Doing what I love

Sometimes you just have a day. You know it's going to be a day before you even wake up. Your body tries its best to stop you waking up because it knows, it knows that when you do, it's all going to turn to crap.

This was one of those days, only worse, because my body actually kicked me out of bed before I needed to. I woke up at 6.30, freezing cold, because the heating system in my flat turns itself off at around 5. This has happened three times in three days, and for the life of me I have absolutely no idea why. Ever since I got rid of my duvet, the evil genie that apparently lives in the radiator has decided to knock off at 5am.

I couldn't get warm in bed. I couldn't get back to sleep because I was cold and apparently wide awake, so I had a shower instead and then some coffee. The luxurious pace with which I broke my fast should have told me of the heapings of crap that were soon to land on me, but no. I was lulled, like a fool, into the sense of smug self-security that envelops a chap when he thinks he is ahead of his schedule.

I arrived at work a couple of minutes early, perfumed, fresh, rascally handsome. Today was a full day, but I felt prepared to face it. I was full of nutella and home-brewed coffee. My first task was the pilot light of the deep-sea fish of a day I would shortly encounter. I had to pull up some statistics for my colleague regarding memberships: who's paying, who paid last year but hasn't yet, how many of the new graduates are ponying up the cash…it was a task that she told me I needn't rush, that would take a couple of hours. 

Imagine her surprise, and the smug look on my face - vile, isn't it - when I returned the document to her twenty minutes. It wasn't a magic trick, but it may as well have been from the look on her face - but then, an awful lot of magic is knowing something the other person doesn't know. In this case, it was knowing that all of the characteristics my colleague needed could easily be identified by "IF GREATER THAN" and "IF LESS THAN" formulae.

In any case, with this task completed ahead of schedule, I thought I could relax - but instead, a huge ginger Belgian came roaring into my life. I do mean roaring;  he has a laugh that most of the school can hear. Once his hair goes white I can see him making a pretty penny as a Santa lookalike. It was for this gentleman that I had recorded the Mind-Mapping video, and he was exceedingly happy with it.

Except one part. One little part, that would only take me ten minutes to sort out.

The man knows me. It was only a small thing, and I was confident it would take no more than twenty (he knows me, and that means he knows how to flatter me) so, with time to spare, I agreed to sort it out there and then. I set myself up in my office, sat myself down, and made sure I was handsome. I was. I am.

I started the recording. I opened my mouth.

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

A chainsaw makes a noise that, if unexpected, is one of the most terrifying in the world. I leaped out of my skin and hung to the ceiling by my fingertips, like a bloody and disgusting Spider-Man. The noise stopped. I crawled down and re-installed myself. Hair a little wild, but otherwise ready to begin again. I took a perfunctory glance out of the window. Nothing.

I started the recording.

RRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrr!!

Motherfu-

And this continued for twenty minutes. Every time I started recording my mysterious tormenter turned his or her chainsaw back on. Every time. If I ever meet the despicable animal who was doing this to me, I'm going to do absolutely nothing because they have a chainsaw. I'm not a total imbecile.

While I was slowly going mad inside the space of my own mind, I got a text - an unknown number. Unknown numbers always make me nervous, because I don't give out my number very much, but it was a woman who wanted to know if I could tutor her son. Sure, I said, when?

Tonight.

I warned her that I'd not be there until around 7.15; she told me it wouldn't be a problem. I hate such short notice, but a job is a job - and, speaking of jobs, it was time to get filming for the second video project of the day. There's a rather large announcement coming up in the next week, but due to various staff/national holidays, we've not had any time to prepare the online release, which will involve a video in Spanish. So that's how we two hours today: recording a three minute speech. How does one spend two hours recording a three minute speech?

Well, we did it by recording it a number of times and struggling with lighting issues, noise issues, and battery life issues. And pronunciation issues. And people-ignoring-signs-and-wandering-in-and-not-leaving issues, which were the absolute worst. In any case, we got it done, and for the next two-and-a-half hours Meyling, Sophie and I pieced together the takes to form a glorious, flowing draft. We had merely to add transitions, credits, and movement. Exhausted, we agreed to reconvene tomorrow at 8am to complete the project.

