Je manque la France!

Thursday 12th August

I have fallen in love. His name is 'Monte Carlo' and he is rich and beautiful (and also a city). I cant quite tell what is so desirable about things I cannot afford, but looking at the Hermitage Hotel with its pallet of coloured ferraris parked outside, really is giving money a whole new value.

It's in these sort of situations where all sensible life plans of becoming a power-woman and working your way up the ladder are thrown out of the window, and are instead replaced by lust for every 60+ male behind the wheel of a Porshe in a Chanel Homme suit.

Monte Carlo @ Night

Regardless of how I'll feel when I return to my River Island bag and Berksha dress, I personally am quite enjoying the money cladden streets of Monte Carlo, just savouring the look of my (obviously too poor) reflection in the Cartier windows . . .

Top three things I hate en ce moment:
1) short tempers
2) childish behavior
3) unreliability

Ironically, I fall under all three categories.

Errrr okay!
Got shoved off the tramway (not physically, thank god) because of a BOMB?! Ergo, all the roads we need to use are closed. Been forced to wander around the alleys of the city like homeless tramps, aimlessly trying to discover some other form of transport that would take us up to the tip of the hill, which on foot, would average to an hours journey (okay, maybe add an extra half hour for every over 40 member in the group . . .)

My last night in France really could be something to remember.

Note to self: Mojito's = bleughhh

Friday 13th August
"chacun accorde une valeur différente à ce l'entoure" . . . Is what the poster opposite me reads. Either I'm dreaming in a foreign language, or I'm sat in a French airport. Due to it being the 13th,
I'll go with the latter. Friday the 13th, what a fab day to fly.

Not that I can say I'm morbidly supersticious. I'm surprised actually that the government hasn't tried to assert it's PC onto supersticions (or maybe they're still having fun with nursery rhymes) seeing as one of the main ones is to avoid black cats . . . Sorry, you're not turning into 'rainbow' mamals JUST yet.

It's hard to concentrate on what to write, when my main focus seems to be trying to find fresh, unscented air for my nostrils (I always was a sucker for the duty free perfume shops!)
It's even harder to not turn bright red with all the people staring at me as well. Sure, my Urban Outfitters purse/passport combo comes in handy in these sort of situations, as the obvious GB flag screams: "DONT talk to me in a foreign language". However I can't say that I'm enjoying the looks and stares the majority of the terminal are throwing me. Last time I looked I didn't have the same giant flag plastered across my forehead . . . "Theyre just jealous" is the usual
phrase that gets used in these sort of situations; and yet still I'm struggling to work out HOW exactly that is applicable for the middle aged man sat across from me . . .

Screw this, where are the shops?! I see a colour changing sign, with labels and an arrow on it. Do I dare risk losing my perrctly good, no one around me, comfy chair, in risk of finding some nice Miu Miu sunglasses? Yes yes.

No such luck with sunglasses. Just alcohol shops and a Bradley Cooper look-a-like. Shit, must have followed the sign to heaven . . .

So here I am! Home from the sexiest country in the world; the producer of French Kissing, and here I am, having just returned, burning my tongue on slightly congealed chicken supernoodles - sexy?

Had to make the essential de-tour to Tescos on the way home from the airport.
I saw on GMTV that what you have in your trolley/basket, or in my optimistic case, hands, says a lot about you. Sort of like a 'you are what you eat' type thing.

I was carrying:
-Chicken SuperNoodles
-Dreamy Skin Moisturiser
-Maple Pecans

. . . so I'm a fatty. But a fatty with nice smelling, nice touching, nice looking skin.

"Do you have a clubcard?" . . . "No."

I'd love to continue, but my nails have had some serious re-growth, and my now plastic witch nails are making typing ridiculously difficult - and for once, the bad spelling cant be blamed on alcohol (note to self: mojito's = really, really, really bleughhh).

With only a week until results day, and only 17 hours till work, I suppose I'd better get a crack on with my life. I'm sure I left some Malibu in the fridge . . .


  1. Friendly comment, your article should be titled "la France me manque!"

    Your title is "France misses me" ;)