May 2005 Archives

Flaming hoochie koochies


The temptation to stick the sticker from my apple on my forehead is overwhelming me.

Where oh where is my professional conscience when I need it?


In vaguely related news, I will not be attending Paris Blogue-t-il tonight, as I had originally planned. I would have really liked to go, given that I missed the first one, but it looks like I'll have to try to make the next one instead. That's because Madame Kim is in town and we have been convoqued to a girly evening, which should involve, amongst other things, the eating of flaming hoochie koochies (aka flammekueches). Good times.


One of my colleagues just approached me, and whispered in my ear, "Katia, I have a confession to make, and I knew you were the right person to hear it... I bought 4 pairs of shoes last night..."

I looked at her feet immediately - she was sporting a pair of shiny black sandals. "I love them!"

"Are you proud of me?" she asked.

"Absolutely," I replied.


I haven't succeeded in distracting myself. I still feel like sticking my apple sticker on my forehead.


EDIT : I succumbed. After all, life wouldn't be HALF as interesting if I didn't do these little things.

Mary, mary, quite contrary

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Telling me not to rip the plastic off a cd with my teeth is only going to make me more determined to do it.

Telling me that, considering my behaviour, it is no wonder that Symphony likes chewing on plastic in her spare time is just going one step too far.

Yes, you just keep laughing hysterically at yourself.

Your time will come, my little grasshopper. Your time will come.

I've got the blues


Certain people will be pleased to know that I am now eating blue cheese like there is no tomorrow (although I should be careful, because, all things going well, there will be a tomorrow, which could mean that with all the blue cheese I'm eating, tomorrow will see another size up in my jeans = not a good thing). Considering I started off with Kiri and St Moret when I first arrived, this could be considered Serious Progress.

Anyway. Gorgonzola in my salad. Melted Fourme on pasta. Roquefort... raw... at the end of a fine meal...

I've got it going on.

Sylvain is so proud.

I should be allowed to vote here in France, just on this fact alone.

Just say no


I try not to talk politics on my blog, since I am hardly an expert, and think such things are best left to those who know what they're talking about. But I can't let this one slip by without saying anything.

Even though we knew it was coming, the French "no" leaves me frustrated.

I see you baby


If I have to follow the stupid practice of shaking the hands of everyone at my place of employ, I will do it properly.

I will shake hands. Shake hands I will.

So... if you hold out your hand, drooping like a limp fish, touching my hand for just a few seconds with your fingertips, I will not stand for it. I will reach forward and grab it. I will shake it. With a vice-like grip. If I have to do it, so do you.

First Screening


It's been an extremely domestic weekend.

For some reason unbenownst to this naive little aussie lass, many windows in France do not sport fly screens (I understand it is more common to find them on windows in certain regions, however the vast majority that I've seen have not got screens). Whatever the statistic - the most important thing in this story is that our apartment does not have them. Whenever we want to open the windows, we have to go through a whole drama of locking Symphony in the bedroom (because she'd be out the window in the blink of an eyelid, and we'd never see silly furry critter again). We can't have the windows open once it gets dark, because there are all sorts of icky beasties that like to come in and join the party.

Sylvain has been in our apartment for nearly five years now, and we've been talking about putting screens in the windows for ages. This weekend, with only a couple of other concrete plans on the horizon, we decided that we needed to get our butts into gear and it had to be done. After an adventurous trip to the hardware store (I freaking hate hardware stores, the only reason I went was because I knew Sylvain wasn't capable of choosing a decent coloured screen, and thankfully I found a way to amuse myself whilst tagging after him through the aisles), we came back armed with all sorts of hardware-type goods and Sylvain set about constructing a screen for the double-window in the lounge room. Given my general uselessness in all things related to hardware, I dutifully made iced drinks for Sylvain and murmured encouragements ("yes! that looks great!").

We suffered one unfortunate episode with the glue gun, where Sylvain nearly attached himself to the parquetry, but voila - we now have a screen. We have to put it in carefully every time we want to open the window, and take it out again when we close it, but it's great. No beasties when the windows are open at night, and fresh air during the day, without having to lock the cat up. Symphony loves it - she has literally been glued to the windowsill ever since we put it in, and she runs from one side to the other as she watches all the goings-on outside.


I just realised that I blogged an entirely domestic entry. I'm thrilled about a fly screen. I worry myself sometimes.

