La Verre du Vin SVP

Paris seems a million miles away, well, at least 350 or so.

Last night we very almost missed our Eurostar home after Steve insisted on buying another bottle of Champagne from the supermarket. Unfortunately for us, with only 45 minutes to spare and a 20 minute cab drive to Gar de Nord, the old lady in front of us in the queue decided to have a mentalist attack at the checkout, and declared, piece by piece, that ‘someone has smuggled these things into my shopping basket, they are NOT mine’ (in French of course). After off-loading her entire trolley painstakingly, whilst cursing under her breath she then had a moment of clarity and realised that ‘silly me, they are my things after all’. Even though we were very likely to miss our (non-refundable ticket) train, we still found this hilarious.

Right then, Paris.

So, on Saturday night we went to the bar where Sex and the City was filmed, if you’re ever in Paris head to the massive Kenzo store go into the building, hit 5th floor on the lift (it’s not marked, it’s far too cool for that) and enter the world of Uber Parisian posing.

Don’t expect to be smiled at, or to be spoken to in English and expect to be given the once over by everyone in turn, repeatedly. Luckily, I was feeling fairly comfortable with being a chic Londoner in this Parisien haunt, so I held my head high and strutted around as best as I could muster, which as it turned out, was pretty good.

Several Bellinis later I was propped up at the bar, being well, one can only describe oneself as ‘a right f**king twat’. I don’t know what got into me, apart from the Bellinis. At about 10pm we were shown to our dinner table, an amazing glass domed affair at the top of the building and truly a stunning place to eat…if only I hadn’t have been too drunk to appreciate it. I had a yummy lobster and crab ravioli for starters and then king Gambas for my main, and we bickered throughout the entire meal. Hurrah. Totally my fault- I didn’t think the food was very good. Infact my main was downright DULL. When we left I was so drunk I can barely remember sitting in a bar called ‘Jade’, or getting home (or apparently getting lost on the way home and crying).

At some point I smashed a glass in the bedroom and cut my foot as the room and towels were covered in blood in the morning. I called Steve a c**t for no reason and was generally an embarrassment and an idiot! I'm almost 30, it's disgraceful.

Goes without saying that an almighty slice of humble pie was eaten on Sunday morning, and I trailed around feeling very sorry for myself after several encounters with Le head in le throne. What a looser. Steve delighted in the tables being turned, and took the piss constantly for the rest of our time away, which was to be fair, well deserved.

Anyway, we did the Eiffel Tower- waste of bloody time, but the ice creams at the bottom were great. It was much nicer sitting in the sun drenched park at the bottom, watching the world go buy, eating baguettes and strawberries and listening to the little quartet clarinet, violin, flute and miscellaneous instrument who were jamming under the tree for many hours.

We then went to see Mona….felt obliged really. She has her very own wall, and really is quite small, but lovely all the same. A little shopping on the Champs Elysee and then off to dinner on the Left Bank in the Latin Quarter, place called Reminnet. Absolutely fantastic snails and some very very rare Thon (tuna). If you ever go to Paris, you must go…but you also must book as it’s one of the most popular traditional restaurants and it’s very tiny.

We managed to avoid any of the political rumblings as a result of Sarkosy being elected and on the whole had a wonderful time away….the crazy granny was just the icing on a very yummy cake.

And as if I hadn’t put on about 3 stone in the past 3 days with excessive pastry consumption, Steve and I are off to our fave haunt, Chez Bruce again tonight. Not gratuitously I hasten to add, his long suffering mum is over from Spain and it’s a belated 30th bday celebration, I’m just along for the ride. Yum. I think I am becoming a proper bonafide foody

Bonjour. Je suis in Paris

Oui, je suis dans Paris....and do you know what is doing my head in, I want to write lots of funny stories but it isnt a qwerty keyboard; so aint no good at all for a touch typer who doesnt look at her keys......painful. Its taking me ten minutes per line.

Got to Paris fine after an early start. Steve has booked us into the resturant where Sex and the City was filmed called Kong tonight for dinner. Proper posing spot. The Time Out guide says...wear lots of labels and expect to be scrutinised! Hmmmmm, I hope the food is good. At least there will be loads to look at and laugh at....including le grand bill by the sound of it!

My GCSE french is doing me proud......un verre du vin, and prenez le premier rue a guache...hooray! Spelling is shite as ever though.