That completed, I took a whole half an hour to set up meeting the next day and chat to my colleague about work that I needed to take over from her while she jaunts off back to Blighty. Having added her items to my work schedule (and gained a new respect for the woman, she does a lot of work I didn't know about) it was to my French lesson, where I tried not to get irritated by the notion of the "traditional family," which at best is rose-tinted and at worst bigotry masquerading as "but we've always done this."Perhaps I was overreacting, but the one place in France where I've heard people using the phrase "traditional family" most was on the marches to deny the right to a family to homosexual couples. Perhaps I Pavlov'd myself again and I'm reacting to a slight that is unintended. All the same, I wonder how the class would feel if they had to describe the "traditional family" in the terms they reserve for non-"traditional" families: monoparental, recomposed (recomposé) and homosexual families versus "traditional" gives a linguistic bias (in my opinion) to the word we recognise and feel comfortable with."Hetero families" is as clinical a term as "recomposé," so why not use it?

As a result there was a slightly tense moment when I was asked what a family that is composed of a previously married father, a previously married mother, and kids from both previous relationships and the current is called. I said "a family." Because that's what it is. The day she has to say "I'm in a hetero relationship" rather than just "I'm in a relationship" is the day she has the right to label other people's families.

Sorry, that become something of a rant. I'll try to get back to the funny.

Mid-lesson I got a call from Sophie to say that the man at the top of her chain of command didn't like the video and that we'd redo the whole thing tomorrow, in one go. I have to say I'm a little relieved that our early morning meeting has been cancelled, but at the same time the fact that we wasted several hours in post-production was a knife to the kidneys of my soul. In any case, it was time to haul ass out to St. German to meet my new student, H, whose English is quite frustratingly good/bad. What I mean by this is that he has a solid to excellent grip on all English tenses and can use them comfortably and with ease, but then says "childrens" and "mens". Which is heartbreaking.

I finished that lesson at quarter past 8. I took a bus, and wrote most of this blog on the way. Since getting home I've replied to more emails and eaten half a kilo of ravioli, and I'm pretty okay with that.

Tomorrow promises to be just as exciting as today was. Oh - and I found out the name of the person who'll be replacing me. If it's you, and you read the blog, why not send me a message?

In the meantime, here's a sneaky picture from today's shoot. Hip height, so I apologise for the quality. 

As always, thanks for reading.

Le Havre, and what I did there. (Part 2)

We woke at about 9 and set off for a little breakfast; a small bakery that Kate had showed me yesterday does the most enormous, the most delicious brioche rolls for less than a euro. Admittedly at first the chap got my order wrong; he was too busy staring at the vision of beauty beside me to actually listen. There are disadvantages to having attractive friends.

(Well, that's not quite right; there's a disadvantage to living in a society where being attractive also means being treated like a piece of art, or a piece of meat - something to be looked at and sized up.)

Tucking in and strolling back, we met up with the last member of our little trio and headed to the hotel to pick up Mary's parents and brother. We'd told him we'd be over at 11 last night, but we rocked up to find sleepy faces all round. We should have seen the flaw in our plan last night; at 2am it would have been tricky to tell their parents anything, since they were absolutely fast asleep.

In any case, they told us they'd be ready briefly and we retired to the bar downstairs for a coffee. Before long the Scales has descended (sorry) and we set out, heading towards the beach. The weather was a little less misty than yesterday, and I managed to snap a look out towards the cape.

That's a patch of sand. It should be noted that Mr and Mrs Scale kindly didn't point out that beach here has quite a different meaning to the one it has in the US; I suspect they were expecting slightly more in the way of sand and slightly less in the way of...well, rocks. 

This is them, by the way; the very sweet (and very slightly chilly!) Scale parents:

And no, I don't know where he got the beret and yes, I am exceedingly jealous. It's a lovely beret. 

Having looked out to sea for a little while, we struggled back up the rise of rocks and to a little stall the girls had nicknamed "Victory Fries." I struggled to understand why until I tasted them; truly they are kings among chips and would be crowned victorious in any contest of taste.

However, the elder members of our little fellowship were starting to struggle in the cold, and we made for a restaurant nearby. The restaurants by the sea in Le Havre are rather unique; they are essentially collapsible. Come tourist season a lorry drops them off, they are constructed overnight and in the morning you have a fully-functional restaurant, including kitchen, floor, chairs, tables and all the other wonders one thinks of when one thinks of restaurants. This included heat, a welcome relief as we sank into chairs. It fell to Mary, Kate and I to order, which we managed with a hodge-podge of orders spoken over each other with pauses to speak to our English speaking friends. I have to commend the poor waitress; understanding only one half of a conversation being held in front of you must be frustrating in the extreme but she smiled all the way through.

