Sometimes I am not proud of me

One of those times was today.

The BDE (student's association) organised a party last night in the Ice Bäar, a small nightclub above a Häagen Dazs ice-cream shop. Because why not. Like most bars, there was a post-work wind-down with snacks and free champage on offer after a 15€ entry fee.

First mistake of the evening was too liberally employing free market principles and increasing consumption because the commodity price was zero. Friedman would say it was completely natural, but I'm not sure I want his approval.

In any case, several - several is a word which here means somewhere between two and ten - glasses later the free bar closed and Parisian prices came in. Prices in Paris are mad. It was ten euros for a drink but, with some pretty lovely champagne tingling my belly, I threw caution to the winds and my wallet to the barman. I can't remember to whom I threw my dignity, but if anyone has it I'd appreciate it back.

The night progressed as you would expect a night in which I sunk 40 millilitres of vodka every twenty minutes for two hours to progress. It progressed incredibly well. I danced, I jumped, I got closer to my students through the shared experience of being quite drunk and at one point had my tie stolen by an interesting girl with smokey eyes. I got it back. I can't say how. I even jammed out Bohemian Rhapsody, backed by a Spaniard and two French people. Amazing.

The problem came when on the bus home. Movement is one of the hardest things to deal with in a highly intoxicated state, and I distinctly remember the bus being stopped a couple of times so that I could get off and take deep breaths. At one point I think I declared that I would walk and the bus need not wait, despite my only landmark being the arch of La Défense and the only thing I knew was that I lived about 6km away from it.

Thankfully I was escorted by wonderfully kind people and an understanding bus driver. The last twenty minutes are shrouded from my memory, but I woke up in my own bed and with all of my clothes strewn around me. I was awoken by my phone, which several minutes of searching and standing stock still while turning my head like an owl located itself in my fridge.

My fridge is almost always empty, so my phone was a nice reminder that being drunk makes me both hungry and stupid. I made it into work after lunch and wasn't needed until around four, which made me feel worse - dragging my miserably hungover, emptied self in to wallow in self-pity was pointless, since I could have wallowed at home and I could have done it in a fleecy dressing gown rather than jeans.

Still, having got rid of it by 4.30 and taught a student, I feel today has concluded on a higher point than that with which it opened. I'm going to drink some soup, eat a little bread, and sleep the remainder off.

P.S There's a photo of me from that night that demonstrates quite what a hideous mess I was. You may not see it. Ever.

So far so good.

End of the world, blah blah blah.

The most boring of boring non-stories is the apocalypse-themed ones that the media keep foisting on us. For reasons utterly unknowable to me, several hundred people have gathered in a small village in the south of France because that region is going to be safe. Bugarach, in the foothills of the Pyrenees, has (or rather, had) 176 residents, no pollution, and lovely orchids. It is now ground zero for crazy people and journalists.

I don't understand.

All the same, it gives a little credence to my theory that stories are far, far more appealing than science. That just means that those in science need to find interesting stories to express their scientific truths, because scientific truths are generally quite boring. This is a great shame - I love science, but it doesn't make for good stories. There are very rarely resolutions, which is why one should be very suspicious of any story in a certain newspaper that says "so-and-so can cure cancer, says Science."

Not that I'm thinking of any Daily Mail particular newspaper. 

Anyway, I should be talking about my year abroad. Today has been a very slow day; I looked over an application for sponsorship that some students had put together and was blown away by the level of English (good) and the level of informality (bad). I've noticed that students here have taken to informal conversation like a cliché to water; and although that means that conversation flows beautifully it also means that they write to banks and companies saying "sponsorship is now up for grabs!"

Perhaps I'm being a bit strict, but one doesn't write to a bank manager talking about things being up for grabs. Or perhaps one does; perhaps the end of the world has come and all that's changed is the death of English. I hope not. Zombies I can deal with, meteors, explosions, viral elephantitis, but please let's keep speaking good English. In any case, I've been added to the committee that's trying to organise sponsorship, and that will be an exciting project to start next year.

I packed everything last night; I will be wearing only suits or joggers at home. Joggers for dog jogging - I cannot wait to see my dog again, though I'm sure he's gotten awfully chubby - and suits for literally everything else. Packing was made a mite difficult by the way half of the available space was filled with champagne. I'm in France, as if I wasn't going to bring back a lot of champagne. Three bottles of rosé champagne and three bottles of brut. Over 9 days. This will be exciting. 

In any case, this time tomorrow I shall be back in England with a bag packed with dress shirts and champagne, blinking owlishly in the British sunshine. I can't wait.

You know you're in trouble when your nose runs and your feet smell

I am leaking brain lubricant.

Exactly like that, but on a sort of continuous flow. Quite vile. On the other hand, my voice has dropped a good octave and has turned into a 20-a-day, sexy, roguish sort of tone. Clouds and their silver linings. Aches are gone, cough is almost gone. Just a little hoarse now. And, as previously stated, leaky.

I have started packing, a phrase which here means "I've thrown everything in a suitcase and sat on it. It hasn't helped that I ordered six bottles of rather good champagne and then completely forgot about it until it got delivered today, although it was rather a delicious surprise. I'm just not sure how I'm going to get them back home. I certainly don't plan on drinking them all in one go.

I say, I've just had a thought. I was talking about champagne only yesterday. How peculiar. It seems that my subconscious has a better memory than I do. I hope it remembers my pin code, because I certainly don't.

A minor detail, though. I shall shortly get back on with packing - any recommendations on how exactly to fit six bottles into my relatively small suitcase would be most welcome - and then perhaps do something with the meager ingredients left in my fridge and cupboards. I was invited to dinner, but considering my distinct lack of voice I suspect I would be poor company. And I can't stand being poor company, it's a terrible thing to inflict on one's friends.

My sister has cooked a gigantic meal for her friends - and gigantic here is not an overstatement; look at the size of the animal that she's essentially clothed in bacon :

That is, to me, what little pigs want to be when they're grown up. She also made the crackers you can see there herself and is probably going to work shortly afterwards. 

My sister is clearly some sort of meta-human from a parallel dimension. I mean that's ridiculous. To have an entire Christmas lunch ready and then go to work? I could barely move after that much food. My entire plan for Christmas Day is get up - install myself in a chair - eat until I can be rolled around like a beach ball. At some point I might go and play darts with the other chaps in my family, because that's what we chaps do, but just...

Massive kudos to my sister.

I have about two hours of work to do tomorrow, and then I'm essentially free. Hopefully nothing more will be sprung on me, but I doubt it - colleagues are leaving left and right, all eagerly heading to their homes and their families. I can't wait to make that journey.

I just need to work out how to fit the champers in.

Postscript - I acquired some tickets to Disney for some friends and they came with free infant tickets. If you have an under-17 brother/sister/niece/nephew/cousin you'd like to take, then I should be happy to dole out the tickets. Worms, birds, you know the drill.

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.