We Need to (S)talk About Kévin

Après nous, le déluge, amirite? Having spent far too long in bed this week, I have taken my time trawling through various pictures of flood porn. Everyone loves a man in wellies, after all. Stricken though my soul has been by the various images of floating firemen and bobbing bobbies, I've had my own flood to worry about.

Phwoaarrr.

In a situation that can only be described as biblical, my sitting room ceiling has started to cave in. What started out as a slow bloom of water, akin to the pleasant swirl of milk in freshly brewed tea, has now become something far more sinister. There is hubbling, bubbling and we are verging dangerously close to toil and troubling.

Me just doing some underwater ballet in my pristine flat.

In order to avert a small catastrophe and the destruction of Jean-Paul the Plant, I took matters in to my own hands and went to -and I apologise to any Brits reading this – talk to the neighbours. I took the lift as angrily is as possible to do so, and rapped firmly on the door whilst simultaneously checking up on vocab for “crevice.” (Which is, as all Blackadder fans know, a positively disgusting word.)

Baaaah.

Therefore imagine my surprise when, instead of the balding, mildly overweight gentlemen I was expecting, a startlingly handsome youth answered the door. He introduced himself as Kevin (well, you can't have everything), the son of the owner of the whole building aka pretty much a property tycoon. I instantly forgot my meticulously prepared tirade and just flapped around a bit and said the word “moist” about 4 times and generally made an arse of myself.

Fortunately he seemed to pity this mad eengleesh, and gave me a slightly wary smile and some scary looking insurance information which I then proceeded to drop on the way back to the lift. And people that that the bumbling Hugh Grant English thing is all an urban myth... So the long and short of it is that I have some confusing looking legal documents to translate, an ever growing pile of wet plaster on the floor, and a lingering sense of embarrassment.

My generally cretinous behaviour aside, I've had a brilliant couple of weeks. I swanned, as is my wont, off to Paris for a weekend avec ma soeur, and we had a cracking time painting the town rouge. We made the almost instantly regrettable decision of walking up the Eiffel Tower, drank a lot of wine, consumed a few dozen baguettes and generally behaved like young Parisians who are, in the infamous words of a Mr. A. Ant, so French.

Metallic jeggings - ahead of his time.

It is always tricky coming back to anywhere after a weekend in Paris, but Lyon did a very good job of making me happy to be home. Adore Paris as I do, it always takes a weekend there to make me realise that I would rather chew off my own earlobe than actually have to live there. The metro alone is an ordeal worthy of Dante's undivided attention.

Room for a small one?

So work is still work, France is still France. It is gloriously sunny, I'm sitting on my balcony drinking wine and smiling away to myself because today it just feels like everything is right with the world. I hope all of you, wonderful readers, are equally as happy but maybe not as tipsy. You've all got work to be getting on with.

Une Lyonnaise sur son balcon,

xxx

Baguette Me Not

Monsieurdames,

Due to somewhat aggressively popular demand, I'm back. 

I returned triumphantly in true McKenzie Smith style (a week later than I was supposed to.) Those who went to school with me will remember my consideration of term dates as merely a suggestion. I touched down in Lyon at some ungodly hour on the 11th and proceeded to have a minor meltdown. I hated France, I hated Lyon, I hated my phone, my luggage, everything. (As one tends to at 5 o clock in the morning.) I, as you could probably glean from that, was none too pleased to be continuing with my Year Abroad. After a brilliant Christmas and New Year, it is always hard to come back down to earth, especially from 37,000 feet in a disconcertingly rickety EasyJet number.

However, after a few cheery "Bonjour, Madame"s and several baguettes, I was feeling slightly chirpier. By the first bottle of wine I was positively dancing with joy. (Funny that.) I took myself off to The Wallace, not being quite ready to sever all Scottish ties just yet, and sat down to write a list of all the things I love so much about being here. Warm, fresh baguettes (I had forgotten just how much better French ones actually are; a rare example of the French not merely thinking they're superior) tea on my balcony, watching the sun set over the Alps, exploring a new area of the city each weekend, coming across dogs in the changing rooms of Zara etc. I won't bore you all with the whole list until at least the last blog entry. 

I mean, just look at it.