Conversation was varied and the food was excellent; I had a warm goat's cheese salad and divvied up the tomatoes and olives between father and daughter. I hate tomatoes. Mary and Mary's father are rather keen on them, and as I felt a certain kinship with the pater familias I favoured him a little more. I have suffered Mary's keen wit once or twice before; to have lived with it was, I felt, deserving of an extra tomato. Mary did not feel the same. The look she shot me through her lashes would have skewered a lesser man, but I rallied and skewered her straight back. 

Kate and Mary's mother had mussels. Kate had an ingenious way of excavating the little morsels from their shells; using an empty shell as tweezers she made short work of a shell that years of evolution had crafted. The rest of the Scales stayed away from seafood and plumped for pizza instead. All was sumptuous, and when the bill came Mary's mother surprised us first by offering to pay - a great kindness - and then by revealing that she spoke French as well. The tip she left was as generous as the lady herself, and the waitress stammered thanks as we left (a little slower, unwilling to leave the heat) and made for the ice cream stall.

I had sorbet, lemon and strawberry. An unfortunate intolerance to lactose meant I was already feeling unpleasantly unwell from lunch, and so decided not to exacerbate that particular problem. The others plumped for various different flavours, all of which sounded scrumptious (including salted caramel, which I'd have never thought of by myself). Ice cream in hand, we made our way back to the hotel in which the Scale family was staying and ordered hot chocolates and coffees to round off the day. 

The rest is unexciting; I caught a train back to Paris, another to La Défense, and a bus home. Sadly at every point I was confronted with "Manif pour tout" flags, a nasty little aberration which is attempting to block a law giving gay couples rights equal to those of straight couples. I'm not going to waste another byte on these people save to say that taking your kids to a protest is stupid. Kids have absolutely no opinion on the subject, and it just makes me feel that you're trying to indoctrinate them from the cradle and that's messed up.

Enough about them. They're unpleasant and I hate unpleasantness. Instead, marvel at this picture taken inside the church at Le Havre which is square, with a circular spire that inspires someone who's spent too much time with Assassin's Creed (me) to give serious thought to climbing it. Note also the helical staircase that clings to the inside of the tower and which gave me a shiver just to look at.

So that was my weekend over. Thank you for sticking with me all the way through.

Le Havre, and what I did there. (Part 1)

My release has just been sent; you will hear no more on this subject until I know more. Promise.

And so to Le Havre. A small town on the coast which can be described simply as "grey." The beach is grey rocks under a grey sky while grey buildings stretch into the distance. But if you know me - and being a reader of this blog I like to think you do - you know that I despise simplistic descriptions.

Le Havre is filled with colour, from splashes in windows to the fragments of smooth, frosted glass that glitter on the beach. The people are colourful too; a large Algerian population means that berets jostle alongside hijabs and the market traders switch fluidly from French to Arabic. It's wonderful to listen to and realise that wherever one goes in the world, all market traders are the same: vocal, cheeky, and willing to say anything to entice you to buy. It's as though there's a global network of training schools, or a manual that's been translated worldwide.


I started the day with Kate, my uni chum, whom you saw yesterday. She is a continual fountain of giggles and happiness and so dear to me that I cannot do it justice here. She lights up every room she finds herself in, and not in an arsonist kind of way. In the way that lights do.

She was kind enough to show me all around the town. We saw the Hôtel de Ville, which translates as the Town Hall (or as near as possible) as well as various other little bits and pieces, including a couple of sculptures of birds:

Birds are a continual fascination for me, because flight still strikes me as the most beautiful and perfect way to travel, even as I grouch and growl at the fact that a trip to the US will take 9 hours. Birds have an exquisite and exclusive kind of freedom. It is to be envied by all of us who are earthbound.

We also saw the beach and took a stroll along it. Mist blanketed the sea, and from it came the call of huge ships, their deep, booming horns scattering the little yachts that flocked around the shore. One appeared suddenly from the whiteness. It was unsettling; one moment there was an unbroken wall of mist and the next a huge shape coalesced out of it. We sat a moment and then struggled up and made our way towards the town again. With aching legs we decided to take the tram. It is a thing of beauty, all sleek lines and near-silent humming. Edinburgh could learn something.

Kate and I settled for a lazy movie and we put on Les Intouchables, which has been translated into English as The Intouchables, which I feel is a lazy translation. Of course it is only me, but I would have preferred The Untouchables. Merely a letter, but for me it changes the meaning a little.