Ten minutes


In the ten minutes before midday - these are the things I hear out from my first-floor office window :

Arabic music tinkling out of a delivery van.

Someone singing, humming along to the music.

Cutlery tapping against plates.

American accents. Talking at the top of their voices.

Restaurant owners try to lure people into their restaurants - "la PIZza!", "whassup!".

A delivery truck rolls slowly by, putt putt vroom.

Laughter. Long. Loud.

A door buzzer buzzes. The door squeaks, then slams behind the visitor as she enters the old building.

A glass breaks.

The low murmur of the voices of the people walking past, eating nearby and below.

Two restaurant owners, from opposite sides of the street, discuss the weather.


A church bell rings.

Learning curve


We are talking about sticking Post-it notes on computer screens. I decide that I need to share my experience of the "Stickies" feature on my Mac Dashboard.

Me : "J'ai un Mac à la maison et ..." (I've got a Mac at home and...)

Other person : "un Mac? c'est vrai?" (A Mac? Really?)

Me : "m-ouias." (Yup)

Other person : "Tu dois lui payé combien?" (How much do you have to pay him?)

Me : "huh?"

The other person is laughing too hard to respond.

Word of the day : un mac = a pimp.


I'm laughing too hard now as well, so it's too late to say that I'm insulted.

Utterly random


Note to self : When Symphony is chewing on plastic and staring at me with her big eyes, it means that her food bowl is empty.

Interesting find on the top of the fridge : cheese that we bought at the market two weeks ago. We'd put it on the top of the fridge to ripen, just for a few hours, and completely forgotten about it. Needless to say, now it is ripe. And delicious.

Current favourite French phrase : passer du coq à l’âne - "to jump from one subject to another", or literally, "to pass from the rooster to the donkey".

Land of my fathers


The lovely Antipdéesse has headed across the wide blue sea, and is (I'm sure, knowing her) living it up in the wide brown land that is Australia. Ever since she told me, about a month ago, she was heading back to visit friends in Australia, then make a flying visit to New Zealand, I've been feeling restless. Flighty.

Last night I was just wandering through the apartment, thinking about all the things she'll see - and all of a sudden I felt like I had been punched in the stomach and all my breath had been taken out of me... I found myself sitting on the couch with little tears trickling down my cheeks... I miss it. I wish I was there too.

This homesickness is far less common now - I've learned how to deal with it, and I haven't felt like this in awhile.

Even though summer is coming and the days are getting longer and it's easier to put worries aside about people back home and to push away the feelings of nostalgia... Even though my parents are coming for a visit in August... I think I need more. I have not seen my sister since January. I have not seen my extended family or friends for a year and a half. It's a strange analogy, but I feel like a potplant who needs to be put on the terrace for awhile, to stretch in the sun and recuperate.

I want to go home.

Despite living here for more than three years, having a husband here, creating a life here, Australia will always be home to me. It's the people, the place.

If I can swing it, and even if it means a cut in salary for one weeks extra holiday, I want to be eating fish and chips on the beach and smelling the salty air at the end of the year. I think that a trip in December/January is looking more and more likely. Two years away from home is too much.

Out of the ordinary


On Friday, as part of a very girly day out (after buffalo wings and face massages, but before some serious shoe shopping), we found ourselves in Galeries Lafayette Gourmet.

This section of Galeries Lafayette is a veritable treasure trove of goodies. They have a lot of stuff that you don't find in an ordinary supermarket, from all regions of France, and from all corners of the world, and one must literally pause in front of each shelf and look closely, because they're stuffed with so many different things... but it's all for a price, of course.

A packet of Oreos? 8 euros.

But when you're a foreigner with a hankering for something from back home (and you just can't wait for that survival pack being sent from across the other side of the world, or you're looking for items which cannot easily be shipped), you sometimes just have to pay the price.

I was delighted to find some Horlick's Malt Powder, a staple ingredient in the fabulous Malteser Cake from Nigella Lawson's Feast (and adapted slightly thanks to my girl Alexis). We had been drooling over this cake recipe since I received the book for my birthday, and we would have loved to make this for Aimee's surprise birthday - the only problem was that this Malt Powder was hard to come by, and even more difficult to find in France.

