Tops and bottoms. There you are.

We’re heading into the end of the year, and I thought I’d present my thoughts on a couple of adverts that have caught my eye this year. As it happens, a lot of adverts catch my eyes, but these two caught me in a particularly strong manner.

I’m going to start with the bad. I hope, by now, that everyone has seen this ad. If you haven’t, you probably should, because until you see it no words of mine will convince you of the depths of its ridiculous, nonsensical, over-the-top idiocy.

I’m talking about Brad Pitt and Chanel Nº 5.

Here is the man himself.

The thing is, it’s an incredibly bold move that really could have gone either way. A man promoting women’s perfume is actually a pretty big step. The vast majority of all perfume is sold (I want to say hawked, but that seems so crude) by the gender it’s aimed at; the underlying message always “Buy this, and you can be like me” - a message taken to its ultimate extreme by the Old Spice ads, which were another favourite of this year.

But by and large, men’s toiletries are sold by men to men, and women’s to women by women. But here’s a man selling women’s to women. (I hope you’re keeping up; there may be a test at the end.) This is such a big move that it could have been an absolute triumph. I absolutely believe that. Brad Pitt speaking with moody lighting should be a dream mix, and that “should” is probably why he scored $7million for the advert.
I believe the error came when whoever was hired by Chanel (this advert was done in-house, unlike my top ad) to write the script sat down, read Éluard’s works from cover to cover and then believed he was as good. I would say he was not.
The advert has since spawned paraody after parody, and the elegance Chanel once hoped for may have been shrouded by, among other things, a very cute little hamster. And it's probably not been helped by the fact that Pitt himself once stared in a film where his
character railed against the advertising industry. If you need to ask who that character was
then I can't tell you, because of the first and second rules.
Thing is, that script was brilliantly powerful - "Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don't need."
That's the kind of scriptwriter Chanel needed.

Instead? Less Brad Pitt and more Brad Pittiful. (I wish I could claim that joke as my own, but it’s from the excellent Tim Minchin and his song about love and statistics, If I Didn’t Have You)

So what’s the best? The best ad of the year? There’s no doubt that John Lewis’ offering this year is spectacular, and they continue to win that contest. Tesco’s W + K powered offerings are good, but they show real life - and nobody wants real life at Christmas. Look at John Lewis’ advert from last year; they showed us a premise that was completely familiar: a child desperately waiting for Christmas. We assumed that this was because, like all children we know (and, were we honest, we once were) it was impatient to open its presents at the crack of dawn.
And then, of course, they pulled that rug from under our feet and revealed that it was because the child was so excited about giving a gift to his parents. Hearts broke across the nation; tears ran down the wrinkled face of even the most Scroogey of Scrooges.
That’s not real life, but it’s so close to it that we can almost taste it. We want it so desperately that our hearts yearn for it when we are presented with it. And that’s why Tesco’s ads, though fun and true, aren’t ever going to beat that John Lewis ad - and it’s why even John Lewis will never be able to top it. They’ve played that card, and can never go there again.

My top ad really is real life. It’s the greatest ad of the year, and I would be willing to argue the decade, because it takes a struggle we all deal with but suspect we are alone in. It showed us, beautifully, exceptionally, that our mums are the most important people in the world. They’re not professional coaches or famous people that we’ll meet but they are still the most important, the single greatest person in our lives.

Just a warning - if this doesn’t jerk a couple of tears out of you, then be aware that you could be a robot. If you suspect you are a robot, please do talk to someone.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m crying at the end of that. It’s incredibly moving, with inspiring music, swift movement from place to place, and trials interspersed with victory. Everyone wins, and the fierce joy and pride on every mother’s face is immediate and striking to anyone. We’ve watched these kids grow up in a two minute advert, and we’ve seen the the way that it was Mum who started it off, who gave that gentle push to get up, who held our hand all the way and who shared our despair and our joy.
I don’t think this advert will make anyone buy more P&G products; they own almost everything already and at the end of the day, this wasn’t really an advert about P&G. There’s barely a single reference to the company, a trend that was started by the brilliant Cadbury’s ad featuring that gorilla.