So feeling my Frenchness fully restored, I adjusted my beret and sashayed back into la vie Lyonnaise. I've taken myself in hand and commanded myself to take full advantage of my last few months here. I've tried new restaurants, nibbled (and regretted said nibbling) some steak tartare, made various forays into yet unsampled wines and finally done the travelling I kept promising to do. Taken the taureau by the cornes, if you will. 

I hopped on a train at Perrache (sadly sans dream or indeed cardigan) and made my way to Avignon. I'd chosen it as my weekend destination for two main reasons. 1) I had vague recollections of visiting there as a 12 year old on a school trip, but there are few things that take the impact out of a beautiful, historic city like seeing it in a 2 hour, heavily supervised burst and 2) I found a devastatingly cheap deal. I arrived in the most glorious sunshine and sat around drinking wine in a square and chatting to my new Labrador companion at the adjoining table. He was called Alfonse. 

I can neither confirm nor deny that he was wearing a beret.

I bid adieu to my canine companion and checked in to my hotel. Some people might think it is strange, but travelling alone is one of my all time favourite things to do. Want to consume the entire contents of the minibar for lunch? No problem. Want to spend 6 hours in the bath singing along to The Jam? Go for it. Travelling alone gives the most amazing sense of freedom. I did exactly as I pleased for the entire weekend which is, fundamentally, how I would quite happily spend my whole life. #hedonistatheart. If you haven't been to Avignon, I cannot urge you strongly enough to do so. It is small enough to see in a weekend and is arguably one of the most beautiful places I've visited. The Palais des Papes is genuinely breathtaking and of course, there is the infamous Pont on which it is rumoured, on y danse.

Alfonse and I's square of choice.

My wonderful weekend was only slightly marred by one utterly inexplicable situation (just the one, my luck must be improving). I was wondering around the deserted Palais des Papes and was climbing a spiral staircase into a large antechamber. A lone male stood in said (still cavernou)s antechamber with his back to me. He then proceeded to belch in the most revolting manner imaginable, and, of course, it echoed. Oh god, did it echo. I tried as hard as possible to avoid laughing and very nearly succeeded. Perhaps I should've been blunter with my mixture of disgust and amusement however, as the author of this bilious masterpiece walked up to me and asked me out for dinner. WHAT THE HELL? I have just heard you burp in a Papal Palace, watched you appreciate its echo and you think that is some sort of aphrodisiac? As soon as I think I understand the French, something like this happens.

The scene of the crime

Belching Frenchmen aside, it was a magical trip and it was with a heavy heart that I left beautiful Provence to prepare for my 8am lesson the following day. Yes, being what some may and indeed have called a majestic multi-tasker, I manage to squeeze in a bit of teaching in between my swanning and/or quaffing. This has been slightly less eventful than before Christmas. As far as the students are concerned anyway. They have been verging dangerously close to delightful, more of which later.

The teachers, however, are a slightly different story. Most have been as amazingly kind, welcoming and helpful as ever. In fact, I am going for a drink with one later this evening to meet her family . However, there are some who, since discovering that I won't be staying for an optional extra month, have decided to make their feelings known. Despite my bravado, I do actually work really, really hard. I spend hours if not days on each lesson I plan, have given extra lessons on my days off and have also organised for my students to participate in a Europe wide model UN event here in Lyon.

Hotel de Region. It has indoor trees - a true mark of swanky buildings.

However, it would seem that this extra work is not enough. I have "not been around much," aka I don't feel compelled to spend my spare time in the staff room making painful small talk with teachers whose names I don't know and who don't have a clue why I'm here. "I'm not planning my lessons carefully enough" because, silly me, I assumed it would be ok for me to borrow some speakers from the teacher. It was not. "I'm not reliable," because...I don't even know where this one came from. I haven't missed a lesson yet and in fact this teacher has missed two lessons with me. Did I say any of this? No, of course not. I'm British.

I just smiled politely and remarked that I "had been busy recently" and would make an effort to spend more time drinking tepid tea on threadbare chairs and indulge in threadbare chat. Fortunately, my students do not think the same. I write this from the Hotel de Region, surrounded by over 300 students from 6 different countries, some of my pupils amongst them. Not one of them has ever been to this building before, nor even this side of the train station. Some of them used to be so shy about speaking English that they wouldn't even talk to me, yet now here they are speaking English in front of hundreds of people in a totally new environment, writing lengthy and articulate articles for the local press and even interviewing the director of the entire Rhone-Alpes Region. YOU GO TEAM DOISNEAU. We showed those (alarmingly well-dressed and glamorous) international school students!