We had resigned ourselves to the fact that we would have to make an "ordinary" chocolate cake, and it was only by chance that I found it on the shelf in Lafayette Gourmet, and I quickly sent an mms to Sylvain, with the photo, and the words, "we can make nigella's cake!!!" He wrote back, "whee!" (as an aside, since the birthday girl was with me at the time, and had no idea about the surprise party awaiting her the next day, I lied through my teeth, "I've been looking for it for ages, it's to drink before I go to bed").

I was also excited to find some Philadelphia Cream Cheese in their refrigerated section. It looks like we're going to be make a cheesecake sometime in the future, but at 4.50€ a packet, we'll have to forego the test run and just hope it turns out first go ;)

Lafayette Gourmet is not that big an area in itself, but there are so many products that it's impossible to see everything at once, so each time I go back I discover something new.

It is truly a last resort haven for the expat. Albeit an extremely expensive haven, it's a haven all the same.



It bothers me that Lois Lanes dubbed voice on "Lois & Clark" is the dubbed voice of Buffy. They're NOT the same.

It also bothers me that I actually recognise these voices. Sylvain looked at me in surprise.

And it REALLY bothers me that I spent my afternoon watching "Lois & Clark".

And admitted it on my blog.

But that's what this blog is. The best and the worst of me. heh.


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What's fun? Surprise birthday picnics, that's what!

I'm not good at lying (I always lose badly at Cheat), and I don't know how I managed to spend the day with the Birthday Girl on Friday without saying a word, but I did.

Much organisation. And fabulous people. That was the key. Emails, sms-es and sneaky telephone calls flying all week. On Friday? Whilst she was getting her face massage? I had to sneak out of the salon and reassure her that the decision to make an American Potato Salad (instead of a French Potato Salad) was fine.

Of course, we had our fair share of hitches, with unexpected works on the train tracks, requiring a change of routes, and a traffic jam, but it all worked in the end and the birthday girl had no idea. Just the way it's supposed to be.

And anyway, when there are things involved like the château of Versailles, champagne, chocolate cake, long green grass, diminished reserves of pasta salad, and a bunch of lovely people, how could it go wrong?

Then there was much cooing over our kitty (having come back to our humble abode, under the threat of rain), mint tea, playing Cranium, arguing over the rules, drawing maniacal pictures (drawn by maniacal people), eating of pizza and drinking of Kir Royales, general crazyness and waving goodbye to a lovely friend Carrie, who is leaving France, and returning home to the United States.

So today? Eating of leftovers (enough to keep us going for several days - why do I always feel like I have to make enough to feed an army?) and napping.

A nice weekend. I just need to recover.

Barely there


When describing their trip to Australia, someone recently commented to me that they were suprised to see so many Australians going barefoot. Not just on the beach, but in town, on the street, sometimes in restaurants.

I can't really say anything without making sweeping generalisations, but I think that Australians do like to go barefoot at times. Most restaurants in seaside towns have notices, "you must be wearing shoes", so perhaps it is something that happens and I have never really noticed ;) It's not as if everyone goes wandering around the various cities in barefeet, but it does happen.

My sister and I used to run everywhere, barefoot, on weekends, after school, and even in the colder months. In the summer holidays, our feet would harden. I remember picking my way across the gravel driveway (because walking on the gravel hurt our school-shoe-softened feet too much in the early summer), then sprinting across the loose soil underneath the cypress trees and the grass in front of the pigsheds, the workshop and the machinery sheds. I love the sensation of soil and grass on my feet - I was happy to risk splinters when I went to the woodheap, and would prefer to risk standing on a pile of chook poo in the chookshed rather than wear shoes to collect the eggs. We would only reluctantly pull on a pair of boots to ride the motorbike, or to go into the paddocks which had long grass, just in case there were snakes hiding, unseen.

Even now, I kick off my shoes at every opportunity. I walk around the house barefoot (making my mother-in-law panic that I'm going to catch cold because I refuse to wear slippers), I start wearing open shoes as soon as the first glimpse of sun comings peeking through the clouds, and even kick my shoes off here at work whenever I can.

Of course, I quickly slip my shoes back on if I hear or see someone coming, but I've lost count of the number of times I've gone skipping down the corridor to the photocopier or the fax machine, only to notice that I'm not wearing my shoes and raced back to put them on.

As much as I love being in the city, I think I'm a country girl at heart.

Either that, or some kind of uncouth savage. hehe.