This was an advert that suggested that P&G knew what it was to be a mother and a parent; to feel the love that is so all-encompassing that just to touch it, as we do in this advert, brings tears to the eyes. It is an absolute triumph of an advert, and I suspect it will be talked of for many, many years to come.

Winter is coming. Look busy.

A soirée last night and a housewarming tonight; life is hard but someone has to live it. The champagne flowed like the conversation; it was French and everyone was holding one. Including me, which stunned me most of all. Hosting was enormous fun; I can see why my sister is into it. Introducing people, circulating, sipping bubbly and talking about n’importe quoi, which I wish had an English translation. It’s sort of everything and nothing. I hope somebody who speaks French can enlighten me if there is, in fact, an actual translation.

Of course this morning was something of a comedown; no hangover, but a return to the office. To a certain extent it’s because I want to wear a tux every day, and when you look like I do in a tux :

You’ll understand why I’m keen to break it out more often. But such is life; unless I become a jazz singer (unlikely), the next James Bond (more unlikely), or a penguin photographer (actually...) I shall not wear it very often. Goodnight sweet prince. Back to the armoire you go.

You’ll notice I said armoire there and not wardrobe. That’s because I momentarily forgot that the word wardrobe existed. I don’t know if this is a good sign or not; I fear that when I come back I shall cut an odd figure, wandering round my house and shouting

“What do you call this? A placard?”

“Describe it.”

“It’s got cups in it.”

“That’s a cupboard.”

“Oh. So what do you call...”

And so on ad nauseam. I actually suspect this may be symptomatic of something more serious; I managed to buy some chocolate biscuits from a vending machine and then walk away with my change but without the calorific goodness. Honestly. I’ve started to lose it completely.

I’m still trying to work out a topic for my year abroad paper; it has to be ethnocentric - some difference or similarity between the UK and France. I wanted to do it on linguistic markers used in lying speech, but that’s getting more and more complex - and since I’ve just posted it, I’m not even sure if I can still use it. If you have any ideas, do let me know, because I’m currently scraping the very bottom of the barrel.

One final thought as I go - I’m looking for an internship and a flat for next year. Finding either is proving immensely difficult, so if you know of anything going in either field, do please let me know.

I will show appreciation in all sorts of exciting ways.

Tomorrow is Champs d’Elysee and the Christmas Markets, so be ready for a veritable avalanche of photographs. I will also be going to Cartier to laugh in their faces.

Although at this rate I’ll buy something and then leave it in the shop.

Tel' an re

The long day is going to be tomorrow. Today felt pretty darn long though, and it’s likely that I shall not get a chance to write a blog at all tomorrow, so that’s annoying. Today started off a little disappointing, if I’m honest; I applied for an internship at Wieden + Kennedy and the acceptance email would have come this morning - as I’m sure you’ve gleaned from the tone of this piece, it did not. It’s frustrating, but these things come up a lot. It just means I have a new target to aim for next year.

Several of my students took their TOEIC today, feeling a mix of happiness, nervousness, and a little sadness that they won’t be coming to lessons any more. Unless I’ve been a really bad teacher and they failed, but in that case, I doubt they’d come back to my class anyway. I’ve really enjoyed teaching them, and it’s really helped me get to grips with what I need to be as a teacher. All of those thoughts may well be obsolete by the time I start teaching, but for the moment, I have some ideas and the opportunity to develop them is fantastic.

The midweek pint approaches with my friend Macdaleine, a name which is impossible to pronounce the same way twice. It’s an English-speaking gathering, which is a shame as I’d really love to try out more conversational French, but a pint is a pint.

Except here, where it’s 68ml short.

