Previously on AMC’s The Walking Dead.

Is probably my most overheard phrase of the week. I just can’t get enough, but also I am bursting with ennui like a goose pumped with lard and entrails ready for the pâté mincer. How’s that for a cute simile. Went to see a spectacle the other day, was these two magical nomadic witchy type ladies singing provincial songs, was pretty sensually assaulting if I’m being some sort of honest emo. Also got a job for the week flyering for classical music concerts at the Grand Théâtre that I’ll never be able to legitimately attend, but there’s something satisfying about hustling bits of paper under condescending noses with a grubby peasant smile. Prematurely contemplating what I want to bring home comme souvenir, one thing I have fallen moronically in love with is wasabi crisps. They’d be too fragile and important for the suitcase so I can see myself going through customs with them strapped to my torso and saying “c’est explosif!”  like a hilarious publicity stunt.

Why do I never write about anything relevant? You’d think that reading a year abroad blog about France would be at least partly informative or enlightening. Pardonnez-moi.

Eternal.

Unfranced

Sacre bleu it has been quite a long time (well it hasn’t really has it I’m being a drama queen) as time seems to drag here. Besides going back to saafampton for a week to ambush the housemates with a full-head pig mask and getting clobbered startledly like an unexpected piñata, I haven’t really been up to much on this side of the channel. I bought a ‘cocktail de legumes’ the other day at the supermarket instead of the old multifruits mélange; a rampant amalgamation of tomatoes, carrots, yellow pepper, beetroot, cucumber and ONION. Curiosity destroyed the cat, I don’t think my tastebuds have forgiven me yet, although in hindsight if I’d just heated it up it probably would just have been soup. Will I ever learn to stop trying new things? It remains to be seen.

I honestly can’t remember anything noteworthy about France since the last post (except LOSING THE RUGBY) so I won’t try. When I got to London at 1am though I planned to mull around at the 24h McDonalds in Victoria Station (which I had wisely presearched) until my 5.30am train from Waterloo – only to discover that stations close between 1 and 3am. Shivering and oozing mucus and tears in a pussylike manner round Westminster with only the unsympathetic bundles of homelessness for company, I contemplated inhabiting a night bus to Tooting Bec for a few hours or trying my luck being the little spoon of one of the destitute bundles. I wandered lonely as a clood until I saw a sign that almost made me religious: 24h Accident and Emergency.  And that is how I spent the night for free in central London at St Thomas’ Hospital, damn did I feel like a smug bitch.

Oh also in France I went to Nice which was agreeable and saw a non-existent carnival and ate a chickpea pancake. It’s sunny here too nerrnerrnerrr. Time for Chinese revision, my noodle is feeling dim sum.

(… sorry)