One day my prince will come

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Last night I had the worst sleep in ... oh ... in about 6 months or so - that is, since the last time Symphony was on heat.

It happened all of a sudden. One minute she was her usual adorable and sweet self, the next, she was miaowing pitifully, pressing her nose against the vent in the kitchen, crying out desperately for any available prince to come to her rescue.

All night long.

We got about 3 1/2 hours sleep in total.

We got up this morning, bleary eyed and woozy, and as I smeared my puffy eyes with some under-eye cream (with a vain hope that I could pretend to look somewhat respectable at work), I reflected on the fact that this is the amount of sleep I might have if we had kids. So considering how I feel today, I think that I can wait a little while yet for that self-inflicted, sleep-depriving life step, thankyouverymuch.

The Pill that we're giving Symphony is a new one, that also has an "interruption des chaleurs" procedure, where we give her one tablet per day for five days, so she should hopefully be over it in the next day or two. Theoretically this time around it won't last quite as long and I won't be functioning on zero sleep by the end of the week. Coming into work with huge black shadows under my eyes is not a good thing.

Today is supposed to be a public holiday (lundi Pentecôte), but this year they have taken that holiday away from us.

Apparently only 1 in 2 people in France are working today, whilst the rest are on strike.

As far as I am aware, pay slips have not been changed to reflect the extra day worked this year, and sitting here at work, I'm feeling integrated enough in the French culture to be complaining loudly with the best of them ;)

The strikes haven't really touched the tourists, however, and they are out in force today. I was amused at lunchtime to see a group of 15 or so German tourists all wearing matching berets (pity I wasn't fast enough to grab it on my cameraphone).

When in Rome...

Reblochon fermier from the market ... Mmm ...

Sunday market at Versailles

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Sunday market at Versailles

Calculating the scores

Calculating the scores

Someone got dealt a bad hand

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Someone got dealt a bad hand

More saturday night fun and games

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More saturday night fun and games

Saturday night fun and games

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Saturday night fun and games

Possible shoe purchase

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Possible shoe purchase

No passion for the passionfruit

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No passion for the passionfruit

Waiting ...

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Waiting ...

Much randomness


I was rudely awakened at 6am this morning by my mobile phone beeping - my sister was excited to tell me that another Artemis Fowl book had been released. Hmph.

Of course, I could turn my phone off or on silent during the night, but what if something really important happened and people couldn't get through on the home phone and what if what if what if? I'm paranoid. So I put up with the 6am (and quite often much earlier) sms-es that I often get from my sister, just for peace of mind. So I shouldn't complain, really, as it's all my fault. But it's my blog and I'll cry if I want to.

This week has been busy for me. Lots of work, lots more arriving, barely time to blog, let alone read other blogs. Amidst doing some much needed housework, this morning will see some catchup blog reading. And probably some neopetting ;)

Not that there is much else to do today anyway - we've been hit with a rain shower and I am not too keen on heading outdoors when it's like that. We may try to take advantage of the free museum entry tonight that is part of the Nuit des Musées, but if the weather is crap, I'm sure every man and his dog (literally) will be out there, doing the same thing. We'll see.

I'm LOVING my new Mac. Loving loving loving it. I've gone back to Opera as my browser of choice - it doesn't have all those fabulous add-ons or extensions that you have in Firefox, but it's wayyyyyy faster on the Mac. I have everything that I could want (and more) on this little system, and am happy with our choice of this over a Sony Vaio or one of the other pc laptop choices. The only thing that I don't have is a gmail notifier, but apparently they're working on it.

Now I just have to decide when to go with the flow and upgrade this little kitty into a Tiger. The disks arrived in the mail yesterday (I got a free upgrade because I bought the ibook so recently), I just have to get around to doing it!

Time for toys

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You know what's cool?

Blogging in bed.

Just cos I can.

Although it is a battle to stop Symphony from installing herself on the keyboard. There's only one thing for it - I'll just have to keep doing it so that she gets used to it.

Far far away


All my thoughts are with the beautiful Vivi today, this week, this month.

Despite all our fabulous adventures, it's times like this that it's gut-wrenchingly hard to be an expat, far away from home and our loved ones.

Why don't they just hurry up and invent teleportation?



For dinner tonight we had a salad made of tomatoes, mâche (lambs lettuce?), comte and lightly sautéed chicken gizzards, dressed with just a little olive oil. Delish.