As I said yesterday, it is a wonderful film and I highly recommend it. Omar Sy in particular is fantastic; keep an eye out for him in upcoming weird-fest L'Ecume des Jours (Froth on a Daydream). Until then, however, you'll have to keep reading this. At about 5 Mary dropped by with her brother in tow and invited us back to her room for Jello shots.

I have never had Jello shots before, and if I am very lucky I will never have them again.

We headed out for a bite to eat to a Macdonald's; Peter, Mary's brother, wanted to find out if we did things differently over here - and I confess after those Texans had commented on it, I was curious too. We ate and chatted (the conclusion, by the way, was that the burgers are the same but the sauce is seriously disappointing) and then strolled gently back. Peter is a really funny guy, and it's nice that in Le Havre everything is so close.

I should mention that if you point a camera at Peter, he cannot help but pull a very strange face. I have no idea why. He is a handsome and charming man, and yet point a camera at him and he cannot help himself.

I am certain that he is already a great actor and that one day he will be a famous one too.

We got back, we went on Youtube. Kate and I shared British comedians with Mary and Peter, and in between those moments we shared stories of horrific injuries - Peter's catalogue of broken bones and torn ligaments are a story all of themselves - and before long it was 2am. I had planned on taking a train at 8pm. Having missed it by quite a margin, I spent the night in Le Havre.

And, in fact, most of the next day.

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.

Christmas Day!

I've just got home from Christmas Day celebrations with my family and tuned into new Dr Who. I'm currently writing this from underneath my bed where I am trying to recover from the shock of the revamped opening credits and score, because they are clearly the worst thing to have happened to Who since the last time it did, whenever that was.

As I recover, I shall recount my day to soothe the awfulness of it all. My day started at 8, when I awoke and padded downstairs for a coffee and a sneaky peak at the goodies Santa had left. A bag bulged promisingly, and I settled myself in front of the television. I promptly got out a book, because early morning television opens up whole new vistas of awfulness, and five minutes of Horton Hears A Who was sufficient to convince me that the Jim Carrey I grew up with and loved has finally gone the way of Candy's dog.

Before long, I was joined by my parents and finally my sisters. Nobody in my family has ever really been a morning person, and that distaste of hours that finish in -AM has clearly only grown in my absence. However, we got down to tearing open paper and tugging at sellotape with first joy, and then frustration, and finally desperation as we tried to use teeth, scissors, and at one point a tin opener to get into our gifts. No luck. My mother wraps presents as though she is not wrapping presents, but in fact binding a lesser demon. I suspect the reason nobody's seen Cthulu is because my mother sent him a gift, and he's still trying to get into it. He's persistent.

With gifts given and received - "What I got" is a game that has been played all day on Facebook, and quite frankly it's bored me to tears, so if you're interested in what I got then ask - we got dressed and made ready to head out into Christmas Day.

So that took me all of half an hour, and gave me an hour with which to amuse myself. I watched the first episode of Beauty and the Beast, which was quite frankly abysmal, and ironed shirts. I grow a little more like Jeeves and Wooster every day; I am still quite unforgivably posh, but I am mastering the art of "Indeed," "Very good," and "Of course." I am yet to fully grasp the intricacies of "Are you quite sure?"; it tends to come out more sarcastic than intended. But we live and learn.

One of the things I learnt today, for example, was that even amongst the morally bankrupt and the unrepentantly bigoted there is a spark of creativity; apparently "If it's not all white, it's not all right," which is a charming thing to say and has a masterful cadence while maintaining the repugnancy of white supremacy. I must note that the speaker controlled themselves masterfully, as they chose to speak this choice phrase before my cousin's very brown, Thai fiancée came in. It's the little touches.

I shan't bore anyone reading this with the intricacies of my family; I am quite sure there are similar pockets of your family with whom you do not speak, perhaps because of a difference of politics, of opinion on rights, or even religion. There may be some overlap, in which case, bingo! There are no prizes.

The only other thing of note is that I set a pan full of brandy on fire and poured it over a christmas cake, much to the consternation of our youngest family member, and my parents outed my dog, which I strongly oppose on ideological grounds and that it should be up to him to come out whenever he wants.

I'm back to Dr Who, where I'm pretty sure a mere 8 minutes in we've had a gay, cross-species wedded couple. I look forward to seeing how well that goes down over on BBC America. I am sure reaction will be 100% positive.

In any case, it looks good so far.

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.