But it matters not. There is going to be much shopping this weekend, many markets and friends and probably presents. There’s still no snow here, though, so depending on your opinion of snow you may be gloating or desperately jealous. Probably the latter, if Network Rail ruined your journey again this morning. I suspect they did.

Finally I’d really like to draw this to your attention, it’s incredibly nerdy but such a clever piece of marketing that I think it’s worthy of sharing. Besides, if I know my audience, it’s secretly a little bit nerdy. A weather report in Elvish. Epic.

Wherein a Narrative Law kicks our Hero in the genitals

Tuesday is the worst day of the week. I know I’m flying in the face of received knowledge here on the Internet, but bear with me. The title of this post will become clearer, too, as you move to the conclusion of this piece.
Mondays are excellent. I like Mondays. You’re chilled and relaxed from the weekend; you’ve got exciting projects lined up and you feel like you can take on the world. You got up early, had plenty of time for breakfast, and a run, and your shower was hot.
Wednesdays are the midweek point; the hard slog is over and the end is in sight. In fact, you say as you work through the boring minutiae of your day, you’ve already had lunch and that means the day is half done, so now you’re just past the halfway, and it’s all downhill from here.
Thursday is the starter to the main course that is your weekend, enough to summon saliva to your lips as you contemplate the decadence with which you will spend your free time (or, indeed, the IKEA furniture that you’ve not had a chance to put together yet).
And finally Friday, the way you shiver in antici-

-pation, and watch the clock, and probably bum off a little bit early. And then enjoy yourself all weekend.

Tuesday, on the other hand, is the worst day of the week. The buzz has worn off, the projects that you were hoping would be exciting are, in fact, the same boring projects you do day in, day out, and the rest of the week stretches out in front of you, as limp and dull and insipid as the off-white walls in your cubicle cell.

That having been said, I had a pretty good Tuesday. I finally finished a translation work that’s been hanging over my head for too long, I finalised details for the upcoming dinner, I played Scrabble with my students and found a chess partner, and my brother is doing me a huge favour out of the goodness of his heart.

Here’s a picture of him kindly not looking handsome so that I look better. First and only time in our lives.

Since then he’s found a lovely girlfriend, a seriously decent job, and gained several inches in height on me. And a better dress sense. And he’s in Hong Kong.

Bastard.

On the other hand, there’s a chilli bubbling away behind me, rice gently cooking, I have money and warmth and I’m teaching a language I love in one of the most beautiful places in the world.

So looks like Tuesdays aren’t all bad.

And now the meaning behind the title of this piece becomes clear, because having written that, I added a little pinch of spice, checked my rice, turned around and found that my laptop had crashed and lost every word that I had typed. I have just retyped this blog post, and in doing so forgot the rice and over-spiced the chilli. By over-spiced I mean my eyes are boiling in their sockets from the fumes wafting around my flat. This the narrative rule that states that when a Hero's life appears to be defying all the odds and going well when by all rights it should be going badly, it is just about to go hideously.

Alternatively known as a Hope Spot, for you trope-spotters.

So I take it back. Tuesday can get stuffed.

Talking about my generation

Brilliantly, hilariously stressful day today, with phone going off left right and centre. It started badly, which should have been evident to anyone who read my optimistic post about getting up early every day being good for you. There is absolutely no way Fortune, that arrant whore, would let me get away with something like that. I woke up late, found every other mother’s son (and daughter) had used every drop of hot water, scrubbed myself in cold water and ran to my office.

Let me be clear here for a second. While I run every evening, and I try to keep my stamina up, and I watch what I eat, I do not enjoy running in the slightest. It makes one sweaty, it makes a mess of one’s hair, and if there is ice on the ground then you will hit it and you will have that sphincter-tightening moment when you totally lose control of your own limbs.

And that is not cool, and since I am not a cool guy, I take every effort to fool everyone in the world that I am a cool guy. And flailing like a scarecrow whose arms are attached by rubber bands is not what cool guys do.