Things certainly change - three years ago you wouldn't have caught me even considering eating gizzards.

There is the small fact that it's classified as OFFAL and all, which has always put me off. But as far as my tasting and experimentation is concerned, I am now happy to try different things, and have often found that I actually enjoy things that I previously would have turned my nose up at (mum and dad : happy now? you were right). That said, I will never ever eat anything to do with tripe, tongue or brains. My word on that subject is final.

But there is also something about the double-z in the word "gizzard" that offends my sensibilities. Same with guzzle. And blizzard. And fizzle, nuzzle, pizzle, drizzle and buzzard (sizzle, on the other hand, is acceptable, as that conjures wonderful childhood memories of sausage sizzles held on the primary school football oval).

I prefer words like jelly. And murmur. And scrumptious, passion, hanker and pinkuter.

Then there are the words with silent letters. Like gnome. And knight. These are blissful words to say. To know that there is a letter floating in the air in front of me, unspoken. Magical.

Don't get me started on some of those fabulous French ones that I could (and do) say over and over and over again. Like grenouille. And "la gnôle".

Looking for a lifejacket

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The only bad thing about finishing a big project is realising that afterwards you've got to do everything else you've been putting off for the last couple of months.

I have so much work to do that I don't know where to start. Certainly no time for blogging today (not to mention the fact that I left my mobile at home so I felt really naked and unconnected all day - although I certainly did feel loved when I came home and found a heap of messages on my phone).

I wonder if tomorrow I'll have cleared a path my desk.

Each to his own


Since joining the American Library in Paris in January, I've been literally devouring books. I come home from the library once a fortnight with a heavy bookbag containing five or six books, sometimes even more.

I generally just browse my way along the bookshelves, and pick whatever takes my fancy. Genre doesn't matter, I read anything, and more often than not, I fall upon some surprising gems. After the reading drought that I've experienced since my arrival here (reading in French doesn't relax me), not to mention the self-inflicted mini-drought that I experienced during my university years, prior to arriving in France, I just want to read, read, read.

I feel like the Very Hungry Caterpillar, not working my way through different foods, but through different books, one by one. I wonder if I'll emerge from this as a beautiful, knowledgable butterfly?

I often find myself saying to Sylvain, "if you liked reading, this is one book that I would make you read". It's usually in relation to books such as the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy or the Artemis Fowl series.

Both of my parents love to read, and passed this passion on to me. I always thought that I would marry a man who loved to read as much as I, but alas, Sylvain prefers to bury his nose in an car engine or inside a computer rather than in the pages of a well-written book. I love to curl up in bed and read before I go to sleep at night, and I always imagined that my life-partner would do the same. But Sylvain is more content to curl up in bed with his Gameboy (or more recently, the Wifi-connected laptop).

Life takes strange and unexpected turns sometimes, but I wouldn't want him to be any different (... and not just because, whilst I have my nose in a book, he can fix the car / computer / toaster / whatever-electrical-appliance-has-blown-a-fuse).

A Burmese & an Aussie Lass

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Lazy Sunday Domesticity


This afternoon, a lazy Sunday indoors, Sylvain and I have come to an agreement - if he falls asleep on the couch whilst watching the Formula 1, I'm allowed to change the station.


I reach for the remote.

His eyes pop open.

I let my hand drop.

His eyes begin to close again.

*snuffle snort*

Slowly, surely, I reach for the remote.

He opens one eye and glares at me.

"I'm not asleep," he murmurs.

I let my hand drop again.

His head falls to the couch.

*snuffle snort snore*

I grab the remote and frantically change the station.

He opens one eye, sniffs and falls fast asleep.


Watching the Formula 1 is like watching Test Cricket, or, even worse, Golf.

Pass it on


Last night I took one of the last trains home from the city. As usual, when I'm getting home late, I rang Sylvain to get him to pick me up from the station (whilst it only takes 10 minutes to walk home, I prefer to get picked up rather than walk home in the dark).

As I was getting off the train, a nervous-looking young Asian couple approached me and asked in English, "excuse me, but how do we get to Porte Maillot?"

Thus began an adventure which involved realising that they'd taken the wrong train out of Paris, that they'd missed the last train back into Paris, that they couldn't afford the taxi ride back into the city (for one, they're students, and secondly, once you get into the suburbs here, taxi drivers will literally rob you of your euros), and that it would take them a few good hours to walk all the way back into the city and back to their hotel on the other side.