I gave in and wrote Dan V a text message today to tell him its time he started realising when hes onto a good thing and not to think about our time together with sugar coated glasses as it was the worst year of my life. I think thats fairly clear. Time to sleep off lunchtime Sancerre and then hit le tower eiffel.

Right off to eat an awesome looking tart aux framboise.

Far too much fun!

I just don’t know where to start today I have soooo much information to pass on to you all. I’m practically on the edge of my seat and trying to type so fast, it keeps coming out like the policeman in ‘allo allo’.

I have had the most amazing 24hrs, starting off with a visit last night to Primark in Marble Arch. It was awesome, you have to have nerves of steel to spend more than 5 minutes in that place. Thankfully, it’s open til 9pm all weekday evenings, so I stupidly thought that it might be a little bit quieter and more manageable. Oh no! It was utterly rammed.

I walked in and felt my pupils dilate. My heart started to race. I looked from shelf to shelf, mentally ticking off what I had vs. what I needed.

There were boys in there pinned to the wall in terror, wide eyed and clammy looking.

Girls were marching around, swinging their circular bouncy shopping baskets ruthlessly with occasional side swipes at adjacent shoppers to prevent them getting hold of the last size 10. I fixed my desires on a little white shift dress with some embroidery at the top and started working my way through a 4 metre long rail of them, size 14, size 16, size 14, size 18….where’s the itty bitty sizes? All gone. And then….AH HA! I spotted one stray size 10 at the end of another aisle, misplaced, and I approach it, with stealth and speed, and reach to grab it and then some really molly, dowdy bird places her hand over mine, fixes her stern glare on me and says, “I put that there, don’t even THINK about taking it”…you’d have never believed it.

Realising that it was no more Mrs Nice Ali, I proceeded to barge, push and elbow my way to a basketful of fantastic goodies. It was the only way. I came out triumphant with a bag containing two pairs of shoes, (one ‘must have’ of the season, silver diamonte, leather backed gladiator sandals), two shift dresses, one black, one white, some new undies for weekend away in Paris (slutty, turquoise and black) a belt, a scarf, two t-shirts and lots more. And the total cost, £55. Afterwards I felt as if I was going through a terrible comedown, flat and tired and aching, but I’d had my Primark fix and that was the main thing.

My other AMAZING news is that by some weird coincidence, the ex-boyfriend who I told you about yesterday, yes the very same one who called me a f**king sp*stic, sent me a text today. And it wasn’t just any old text it was a text of pure genius which has kept me entertained the whole afternoon. I’m not going to protect him, he doesn’t deserve it. The text asked, in not a very roundabout way, whether I would like to don a very short skirt and knee hi boots (a la Stacey from ‘Enders) and meet him for ‘drinks and naughtiness’.

Proper full on belly laughter after initial horror and deep shock. Is he joking? He can’t be serious. Someone must have stolen his phone? Surely. So I do what any normal girl would do. I investigate. It turns out he’s living with his girlfriend, they are still together but they are going through a rocky patch, lots of arguing and it wasn’t too tough to discover that they haven’t apparently had any s*x now for 6 weeks, hence the text presumably.

I am so offended that he thinks that I am the kind of girl who would ever even consider going within a mile of him after the way he treated me. Add to that the fact that his poor girlfriend is no doubt enduring the kind of behaviour I suffered and rather than end it, he’s texting his ex’s in the vague hope one of them might turn out to be stupid enough to say yes. I’m so excited at the prospect of wiping the floor with him, but I need a little inspiration. My friends are saying arrange to meet him in a very expensive pre-booked hotel room and then of course don’t turn up and send a message through reception saying “enjoy your £250 wank you looser”. I’m not sure he’s worth the effort. Ah, my life is so much fun at times.

Of course I sent the text straight to Steve so he can have a damn good chuckle at my ex’s expense and I know he’ll just LOVE it. Perhaps I could write back and say, ‘oh, that’s such a shame, I’m just off to Paris for a dirty weekend with my boyfriend who actually does want to sh*g me, and I’ve brought some lovely new underwear and short skirts especially for the occasion’.

And finally…as if this posting hasn’t been action packed enough, I stumbled across the ANNUAL ALL SAINTS SAMPLE SALE…in caps as this is just so fucking exciting you won’t believe it. I’m not going to tell you where it was as I think that would make it less cool, although I will say it was in an unmarked, underground location at the Vibe Bar end of Brick Lane. Oh my god, one offs of the most beautiful things and torture as I only had 10 mins to look around when it really needed several hours if not more.