So after the judges awarded their scores (turns out I’m not going to the Winter Games) my day proper began. Last minute guests are turning up for the dinner – I previously mentioned how the French view deadlines – and, simultaneously, the event organiser at the Palais du Luxembourg is asking for final numbers. My abilities, while magnificent and impressive, do not stretch to telling the future, and so there have been an awful lot of very terse conversations in French. As it happens, these are very much like terse conversations in English, only with slightly shorter pauses and foreign words.

My oral class this evening put together a song by Tom Lehrer, and I encouraged them to sing it. This, despite being almost the same age as these students and knowing full-well the acute onset of embarrassment that comes with being asked to sing at all, let alone a verse with no rhythm markers in a language that is not one’s own. I still had them singing it, because once one gets over the primary hurdle of embarrassment together, everyone feels more at ease. I am the walrus, and I weigh two tons.

Finally, my evening lesson. A student who has made huge progress in the past 8 weeks but still insists on focussing on her faults and errors. It’s agonising to watch her agonise over them, but we looked over the notes and I tried to show her how far she’s come. I think the volume alone may have convinced her; 18 sides on out first lesson compared to the five we made today (and most of that taken up with an amusing tangent on the evolution of Asian languages).

I confess, I’m still stunned every single time a French person pulls out a chequebook to pay for things in the supermarket. I would love to know what the draw is; I’m pretty sure nobody of my generation could write a cheque because there’s simply no need. We use chip and PIN. Not PIN number, which was an interesting discussion from today – PIN stands for Personal Identification Number, so PIN number is redundant. Like ATM machine. I learnt that from a student, which I thought was pretty brilliant. I know, I’m learning from them, they’re learning from me.

Last thought. Play Scrabble in English with a French set. Weighted enormously in our favour. Just a quick heads up.

Where our hero does normal Sunday things, and frets that they're not exciting enough to be blogged about

            Weekends have been a little weird for me since I arrived, because I agreed early on to tutor in the mornings on both Saturday and Sunday. You’ve already met my student and we’ve already spoken of him, little more needs to be said of him for today save that his animated Vesuvius is off-the-charts cool and rather blows my experiments with baking soda and vinegar out of the water.

            But aside from that journey – and I have to say, for all the protests of my body and despite the local gravitational field that exists over my bed and is four times stronger than gravity has any right to be, it is a fantastic stroll – I have been preoccupied with very little of anything at the moment. I’m sinking money into Amazon’s coffers at a quite incredible rate, and seem to be on a bit of a reluctant hero/magic theme, so well done to Amazon for spotting that and offering me more of my drug of choice. Honestly, if Amazon ever get into drugs, we’re all doomed.

           

“We saw you liked coffee, and thought you might like to try cocaine.”

“Why thank you Amazon. Say, this cocaine is brilligjsdkjhghhghhhhhh”

Today’s lesson dealt with prepositions and conjunctions, singularly unexciting particles of English but necessary. His teacher – or rather, whoever is setting his course as it is an online school – is an unbearable idiot, as evidenced by glaring errors of typography which I feel an English teacher ought to be able to spot. I’m terribly negative about it, but since it’s an online school it’s not as though the mistake has only been spotted once the textbook has been printed. It’s a webpage. Thirty seconds to fix. Surely.

Regardless. The boring work having been completed, we started in on the rather more exciting topic he has chosen for his descriptive essay. We talked about feelings and descriptions, how to communicate them, the difference between choppy sentences:

I raised my head. Something zipped past my left ear. I screamed. Dropped. My ear was on fire. Someone was shouting something. A face, close to mine.