PROUD.

On that cheerful note, I shall bid you all farewell. If anyone has any mediating they need doing in the meantime, I know just the kids.

I yield the floor.

xx

In the name of the Father, the Son and the holy Spirit(s)

There are few things in life that can be described as timeless. A quilted chanel handbag. The Mona Lisa. The Ferrari 250 GT Breadvan. However for most people these are just pipe dreams and the result of many lustful google image searches. So what exactly is the working man's Joconde?

Check out the nostrils on this baby.

I wish I could be profound here and say something like "quality time with the family" or "a brisk country walk," but one look at the title of this entry/my general demeanour can give you a clue as to where I'm heading with this. I'm talking about drinking. More specifically during the day. Even more specifically at the airport. 

Airports, thanks to a wondrous concoction of fluorescent lighting, perky shop assistants and "comedy" stag party t-shirts, are places where time magically stands still. (Except, perversely, when your gate is closing in five minutes.) Many people I know are more excited by the prospect of their first breakfast wine of the holiday than the holiday itself. By many people I mean my family and close friends. I don't know if it is the European lifestyle getting to me (who am I kidding, I've always appreciated a good boozy brunch which eases seamlessly into a drunch), but I am therefore more than a little disappointed that my flight home leaves the airport at 9 o clock in the morning. I will be kicking around the departures lounge at 7:30am which even for me rules out any possibility of a swift verre before take off. Chiefly because I happen to know the one bar in the glorified tent that is Lyon St Exupery will be closed. 

A tray of wine a happy traveler makes.

I have actually resorted to googling whether or not one can consume duty free items onboard. Before any of you get concerned and start bringing up sponsors and debating whether or not to revoke any recent invitations, I do actually have two excuses. 1. I am not a particularly happy flier. Don't even bother explaining the statistics, more people get killed by donkeys blah blah blah. I know, and, like I said, it is always fine after a glass (albeit a large one) of crisp Sauvignon Blanc. 2. Something tells me that crosswords and a three week old copy of Heat aren't going to be enough to keep me chirpy to see me through the SEVEN different types of transport that I need to take to get home. (For the vaguely autistic amongst you, they are bike, bus, metro, tram, plane, train and car.) I don't want to get drunk per se, just to enter in to that beautiful haze where I won't be unduly fazed by being inevitably seated next to an obese Frenchman who insists on eating all of his garlic eclairs at once.

That's me to the right. 'Scuse the beard.

So, despite how arduous it will inevitably be, I am very excited to be heading home. I've spent this afternoon packing, singing along to carols and wondering once again why I was never chosen to do a solo at school. I have been thinking about all the wonderful British things I've missed - the landscape, proper fish and chips, Marmite, queues and the subsequent tutting, microwaves, pubs and OH LORD REAL NORMAL MILK. None of this UHT shit. God it is repellent. 

Jolly good.

But....then I looked out of my window to see a snowy Mont Blanc just peeping over my balcony in the late afternoon sunshine, and started to think about all the wonderful French stuff that I'm going to miss these next few weeks. The Cairngorms vs The Alps. Glenshee vs Val d'Isere. Fish and chips vs Fondue and tartiflette. Marmite vs homemade jam bought from the market down the road. Queues and tutting vs every man for himself and some lively confrontation in the morning. Microwaves vs actually taking time over a meal and taking time out of your day to really enjoy food and the experience of eating. Pubs vs a glass of the new Beaujolais outside a cafe overlooking the river. Real milk vs....yeah, going to leave it at that actually.

Cheese eating surrender monkeys.

I know I'm at risk of becoming that francophile: "Ooh, they don't do that in France. Oh, well in French that sounds much nicer blah blah baguette fromage etc etc." For this I can only apologise, or maybe just shrug nonchalantly and break off another bit of bread. I suppose it is just that I suddenly really, really feel like this, here, Lyon, is home. I look out of my window every morning at the Frenchness of it all and am just really amazingly happy. 

Nothing a few weeks of solid rain and crippling social awkwardness can't sort out though, I'm sure.

Happy Christmas to all of you, my wonderful readerlets.

x

Advons, Advez, Advent.