Suffice to say I picked up a one off prototype black top for £10, which no-one else will be wearing and it’s proper gorgeous.

Off to Paris tomorrow morning, out for Cocktails in a bar on Clapham Junction tonight. It’s all go go go. Love it.

Let's bowl, Let's bowl!

Last night, we bowled. And it was really fun, and I enjoyed myself. I took on my random ‘right handed bowling despite being a left hander’ and managed to get 3 strikes….yes 3! The rest ended up in the gutter, but who cares; let’s focus on the glory moments.

It has to be said, I have been slightly apprehensive about bowling in recent years and this is probably, well, certainly, down to a little incident I had with my ex boyfriend, affectionately known as Danny V.

One lovely weekend during our tumultuous relationship we visited Coventry to see some of his old university friends. In total 3 couples. The Sunday was rainy and overcast so we decided to go bowling to pass the time. Bowling, in our couples in a little competition seemed a light hearted and fun thing to do, so off we went. Me and Danny V against the world.

From then, my memories are a little fuzzy and clouded due to my extreme anger. Being a left hander, and a confused one at that, I was bowling with a different hand each time, just to mix it up a little. My first few bowls were pretty good, I knocked down a few pins and at one point even picked up a spare. Then it came to Dan’s turn. He whizzed up the erm ‘path’, and powered the ball down the alley with an expect flick of the wrist, completed by a gay and rather jaunty little flicked up leg, kind of crossed over the other one at the back. You’ve watched King Pin, you know what I’m on about.

Strike one! We’re in the lead. Jubilation, hi-fives and happy beaming smiles. It’s then that Danny V drops into conversation that he was in fact ‘Under Fifteens County Bowling Champion’ for East Sussex. No wonder he was keen to go bowling, bloody show off. I felt quite proud in a way, and it was nice to be on the winning team. The only slight problem being that the ‘winning’ part, depended partly on me, keeping our end up.

Unfortunately, it turned out my bowling was sporadic at best and the more under pressure I felt, the worse I became, until eventually I was sidling up the alley, red faced, slumped shoulders and dejectedly dumping my ball on the lane and watching it gradually mooch along to it’s inevitable conclusion, the gutter. I really wasn’t having any fun at all. And then, something happened. I turned around and saw Dan’s cheeks, flushed with anger, and all of a sudden he lost it. Big time.

He shouted at the top of his voice, in the megabowl, at around 2.35pm, surrounded by 11years old….

’"Ali, you’re a f**king sp*stic!!!!"

I don’t think I need to continue this posting, or comment, but all I need to say is that the relationship ground to a swift halt soon after. And I wasn’t the one in tears. Loser.

Wedding...shocker.

***NEWSFLASH***

More for my personal ‘release’ than because anyone’s at all interested, but I’ve just spoken to Steve and it seems there’s been a ‘dramatic’ change of events.

Well, drama might be overselling it somewhat, but basically, Steve spoke to his mum, who’s spoken to Lara and it seems that the concept of staying clean for a year before getting married has gone right out of the window….in that they are getting married….in August, this year.

Steve’s mum, as you’d expect, has booked a flight to come over and try and dissuade her from going through with it. Considering they’ve been hammered pretty much since the minute they landed, they aren’t in the best frame of mind to be making such a decision, and equally, clearly aren’t going to help each other with their addictions. He’s obviously only with her for her money and was hankering to get a ring on her finger the second he got wind of how much she’s worth. And unfortunately, she’s too naïve and silly to see through it and question that he doesn’t appear to have her best interests at heart.

So, the dilemma we face is that if she goes through with it, do we go? Do we attend this (I hate to say it, but) mockery of a wedding, between two people who have known each other 5 months and spent most of that inebriated or threatening to kill one another, or running away with each others credit cards, or getting arrested. I don’t want to stand and hear them repeat vows which are meaningless, and try as I might I can’t see this as anything other than an additional complication in the grand scheme of Lara’s life. She’s always been desperate for a man in her life, and she wants children, but she needs to face facts that until she’s a little bit better, she’s simply not in the position to be a part of a positive, constructive relationship. Clinging to this in the vain hope that it will work out is deluded. Am I being mean? I just feel angry that once more, through her lack of thought and reason, she’s causing more worry and heartache to her long suffering family.