And long sentences

I woke suddenly, the noonday sun slipping through the curtains and warming my face. The bed seemed unfamiliar but comfortable, and I lie back, idly wondering what the sound of running water meant for my immediate future. As though its occupant had heard my thought, the water stopped, and a door ahead of me opened wide, billowing with steam, the mouth to a fragrant and very pleasantly occupied Hell…

And so on. We practised them, and then I let him loose on his writing while I filled in an evaluation form. It bears striking resemblance to mine at his age, and although I know I keep saying it, it is mildly unsettling.

A genteel stroll back – though I almost lost my balance coming down a hill I’d negotiated with ease two hours earlier – meant a total of 6 miles strolled in a day. I could get used to having that sort of time to meander and amble, and listen to music. I should love to have The Lord of the Rings extended soundtrack, but it is unfortunately around £40 a go and unavailable on MP3 download, which to my mind is a frustratingly obvious way of extorting money from poor suckers like me. It’ll probably work, too; I’ve had Lord of the Rings on at work purely for the soundtrack because it’s fantastic. The extended issue DVDs might also go down a treat, just as soon as I get a huge television and some dolby surround sound. Because I'm kind of geeky like that.

This is next year, when I move back of course. I may also get a cat. A lot of my students have cats, and I find I rather like them. They affect disdain and yet are always there when one looks round. I still think their bottoms look like tea-towel holders, but such is life. One cannot have everything. I shall simply have to resist the desire to fill my cat with tea-towel.

Thus if you happen to be in Aberdeen and reading this, do let me know if you know of any nice little one-bed flats going in the area. I know I'm thinking about 9 months in advance, but I'd rather have it done. Let me know.

The Night of Kings. Epiphany yet?

It’s going to be a swift one this evening as I’ve only just got back from watching an absolutely incredible piece of theatre and I am soaked through. I look rakishly handsome, a swarthy and dwarfish Hugh Grant if you like, but I said I’d blog every day, and I’m going to stick to that.

But as I said, short one, teaching again at ten tomorrow a mile down the road.

That being said, Twelfth Night by the Propeller Company was an absolute triumph, and comprehension of the lines delivered beautifully by the ensemble can only have been improved by

1. The fantastic lighting, “chorus” who were clearly Hellenically inspired, and costumes that were perfection and
2. The fact that there was a whole load of cross-dressing and a huge playing-up of anything lewder than “Good day!”

It was subtitled in French, and I don’t doubt that aided, but the cast were absolutely marvellous, every single one. Joseph Chance and Dan Wheeler as the twins were wonderful, John Dougall as Aguecheek was the very epitome of ridiculous, overblown pomposity and Gary Shelford, balancing six foot of manhood on some startling heels (and at one point on point in tap shoes) as Maria, absolutely stole every scene he was in.

Physical comedy almost precisely as the Bard would have wanted it, I suspect. They are absolutely brilliant, I cannot recommend them enough, and if you don’t click on this link and find out when they’re playing next then you and I shall fall out.

The only other thing I did today was tutor a young man who has some natural aptitude in mathematics, which he still insists on calling “math” (hideous boy) but has an incredible and startling talent for animation. For example: we are working on a presentation on volcanoes.

When I was young, this meant spending hours playing with fonts and colours and the animations, agonising over “fly from top-right” and “fly from bottom-left.”

He’s created a freaking simulation of Mount Vesuvius erupting.

And he plays tennis professionally.

It cannot be healthy to be this jealous of anyone.

It’s also very bizarre to be teaching someone who reminds me so much of myself, especially in Mathematics, where he races through questions at a thousand miles an hour and inevitably gets it wrong because of some detail he hasn’t noticed because of the aforementioned vitesse.

To a certain extent I’m still that guy, but man. Now I can see why my teachers/mother got so frustrated. Seeing that he can do it and knowing he’s making errors because he’s rushing is seriously, seriously frustrating.

I hate realising I wasn’t perfect.

Still. At least I am now. Right?

