As John’s a liittle bit of a pansy and goes to yoga on a Thursday evening (I still can’t get over this) I waited outside his flat for about an hour in the rain. At approximately 845pm on the horizon I could see this skinny yet dapper young man with fluffy hair approaching me with one bottle of banana Yazoo in his left hand and a bottle of chocolate Yazoo in the right (he must have known I was coming). Despite the fact I was sat on the bonnet of his car, he walked straight past me supposedly thinking I was some psycho woman lurking (but didn’t do anything about it nonetheless)... a cheeky “oi” and he soon realized.
After all the romantic shizzle, my main priority was to get An Idiot Abroad on the tele and get on the phone to Dominos Pizza and get us the standard: large veg-a-roma without mushrooms and the complimentary chicken strippers with garlic and herb dip. Winner! Not saying that was in my list of top 5 reasons to go home but… I re-established my ownership of the right side of the bed and had an amazing sleep knowing that the following day I would see the one and only LAZ and experience her mighty roast dinner.. Laz “What shall I do with the gravy?” Jamie “Well you know that thing you usually do?” Laz “Yeah? Jamie “Not that” Teeell him…
The next morning Tubs and I probably had the standard really-early-morning-conversation-that-probably-shouldn’t-be-legal ("I'm soooooooo short" "Don't start") and I made my way to Caldicot. At the Severn Tunnel Junction train station I was greeted by Laz in her EXQUISITE new car – Volkswagen Beetle. Hugs with the fam, a long-awaited bubble bath/jacuzzi, a big catch up and a roast made for an amazing afternoon at home. This was followed by an amazing week with John including The Plan café (for SCONES and teaaa!), a record fair, vintage shops including trying on coats that were double the size of me, Cardiff bay steam train driven by the Welshest man on this earth; "we just gotta drop off at Dales house on way back, to give him 'is ice-cream milk alri guys", a massively overdue catch-up with my longlost uni friends including milkshakes, BEANS ON TOAST, and the Duck Song. The rest of the week included a second roast, Spaghetti bolognaise feasts, naps, Jamie’s Italian, shopping with Mama and general Cardiff embracing...
Back in mighty France, after arriving running into the airport cupping my face as my nose had decided to implode mid-flight and I was sans tissues, I managed to sick in my mouth (we’ve all been there) on the way to the dreaded 830 lecture, fall over and land in a muddy puddle (resulting in a lot of banter for my “slutty knees”) all within half an hour – I DO NOT do mornings!
Went to
Went to
Fell over on a bus and landed in a woman’s lap who didn’t seem to find it half as funny as I did (probably because in the process I managed to trample all over her shopping). No one else on the bus seemed to find it funny either, I think I was the stupid English girl who can’t even walk on a bus unaided let alone speak their language, “oh fuck sorry”. Although amusing, it was very fluster-provoking for all involved.
Realisations that: French people are very openly nosey; my life plan has changed a considerable amount; a select amount of my friends here in
New career prospect: open up a laverie/laundry – all you have to do is buy a few washing machines, whack ‘em in a shabby little shop, don’t do anything, be nowhere to be seen and be of no assistance whatsoever if the bloody secheur (dryer) decides not to work when a poor foreign girl has just paid £2 (a lot in student terms), charge an extortionate amount and make a fortune.
Us Anglais here in
Too frequently, I find myself resembling one of those “bag ladies” you see lurking about, sometimes with a trolley, other times with just masses of bags. The days that I do my shopping, or washing I always seem to 1) look like absolute merde 2) overestimate my strength, and number of arms for that matter. So I often find myself acquiring a limp with a bag somewhat attached to my leg, using it to support one bag whilst the others are either strangling me or stopping blood circulation in my arms. So there we are, I look like shit, I have a limp, and I carry lots of bags: I may as well be a tramp. I think it goes without saying that whole fabulous idea has pretty much been abandoned...
Although I am completely against the concept of creating facebook groups, one did come to mind the other day whilst in my evening class “Shutup and keep your fucking hand down in lecture. No one cares”. They are all SO keen.
If you've seen my facebook status you will know that currently it reads “Always nice to know/HEAR that the couple next door are “getting theirs” FIVE TIMES A DAY”. And no, I do not mean fruit. I pray to God he acquires some sort of erectile dysfunction by the time my Mum comes to visit this time next week. (Just as I finished this sentence they starting going at it again) About 3 weeks ago, I was up all night scared to death and had to call the police because I heard a woman screaming and a man shouting yet couldn’t work out who/what it was. I thought it was mighty odd that Paul (guy whose family I live with) didn’t come down to check if I was okay when the police arrived... now it all makes perfect sense ; no wonder they’ve got six bloody kids.
Right, they've bloody started again so i'm off to go and bang on the wall... a bientot.
