Return Triumphant

Now, as some of you may be aware, last week I was shipped back to Blighty. Mercifully, in this modern world, I was excused shooting myself in the foot and even shoving two pencils up my nose and saying "Wibble."

That is not to say, however, that I managed to escape entirely unscathed. Firstly, there was the monumental hangover that dogged my very existence that day after having booked the flights. Yes, I fell victim to Wine Wallet. (Stop trying to make Fetch happen. It is not going to happen.) After an exultant evening of pub quizzing and drunk on victory (along with four gin and tonics, half a bottle of champagne and god knows how many glasses of shit white wine) I forgot myself and booked flights home. Thank god EasyJet doesn't do first class.

When the hangover had subsided, I decided to take myself in hand and rationalise the situation. So I have 2 weeks off from school - what else was I going to do? I could travel around Europe with gay abandon, backpacking and hitch-hiking whilst simultaneously maintaining a good level of personal hygiene/safety. Or not. Given my aversion to camping in my own back garden, something told me that hostel life was just not for me. 

Besides, by the time I've added up travel costs, food costs, wine costs, bribes to dodgy European policemen etc, it would actually be the more expensive option. Probably... so off I merrily trotted at 3am to Lyon St Exupery, complete with backpack. Less a nod to my other holiday options, more a sod off to EasyJet's £40 check in baggage charge. Tight bastards.

Only three people knew of my impending arrival, (quickly given the title of Operation Caledonia)the three being my sister and two of my best friends. Oxford, as anyone who has indulged in a spot of light post-crewdate dalliance knows, is a nightmare for bumping in to people whom you have absolutely no desire to see (perhaps ever.) I was therefore proud of myself for managing to make it from the Grand Cafe to Corpus, a distance of roughly 500m, without being rumbled. I then liaised with the Operation Coordinator over a good, British lunch of sausage and mash and we discussed hiding places. After much heated debate, we settled on...the bathroom. 

We waited until The Man Himself knocked on the door, I panicked, knocked over a chess set, and hid in the bathroom as planned. I then leaped dramatically from said bathroom and nearly inspired a heart attack. All very Moliere, I felt. Job done. The cat out of the bag, it was on to evening entertainment which ended with me vomiting in to a bush on Woodstock Road. And they say that your year abroad changes you.

So, back in Oxford I of course did all of the touristy things I hadn't done before and was generally productive. Oh wait, I sat, watched Peep Show and read Hello magazine (Prince George Christening Special!!). All of which I have been doing with aplomb in France.... oops. I did however manage to see my wonderful little friendlets, go to the Motherland (Camera), have many an Ahmed's, win a ticket to the JewSoc ball and not do any work. It felt like last year had never ended. I also got to surprise my Mum outside Selfridge's and make her cry on Oxford Street. An excellent trip all round.

It was brilliant seeing everyone, although I didn't see some nearly as much as desired. In my selfishness I sort of forgot about people having "lives," and "plans." Gah. It was wonderful all the same, and of course almost impossible to leave. It suddenly dawned on me that I have only been in France a month and if I already am running back home, what does that mean for the rest of my 6 months here? Time is passing slowly - I feel like I'v been here forever, which I suppose is a good thing as it indicates that I have settled in properly, but simultaneously Christmas and home seem a very long way away, despite the supermarket's best efforts to convince us otherwise.

So in order to combat these thoughts, I've been throwing myself back into la vie francaise. Yesterday I cycled all over town, picked up a picnic, and ate baguettes and cheese by the lake in the park whilst reading some Sagan. Pretentious, moi? I then made the obligatory visit to the red pandas who were, for once, actually playing ball and not sleeping. They were eating pumpkins, though sadly not in the exuberant style promised to me by YouTube.

I'm now spending my time steadfastly not spending any money as my trip to Oxford bankrupted me, I've not been paid, and my French bank account STILL ISN'T OPEN.... I've been planning lessons mainly and making wild stabs in the dark as to what French kidzz will think is a fun an interesting way of learning to tell the time. Dare I create a rap? I've gone for the old song lyrics with some blanks in. I will report back. 

I had breakfast on my balcony for I think the last time this year - it is finally getting cold! Hurrah! No more awkward attempts to remove my jacket without punching someone in the face whilst riding the metro. I also get to wear my beautiful new coat which makes me feel like a cross between Audrey Hepburn, The Queen and Serena van der Woodsen. An enviable combination indeed. 

So I bid farewell to you all. I'll keep you updated on the weather, because you can take the girl out of Britain...

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