The Holistic Approach to Retail (or how I got suckered by the cool kids)

Alright, so this is a little bit of a cop out. I hold my hands up to that from the outset. Even though this is a Year Abroad blog, it’s also my blog, and I’m going to write about things that interest me. In deference to regular readers, this does have a slightly French slant.

This topic has come to me when I started looking at the top brands, and how they try to get you to buy things. That topic began when I saw Cartier’s latest advert on Youtube, and promptly vomited on my lap because of its pretentious tittery. Mind you, then I told you about it, and even linked to it so maybe I’m just playing you all for fools.

Thing is, a certain person in my life implied that my life would become immeasurably better in several interesting ways were something bought from this company to end up in the aforementioned person’s stocking. Christmas stocking, presumably, since nobody much likes something spiky and cold in their socks, even if it is a ring from Cartier. Maybe they do. Diff’rent strokes, etc.

And so - out of a sort of morbid curiosity, to see how far my bank balance would recoil upon presentation of Cartier’s prices, I perused their site. It’s a nice site, as it should be, with slidey bits and smooth movement and prices clearly shown. Until you get to the upper end. At that point, there’s just a link that says “For more information” and then underneath, as if it dare not even sully the shiny baubles with the word, is (Price).
I’m genuinely not sure now what the difference is between high-class escorts and diamond rings from Cartier, except in one I’m paying someone else to screw me before I get -

well.

You see where that’s going.

In any case, I clicked the link, filled in the details, and got an email very swiftly. I opened it, assuming it would be a price that was so laughably high that I could write a lovely blog mocking the house of Cartier and their vile markup on otherwise common and boring carbon.

Instead, the cheeky chaps at Cartier sent me an email assuring me that somebody from their sales team was going to email me soon, and they appreciated my custom.

And now, suddenly, I’m back at school asking the cool kids to play with me. No, in fact, it’s worse that that. I’ve submitted an essay to a teacher whose approval I am desperately seeking. I really, really want to be accepted. I’ve started freaking out a little - are they running credit checks? Is there a sneering jeweller somewhere in Paris looking at my little bank account and laughing at its pitiful nature?

I mean I don’t care, I’m like totally cool. Whatever man. I don’t even want to buy one of those silly rings, despite the delights deliciously depicted and dictated to me. I’m not even bothered.

Yea, and denial is just a river in Egypt.

The point I’m making, in a very roundabout and unpointy manner, is that by the simple action of letting me know that my custom is not the most important thing to me, they’ve actually made me want their damn silly baubles more. As it happens I’ve just got their quote through, and as previously imagined it is so unbelievably, laughably high that if it represents three month’s salary for any man then I need to find that man, and marry him first. Because now I simply must have one of these silly, silly baubles. They’re precious. And we wants it.

The sum they asked for, by the way, was “a partir de (starting at) €26 000.”

That's approximately £21,000.

I don’t even love myself that much.

Pip pip, how'd you do, a pint of beer please old chap

Long day today, really long, and even though it’s Thursday - and therefore for normal people almost the weekend - I’m going to be dragging myself from my bed to teach Maths (which the dear student calls Math, coming from the colonies as he does) and a little English at 10am. On the other hand, it’s a beautiful walk, and Autumn (Fall, as we used to say, and as a result our cousins from across the water have stuck with it) is well settled into the little town in which I live. About 45-55 minutes, but it’s gorgeous, and I’m going to take some music. If you have any suggestions drop them in the wee box down there. Classical preferred.
Work is getting fairly tense; we are, as my colleague explained to me, under pressure - sous pression - but apparently David Bowie impressions are not a suitable response to that phrase. Even with the high warbly bits that require elastic bands. Such is the nature of genius; it is never recognised in time. I’m obviously not saying I’m a genius. I want to make that clear, that
I’m not saying I’m a genius. I am not saying

I’m a genius.

In the meantime, under pressure in the office as our annual dinner rolls closer and apparently it is typically French for invitees to understand “Please respond to this invitation with a cheque for some money before very reasonable date” as “Please, take as long as you want to send back this invitation, with or without the cheque, because we’re all friends here and as long as we get some money from you before the end of the financial year all is sauce au jus de viande.”

