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.

Boxing Day!

There are a lot of ideas about the roots of the name of this festival. In the Roman Catholic calendar, it is the feast of St Stephen - that day when King Wenceslas (the Good) first looked out. In my house, it is the day when out family descends, en masse, to our humble abode. It is an absolutely joyful day of drink, family, and gay dogs.

Other people's Christmases may vary, but this year my boxing day was merely the backdrop to an absolutely beautiful canine retelling of Brokeback Mountain. Brokebark Mountain? Perhaps. In any event, it seems that the Jack Russel that my cousin brought down has been forced to face the side within him that was always desperate to come out (of the closet) and it turns out that Ozzy, this dog, is a terrific flirt. Every time my dog seemed not to be paying attention to him, there he was, and the minute my dog paid him attention he bounced away. Adorable.

What else? A new wallet from an aunt which will house my French cards and cash and looks terribly smart, a second meeting with my cousin's fiancée (who seems unsure over who has been invited, which has made me a trifle nervous about who exactly is organising this wedding) and an introduction to a possible wedding photographer - her name is Helen England, and she's fantastic, her website is over here.

The day didn't start well. Ozzy was still fighting his inner gay, and tried to attack my poor dog. I should explain, at this point, that my dog is the Sir Ian McKellan of dogs. Gay, but also fantastically sweet and full of energy, despite his age. He brushed off the more aggressive dog, and then apparently gently brought him out over the course of the evening.

I seem to be focussing a little too much on the gay dogs, but almost every blog on the interweb will be going on about Christmas and the dangers of drinking too much, saying rude things to your nan and the other things that happen at Christmas. I feel this makes my blog slightly more unique. Jonathan Kerr, bringing gay dogs to the Internet since 2012.

A dubious claim to fame at best.

I've got some cash from relatives too, which is really interesting, because I pretty much live in France now. Sterling is essentially pecunia non gratis in France, but not to worry - I can pop it in a jolly old bank account and accrue masses of interest. This time next year, Rodney, we'll be millionaires.

So we're about to retire for port and cheese; everything that passes my lips for the next couple of hours will have been matured for between 3 months and 25 years.

Chin chin.

I should note, as a post script, that I have a wonderful family. Especially my cousin Agnetha, who I love the most.

Unless another cousin of mine is reading, and then obviously I love them the most.