Grrrrrr.

It's a cute infestation...honest!

Last night I went out and it's fair to say I got a leeeeeetle bit drunk.

I arrived home to find Steve in his suit in the kitchen, clasping a burger, (so I knew he was similarly tanked) and Andrew, his lodger, in his bed gear. They were both staring at the kitchen floor in silence. At first I thought maybe they were in the midst of an arguement but it turns out, the reason they were stood there is because Andrew had spotted a mouse.

To be honest, I'm not an overly squeamish girl, and mice don't upset me in the slightest. Unless they are eating my food, which is never a good thing for anyone to do, man or beast. I told them that all we had to do was move all of the food in the bottom cupboards up to the top ones, give them a decent bleach/clean, and then get some little mice traps to catch the cute little blighters. Steve looked at me with big drunk sad eyes and asked what we'd do with them when we caught them, and, noting his distress, I told him we'd release them in small nuclear family groups (how do you sex mice? ) onto the common where they could frolic and play and mate and eat cheese to their hearts content.

So we discussed the options of catching them. Andrew said that these days, traps don’t necessarily contain poison but instead entice them into a little box with some cheese like in the cartoons (a ‘mouse house’ if you will). Alternatively you can get ones with super sticky sheets of paper which they literally stick to. I’m not a fan of this idea as for me it’s like making a mice live out a nightmare. You know the ones when something awful is happening and you try and run, and can’t. I’m not putting them through that. At least with ‘the little box’ you can put something cosy in there so that after they eat the cheese they can have a little snooze before their release.

I can tell what’s going to happen. We’re going to end up with Milly, Molly, Martin, Melvin, Morris, Mini and Morticia the mice, with their own room in the flat. It’ll be mouse friendly, with a bed made of cheese and lots of tiny brushes for whisker grooming, and tiny wheels to spin around for exercise and, well, you get the picture.

And then we can just open the flat up as a nature reserve and people can come and marvel at the moths and the mice and all of nature’s wonderful creatures. Ah-men.

Over dinner talk

Last night us ladies went out and did what ladies do best, eat loads of curry (it’s amazing how we can scoff when there’s no men around and we don’t have to pretend to be demure- Gavin has seen this dark side on more than one occasion I suspect).

During our curry munch-athon we caught up at great gusto, trying to cover off as many topics as possible in between bites of chicken and mouthfuls of rice. The most striking conversation for me was a dilemma one of our mates is going through at the moment, namely, she has picked up an STI from someone and really doesn’t know who. As Lindsey pointed out, ‘it could be anyone’ which prompted me to spit out a piece of my poppadum (it wasn’t meant THAT way) but she had a point. The thing with the STI in question is that you really wouldn’t know you had it, until you were tested. Just so happened one of her ex’s notified her that he had this affliction and accused her of being the infector. Outrageous. The thing is, he had the symptoms so was likely to have had it for longer, hence, HE was the infector (this may well be tenuous, but us girls stick together you know).

Anyway, what got me pondering was if I was in this position, how would I feel about the prospect of phoning around my ex’s and telling them about this rather delicate situation. How on earth is it best coped with?

The ‘You f**king f**ker approach’

‘I thought you ought to know you are diseased and have in turn poisoned me with your germs, you are the scum of the earth”

The ‘hands-up- approach

‘It turns out I seem to have Chlamydia and therefore, I’m afraid there’s a fairly strong chance that you have as well. Sorry old chap.

The ‘sitting on the fence approach’

‘I’m just phoning to tell you that I have this STI, I’m not sure how I got it, or who gave it to who, but it seems reasonable enough to suspect that you might have it also, so you’d better get checked just in case.’

The gutless approach (best administered by a text- even better if the text is sent anon)

‘I Think you’ve got Chlamydia, why? Because I have. Get checked.’

My favourite is the top one, but I know, faced with this situation (because this REALLY is a friend, and not me, honest….I’d tell you) I’d take the easy, softy, namby pamby route and hope that it wasn’t me. I guess the moral of the story here is, you never know what people have been up to and with whom, so the best bet, whatever kind of relationship or otherwise, is get checked regularly…you’re probably saving yourself a whole load of admin in the long run. I know we hate to think it, but people do cheat on each other….and men, are. Well. Men.