the week, and as soon as I have finished writing this I shall be cracking on with trying to rhyme oiseau (bird) with absolutely any word I can. 

While I suffer, I should be intrigued if anyone knows why heroin, a terrifically nasty and addictive drug, sounds the same as heroine, which is like a hero but more womanly. Or, if you're a comic book artist, with a breast to waist ratio that would make Barbie uneasy. If you know, comment below.

Making mistakes

Last night and today were not the pinnacle of my stay here in France. It started well; a drink with my old friend Rachael and a very long chat about everything we've done and planned to do. It's great to have a friend with whom one can pick up a conversation after years of not seeing one another. She convinced me that being in Paris meant I simply had to go out and enjoy myself.

I gave in. She is a good friend and was very insistent, so I hurried home, dumped various bags in my room, noted that I had nothing in my fridge and would need to get something the next day (more on that cunning plan later) and hurried back out. I strolled down to the station in good spirits, wandered through the open barriers - public transport was free in the capital on NYE - and was soon in the limits of Paris.

It was not until today, when I read up on French NYE traditions that I discovered that the majority of people stay in, have a large and decadent meal with friends, and go to bed in the wee small hours. The only people who go out are the people who like to celebrate in the English mode; that is, getting absolutely drunk out of one's tree and then starting fights.

I had decided to head towards the Eiffel Tower, presuming that it would be a little crowded but otherwise accessible. Both of these assumptions were wrong. Simply getting on a train required the vigorous use of elbows and the umbrella I had with me. The rest of my fellow passengers then very carefully said nothing as a group of young people lit up a couple of joints and smoked out the entire carriage.

The cheerful manner in which the French ignore regulations has been mentioned in this blog before, and in general I find it amusing and quite charming. However, when two or three of your fellow travelers ask you to desist, and when the third is actually cradling a child, then it is my opinion that you ought to - if not because it is illegal, then because you have been politely asked. Instead, there were torrents of abuse and lit joints waved. Again, small child being cradled at this time. Utterly incredible.

Getting out at Trocadero was hell for me; I am not happy in extremely enclosed spaces and I do not like the sensation of being forced along anywhere, especially when the crush is so great that breathing becomes difficult. The press of people was suffocating and the stink of other's fear was sharp, and on the faces of my neighbours I saw grim determination, I saw fear, and I saw anger as men tried to stop their wives or girlfriends being crushed.

The Champs de Mars was slightly better for being in the open air. The "light show" from the tower was not even worthy of Blackpool and it was with a heavy heart that I turned my feet towards home. The crush to get back was worse still, and fights started on carriages with barely enough room to breathe. Imagine, a babe still in its mother's arms, father and a friend trying to form a barrier around them, and fists flying not inches away. The entire journey was the most fraught, the most claustrophobic, the most awful journey by public transport I have ever had the misfortune to take.

Paris, je t'aime, but if I come back for NYE ever again I'm getting some friends together, having a massive dinner, and essentially trying to forget this ridiculous, ugly, wasted evening of my life.

Oh. And all the shops are closed today.

The moral of the story is - no matter how expensive the tickets, no matter how convincing your friends are, spend NYE with people you love. Especially when they'll make you a fry up the next day.