Glad tidings my wonderful readers. I hope you are all feeling thoroughly Christmas-y (incidentally an adjective I loathe, but we all make sacrifices at this time of year and that's hardly the spirit,) and that your parents/friends/local barista love you enough to have bought you a wonderful tray of chocolates cryptically concealed behind numbered doors. Or, if you are either my sister or a French person, a wonderful tray of PLAYMOBIL CHARACTERS behind numbered doors.

Tiny plastic foal vs. tiny plastic tasting chocolate. 

For December is now upon us and all of the festivities which it brings. In Lyon, that means one thing - La Fête des Lumières. For those who haven't done extensive research on my new home town then a) shame on you and b) I'll fill you in (as it very much were.) Every year during the second weekend of December, Lyon lights up. I'm talking Vegas rather than Rome, and it is set to be bloody majestic. In a way that can only be described as devil-may-care, the Lyonnais council are reported to spend EIGHTY PERCENT of the yearly city budget on a flashy outdoor disco(theque.) Cause who needs hospitals?

LOOK AT THE SHINY SHINY

"Why such frivolity and excess?" "M'ssieurs-dames,  car c'est la France." (insert nonchalant shrug here.) Sadly this is not the actual answer. It's still quite a cool reason though. In 1643, Lyon was hit by an immense plague and the then mayor pledged to give thanks to the Virgin Mary every year if she saved his town, despite the fact that one can only assume he was nicely tucked away from the vomiting boil-ridden public in his absolutely massive mayoral crib. Snaps for Mary, she did as she was told and put a spell on Lyon or whatever and BANG. Happy, shiny people once more. 

Nice threads VM.

So the Mayor kept us his end of the bargain and had a little candle-lit procession from the main square to the basilica. As is the usual wont of these things, it snowballed and, the French not needing much excuse for a party (read: yet another day off work) upped their ante and now have the third biggest destination festival in the world, beaten only by the Rio Carnival and Oktoberfest.  Think less beer and crystal thongs, more basilicas and crying statues. 

Virgins and vin aside, I have also been putting in sporadic appearances at work. I say sporadic not in an attempt to seem cool and laissez-faire, but because I've actually been quite ill and primarily spending my days in a beautiful cloud of wonderfully strong French pharmaceuticals. When I have been there though, it has been uneventful, which for the purposes of this blog is a bad thing. Except the singing and the falling over. And the attempted theft. It's all relative I suppose. 

"Ohhhh nuiiitttt"

We'll start with the singing. Finally my life has begun to resemble parts of the above film besides the ubiquitous (at least amongst GCSE French students) "Action - Reaction." I was sitting in my little classroom, the smell of vomit hanging ever so slightly in the air and generally feeling a bit sorry for myself. In traipsed an ingratitude of children (the actual collective noun; it's the little things in life) and I steeled myself for the usual hour long onslaught of sarcasm, disinterest and mockery. Yet how wrong I was. One pupil, a comparatively charming young man, came in and put his things down quietly and with no undue fuss and asked, politely, if I was alright. I replied I was fine, thank you (he was hardly to know the treason I would be committing were I to answer anything else.) He did not take this well- "But you are clearly not, you have sad eyes and you did not say hello in your normal way." (I was unaware I was usually so outwardly cheery...) He then - I kid you not - started singing. "Don't worry, about a thing, cause every little thing...is gonna be alright." THEY ALL JOINED IN. My whole class actually sang to me and it was beautiful and uplifting and wonderful and made me finally have the "so THIS is why teachers do it," sort of moment. Happy days.

So that was wonderful, and then I undid all their good work by face planting into a pile of moist leaves (I'm so sorry) in front of what appeared to be the entire school. It was painful, humiliating and irritating as I left the majority of my carefully filed worksheets fluttering gaily around the suburb as I limped as far away as possible to allow myself to burst into hideous, gulping tears and kick a lamppost in irritation.

We can just pretend I look that good crying/ever.

The theft pales in comparison - I'm hamming it up if I'm honest. I just came in to my classroom to find a youth rummaging in my drawers (don't report me) which are luckily filled only with cluster of broken pens and a couple of croissant crumbs. Unlucky Oliver Twist.

Un gamin, yesterday.

So once more, there we have it. It is just over two weeks till I'm jetting off to the warmer climes of Scotland (now there's a sentence I never thought I'd write) to stuff my face with mince pies and wine. Just to be on the safe side, I'm getting lots of practice in here. I keenly await the arrival of two wonderful ladies/training partners who are winging their way here next week. My first guests. Time to get the good silver out I think.