In the afternoons students who’ve done no preparation for an exam they knew about at the beginning of the year are suddenly realising that they’ve not done any preparation. Although I would love to tell you that this sentiment is unknown to me, it would be a lie. I wasn’t a great student when I was a young man, and the look of nervous fear and apprehension was sadly familiar to me. And as a result I have to be firm but nice to the wee ones. And cackle inwardly, because this time it’s not me in trouble. And that feeling is brilliant.

In the evening - oh yes, it never ends - I taught a fantastic oral class, which was sparsely populated this week due to various events and internships which have stolen my students - so we explored oddities of English, including where taurine comes from, the feeling one gets from running one’s fingers down a blackboard (haptodysphoria, by the way, because I know you wanted to know) and the revelation that there are neither bikinis nor rivers in Saudi Arabia. I also taught students British slang, because they are going to London soon and, being engineers, they’re already lacking in social skills. Bless them. They’re going to get slaughtered/robbed.

If you’re in London in January next year, and you see lost looking French/Indonesian/Chinese/Columbian students, please look after them. You must not rob them.

So: give me exciting new words for my students, either slang or wonderfully complex.

The necessary first post about Paris and tardiness.

I'm three months into my year abroad, over a quarter of the way through. I figured at this point I should probably start writing things down, because 

1. I am a linguistic Midas, and every word I type is golden.
2. The above is absolutely not true, but I’d quite like to think it is, and the only way to get to that point is by practise.
3. Also, some people I’ve met here may want to read about my experiences.

So a brief rundown to start with - I’m working in two distinctly different areas; teaching and office assisting. In the former, I work with a permanent member of staff to teach English; she has kindly given me the higher groups and, since I’m at a post-graduate school, all of these students have a fairly high level of English already. I teach three conversation classes - although teach is really too professional a word for what happens, which is mostly debate and games - and one TOEIC preparation class.

The TOEIC is a Test Of English for International Communication, and is apparently highly regarded here. I am English, and can confess that even though I am studying French, I had not heard of its French equivalent until a month ago. This, for me, demonstrates the vast gulf between European attitudes to language and the British attitude to the same. However; a problem, once recognised, can be overcome, and I plan to take the equivalent test of French next year as a sort of triumphant, nerdy climax to my year. My assault on Barad-Dûr, if you will, only with more preparation and, unfortunately, less Ian McKellen.

I’m staying in Rueil-Malmaison, and as well as letting me live in a cosy studio rent-free, I also draw a very comfortable wage. Rueil - as we locals call it - is about twenty minutes from La Défense by the excellent bus service, and from there the Arche de la Défense serves as a gateway to the La Ville Lumière; The City of Lights.

See also: the city of rude people, expensive everything, sheer madness on scooters, casual and vile misogyny, theft, and achingly cool and fashionable people by the truckload. If trucks were achingly cool. They certainly give off enough smoke. I’ve used achingly, by the by, because that’s the sensation it gives me as I see them. They are effortlessly cool. Parisians - on the whole - put so little effort into being so chic, so everything-I-wish-I-could-carry-off-but-can’t, that it makes me irrationally jealous and a little achy.

I’m sure you’ve had the same experience, whether it was for a state of mind - seeing old, still-happy couples - a thing, like a suit or a dress, a piece of jewellery or that person for whom you still hold a flame. That sentiment occurs to me when I see a Parisian smoking and lounging, or multiple Parisians smoking and drinking little coffees and speaking so quickly. I hope that other nationalities coming to the UK have that sentiment, but somehow I doubt it. Maybe I’m wrong. If I’m wrong, do say.

So in conclusion: Paris is expensive, over-hyped, full of rudeness and death-by-Vespa. And I am very seriously considering living here forever.