By this time, Sylvain had gotten out of the car and joined us, to witness a tear fall down the cheek of this gorgeous Chinese girl - he and I looked at each other and nodded, then offered them a ride home.

So we took this couple back to their hotel - a 20 minute drive in which they gushed thankyous, shared their travel stories, exclaimed over the fact that I was Australian, and listened enthusiastically when we described what we're doing here in this city, this country.

I never thought I would find myself doing something like that - inviting complete strangers into our car and all. Normally I steer clear of the tourists here, as it can get a little tiring to answer the same questions over and over again ("is this the right train to get to Versailles?" and "what are YOU doing in Paris?"), but I believe that last night, we were put in the right spot at the right time. It would have been inhuman to say, "yep, you've got a couple of hours walk ahead of you", jumping in the car and going home.

I like to think that if we were in the same position, lost in a big city and with no easy way of getting home, someone would do the same thing for us - passing it on.



I don't pick on Sylvains English very often, because he really is quite good (and I am generally quite satisfied with picking on my own pathetic attempts at speaking French), but this was a classic, and must be recorded. Just for historical (hysterical?) reference :

"Oh and yesterday? Symphony did make a farty!"

Newest addition to our family

Newest addition to our family

One of my favourite fruits

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One of my favourite fruits
This child is doomed (and his parents should be locked up)

Devonshire Tea


I've suddenly got a hankering for scones (note that they are pronounced sc-ons in my language, not sc-owns, like the Poms). I have politely asked my mum for her recipe, as I'm now inspired to make some this weekend, because it's not as if I can just scoot out to the nearest teahouse and partake in some scones here.

My mouth is watering. Covered in homemade jam (raspberry, blueberry or apricot - or maybe one of each!), with lashings of whipped cream - this brings back memories... when I would sit at the big kitchen table on the farm with my mum and my sister, breaking them open whilst they're still steaming hot, spreading the jam and dolloping cream on the top of our scones.

I don't have my mum or my sister here, but I am excited about sharing this childhood treat with Sylvain. I'm sure he'll love it ;)

Nearly there

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Weeks upon weeks of work is to be sent off today, and I'll spend all day tomorrow biting my nails in stress, hoping that all goes well at the printer - the adage "no news is good news" certainly rings true in my line of work, as they generally only call me when there is some sort of problem.

To congratulate myself, I'm "bridging" this weekend - with the public holiday on Thursday, I'm taking Friday off, and making it a well-deserved (if I do say so myself) 4-day weekend.

But before that happens, I have to traipse down to the Post Office in this unexpected thunderstorm (unexpected only because I didn't check the weather this morning), in my inappropriate skirt and even more inappropriate open-toed shoes.

Whatever it takes - rain hail or shine, I just want to get this out of my hands.


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Vanity bag and kitty

My birthday just doesn't want to stop! Thanks Alexis for the fantabulously fun vanity case (and the jelly crystals - I promise I'll do you proud)! (PLUS this gives you a good idea of how tiny Symphony really is!

The Mad Hatter


Technique for remembering what accents go where #452356 :

Château has a chapeau!

Murmuring this to oneself does not give colleagues the right to fall into giggle fits.

Easy Japanesey


You know what makes me cranky?

Getting told "no" by my husband when I decide that I want to go out for Japanese noodles for lunch on Saturday. Then getting told "no, I want to take a nap" when I want to go out and enjoy the afternoon May sunshine.

And you know what makes the crankyness go away?

Finding out that three little chickadees have conspired with the aforementioned husband to make a surprise visit (thus the reason behind all the "nos", because I had to be kept at home), complete with birthday presents and a girly outing to Parisian shops and dinner at the Yasube japanese restaurant in rue Saint-Anne (deliciousness! We actually tried to go to Bennelong Australian restaurant in the 4th, but sadly, it's closed).

On Sunday, we continued to "profit from the situation" whilst she was still in town, and flitted around Paris again, where she and I enjoyed corrupting her advising her on shoe purchases, eating icecream and sitting in the sun.

Yay for fun!

Spot the inflatable cow

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Spot the inflatable cow


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This page is an archive of entries from May 2005 listed from newest to oldest.

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