Can't forget the can-canning champagne bottles!

Au revoir and to all a good night.

Xx

Vandals, Verbal abuse and Vomit.

I hope you're sitting comfortably, as I shall now begin.

Well, bloody hell, what a week it has been.Yet somehow it is only Wednesday. As those of you who have me as a friend/involuntary stalkee on Facebook will know, I had a highly eventful Monday morning. For those of you for whom Facebook is too mainstream or who have many secrets to hide from future employers, (both the former and the latter are directed at one person who is not too difficult to identify) I shall elaborate.

Note: this blog does not endorse camels.

Picture the scene - it is a cold, blustery Monday morning, and the smell of board markers, adolescent sweat and industrial disinfectant linger in the air. A group of 11 children are seated in Salle B055 (yep, that's right, Salle Boss) hanging on to my every word with a keen sense of enthusiasm and curiosity heretofore reserved only for pupils of Robin Williams and the ubiquitous "cat" (and look what happened to him.) Actually, apart from the room name and the number of pupils, most of that is a lie. They were sitting around, chatting, swearing and pawing at each other in a truly desperate manner that only 15 year olds seem to be able to achieve. There was one, however, who was being particularly noxious; hurling stationary around, shouting seemingly incoherent sentences and, most distressingly of all, ATTEMPTING TO DEFACE MY UNION JACK. #treason.

If only.

At first, I took this simply as a high spirited youngster channeling his energy in the classroom. I then noticed his inability to focus his eyes. Then he called me a whore and lobbed a pen at my head. It became clear that he was in fact, massively drunk/hammered/smashed/pissed/twatted and also high as a metaphorical kite. As were, I think understandably, my anger levels.

Feel lucky, punk?

I scampered off with my tail between my legs in an attempt to find someone with more authority and experience of abusive children and returned, triumphant, with the Head of the English Dept with vision of reprimands and retribution. However, I was brought back to earth with a very nearly a literal bump as I skidded across the laminate flooring through a pool of unnervingly verdant vomit. Yes. In my absence, this beast had actually thrown up in my classroom. This was, to be fair quite understandably, a source of much hilarity and hysteria amongst the other pupils who were steadfastly not helping. The child in question was ushered from the room looking satisfyingly queasy whist I was left to literally mop up the aftermath. 

The latest addition to my classroom's wall.

Despite my rising aggression/depression/bile/tears, I couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for this kid. He is ELEVEN. Eleven years old. He is 2 years away from being a teenager, 7 years away from being able to legally drink and about a million years away from becoming a functioning member of society. If at 8am on a Monday morning he is in that state, what the hell must his home life be like? At the risk of getting deeper than the vomit I was standing in, it really does make you appreciate a) how amazing school was b) how unscandalous it actually was when ONE sixth former did drugs about ONCE (or even, for those who remember, Broomstickgate) c) how absolutely brill my family and home are. Even they wouldn't let me get drunk at 8am on a Monday. Unless it was a birthday. Or Christmas. Okay, or maybe if there was a really good rugby match on. 

Preach it sister.

So, vomiting minors aside, it has been an enjoyable week. I'm getting to take lessons on my own now, and feel/really, really, really hope that I've got my worst experience out of the way so am getting more confident and feel infinitely more comfortable telling them to face the front, take out chewing gum, stop snapchatting or taking "surreptitious" photos of girls' boobs. Nice to know boys are the same worldwide.

You know it.

To jump from cockerel to rooster (a translation of an absolute corker of a phrase I've just learned, which means to jump from one topic to another), we've had tonnes of snow today. My flat is at the very top of Lyon's tallest hill so we've had more than anywhere. I had a wonderful "We're not in the UK anymore, Dorothy" moment when I left to go to work and all public transport was on time and fully functioning. Moreover, everyone just got on with their daily business instead of moaning about their being too much/not enough grit, the price of heating and the state of the country "nowadays." Also the French are much more practical about the cold when it comes to clothing. They wear proper coats, sensible, sturdy shoes and hats. They do not wear Uggs, slip over on their arses and prance around in fashionable yet entirely impractical winter-y print leggings. A winter-y print does not, in any way, have a positive correlation with warmth.

Neither coat or discernible fancy dress theme.

So, once again, I sincerely hope that you enjoy this small insight into my time over here, vomit filled as it may have been. If any of you are having a bad day, essay crisis, been dumped or such like, just reassure yourselves with the fact that you probably won't be mopping up an 11 year old's puke anytime soon. Unless you've got kids. In which case, it's your own fault.

It's your own time you're wasting.

Bonjour once again all of my wonderful friends and or/facebook acquaintances. Oh how much has passed since we last spoke. We'll start from the top.

The Boomtown Rats once pondered the age old question regarding peoples' dislike of the first day of the week. Okay, so of course I should count my lucky stars that nobody got shot at school, but Christ alive I came close to doing so. (If any of my employers are reading this, I am obviously totally joking. The only thing I've ever shot is a cow in the leg by a total accident. Pretty much.) I had lovingly and painstakingly prepared what I evidently mistakenly thought was an engaging and fun presentation filled with pictures, interactive activities, references to French rappers and so on and so forth. Oh how wrong I was.

There is only so long I can smile for when faced with a classroom full or recalcitrant delinquents. I tried, Lord knows I tried, but after asking about 20 questions in a row with no answer straying from the apparently obligatory Gallic shrug, I did what I swore I never would. I became my own teachers. "It's your own time you're wasting you know. I don't have to be here doing this - do you think I wanted to spend my free time preparing this for you? Would you rather we went back to the grammar sheets?" Not to be a woman of empty threats, that is exactly what we did. Some mind-numbing, soul-crushing work on the preterite tense. Their sullen faces upon leaving the classroom filled me with a joy that suggested teaching may not be my calling after all.

Fortunately I will not meet these delightful specimens for another week now, as this Monday was a bank holiday (you know, just in case the week for All Saints didn't quite suffice.) There is no minute's silence here in France, but the buses and trams all sported rather jaunty Tricolores. It is a day dedicated less to the military as such, and centered more on the celebration of the history of France and ALL of those who have helped to build it. Except their (ex) royal family. Funnily enough, they don't really get much of a mention. 

So, after a two week holiday, a national holiday and a bank holiday, I was ready for a hard week's work at school. Except Wednesdays which I have off. Oh yeah and the strike on Friday. And the "pre-strike" day off on Thursday, just to ease yourself gently in to a richly deserved four day weekend. Zut alors. I thought this attitude to work was nicely demonstrated by a pharmacy I found in the centre of town. The sign on the door proudly claims to be 24/7. The small print underneath reads "except Sundays, bank holidays, and 12-1 each working day." I'll try really hard not to feel ill during precious lunchtime then.

I am still wrestling with the infamous French bureaucracy. Still. I opened a bank account THREE WEEKS AGO and the card is still "being processed." The employees of BNP Paribas Bellecour (still feels odd and ultimately deeply unpleasant saying I'm with BNP) are becoming familiar faces and ever less welcoming. I do enjoy a good argument in French, or even, as happened the other day, in an intriguing trilingual exchange in which I acted as an interpreter for two bemused young Spanish girls who spoke no French and were desperately trying to explain that they needed to open their bank account immediately or risk being chucked out of their flat. Nothing warms the cockles like a deep sense of self-satisfaction.

Alas, it has not all been high-brow intellectual shrugging and cultivating a hatred of children. I have also been pretending to be a normal person and have friends round for Coline and I's flatwarming. I am glad to report that it was almost identical to any housewarming party I've attended in the UK. Except people brought salad. And quiches. And pies. TO A PARTY. The only useful thing I've ever brought to a party is a bottle of vodka and a set of highly questionable morals. 

It was absolutely brilliant fun though. It really did - lame as it sounds - make our flat feel like our own place. I spoke French all night (or at least some version of it), danced in/on the bath, commandeered the sound system in a way that can only be described as Napoleonic (got my Coolio onnnn) and drank nigh on an entire box of wine. I think we can declare a the party an immense success.

The day after, as is my wont, I leant on my trusty and mercifully international friend Dominos. I ordered the usual, but when it came to the drink choice, I was torn. I was hungover in a way only a hardened Scot can be, but THEY DELIVER WINE. Could I really pass up the opportunity to have alcohol literally brought to me on a platter in my own room? Obviously not. I sucked it up and got that damn Macon Villages. Darn tasty it was too. 

So there we have it my friends - another week (roughly) in my life. A week spent drinking wine, berating the laziness of the French, and hating children. Remind me why I moved all the way to Lyon again?

Bonsoir

X

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...

x