Mon Retour

I’M BACK! After a whole month of being back on my native shores I am finally back in the land of frogs’ legs, cheese eating surrender monkeys and croissants. Naturally I have been welcomed back by no internet in my flat. How very kind and thoughtful of them! So I have reinstalled myself in Starbucks in much the same fashion as I did when I first moved out here except with larger coffees and more pastries.

So I got back last night after having had to sit next to the most annoying romantic break couple in the history of the universe. Luckily I bought myself some AMAZING headphones which blocked out their canoodaling (thank goodness for the wonders of TKMaxx and not having to pay full price) and my books of choice was Thank You Jeeves so at no point did I feel like I was plummeting into the depths of despair.

Instead of getting the RER back into town I decided on the bus as it has a much better aroma than the train plus you get to look out at much more interesting scenery. Indeed one scenic benefit of getting the bus as opposed to the train is that the graffiti is much better. The stuff you see from the train is very average I comparison to the surprisingly good Simpsons characters I saw last night as the bus wound through the Parisian suburbs. This was all helped along by a good soundtrack of superb Diana Ross classics such as Upside Down – in truth I must have looked truly bizarre bopping around in a disco fashion.

Backtracking a little bit here but I really do have to tell you about the taxi driver I had to the airport from lunch. Now I don’t have a good track record when talking to taxi drivers, in fact recently one tried to tell me that I didn’t sound like I came from the Wirral even though I’ve lived there all of my life….. But this one was alright after the usual chat inquiring as to where I was travelling etc and him asking me all sorts of questions about living in France namely what the weather was like and if I’m fluent in French. We also touched on the subject of how awful we both are at German. When we arrived at the wondrous John Lennon Airport (some people don’t believe me when I say that Liverpool named its airport after a Beatle but trust me it’s true) he commented on how delightful it was to talk to me – I may not be cursed with annoying taxi drivers after all!

All Change On The 7th Floor

So today was my last day working. I’m feeling more emotional about leaving the job than I thought I would be. I did have to hold back the tears as I finally left by the backdoor – but even on my final day working I was treated like a servant, bet this kind of behaviour doesn’t happen on Downton….

The change started earlier this week when I went to sign for my new flat. Yes, soon I will be living with other human beings who aren’t related to me by blood so won’t just put up with my one word grumblings in the morning- scary I know. It feels quite odd to leave my little attic up here in the skies. I suppose most people feel melancholic when they move out of the first place they had on their own. I’ve had some good memories and some bad ones here (the bad ones mostly being when the WiFi doesn’t work and I have to decamp to Starbucks).

I feel less bad about leaving my weird angular abode due to the new neighbour situation. Since about March there has been another English girl living down the corridor, which has been… how can I put this…erm…interesting?! She likes to run down the corridors and ring my shrill doorbell at odd hours to get some toilet roll for the communal toilet (which I’m still rather smug that I don’t have to use). This sets us up quite nicely for next part of this sorry tale.

After having bumped into said neighbour earlier in the day who told me that she was leaving the next day I assumed that the person ringing my doorbell at 11h15 in the evening might be the one neighbour I actually know. So I pulled on a hoody over my really rather attractive trackie bottoms and what I can only describe as an interesting hairstyle, mostly piled on the top of my heads in a wet and wavy mess. Turns out it wasn’t said neighbour. How embarrassing. Not as embarrassing as it was for the -what I can only describe as overgrown child - who had actually rung my doorbell and it turns out everyone else’s doorbells. The answer to the question “Am I disturbing you?” when posed to me after 10pm is usually “But of course you are, I’m watching MasterChef you crazy fool”. This wasn’t what I replied with but I feel I portrayed it with the expression on my face. I seem to have improved my steely glare since moving to Paris and it has never been more useful than this particular moment. So this young boy proceeds to ask me about who I have as a WiFi provider even though I had already said that I was asleep when he rang the bell. I must admit that whatever I did say to him must have seemed like the angry crazed ramblings of a mad woman because my French comes out as a weird mix of words I’ve only just managed to string together in my head.

Unfortunately there are still far too many mosquitoes here though – for more information about my recent problems with insect bites please see my twitter feed where I think I have spoken about this subject perhaps a little too much. I was trying to beef up my arm muscles a little bit but the handily placed swellings have made me look like Arnold Schwarzenegger on a bad day. (Sorry for that horrific image).

Returning to my last day of working, it started with me standing at the school gates for the very last time (or at least until my next nannying job). Half the children pouring out of the doors were crying because they didn’t want to leave school, well either that or the were coming down off the sugar high which had been induced by the extraordinary amount of sweets small kids think they can eat on the last day of school.

What happened in-between me arriving at their flat and leaving was of little consequence so I will only tell you dear readers of my departure. Both of the kids came to see me out, half the time they can’t be bothered so it was rather sweet that they actually wanted to say goodbye. L gave me the biggest hug and just looked me in the eye and said “It’s been a good year”. Now I’m not one to get overly emotional at things (one of the only films I’ve cried at was Gladiator) but I did have to hold back the salty droplets forming in my eyes. J kept saying “Goodbye” along with “Merry Christmas”, “Happy Paques” and “Happy Birthday”, which they both knew to be 1^st August (I have trained them well, haven’t I?) They even tried to walk up the stairs with me but stopped as soon as I threatened to pack one of them in my suitcase and take them back to the UK with me.

I never thought that I’d be particularly good at looking after kids but it seems to have worked out quite well at least no one hurt themselves while under my supervision and J now knows how to say “anticonstitutionally” which is a word in French but the translation doesn’t really scan that well.

Maybe I will get another English teaching job or maybe I’ll find something different but despite the frustration this one has given me, it has also given me some hilarious anecdotes indeed far too many to put on this blog. I will home at this time in 5 days and I’m not back in Paris until mid-August to go and move into the new apartment. I guess what I’m trying to say is that there will probably be a bit of radio silence from now until then. So it’s over and out from me until then. 

Mornings in Paris

No not a post channelling the creative atrocity that was Woody Allen’s film “Midnight In Paris” but a charming reflection on my past year that I had sat in a café waiting for an appointment at the British Embassy Consular Services building.   

I thought it was pretty apt today to upload this post as it is the day after the Wirral Grammar Leavers Ball and therefore (almost) exactly a year since my mum woke me up with the words “A chic French woman has left a voicemail for you!!” I waited nervously all day for her to ring me back and was ready at any moment to run away from getting my make-up/hair done to go and be amazingly charming and try to sound responsible. The call back didn’t happen for a few days but I did get the job which I’m just a week away from finishing.

I’ve been trying to get lots of things done in my last few weeks before I return to the UK in 11 days’ time. For starters, we had to sort a flat for August to move into with my two sidekicks in general Parisian filled frivolities. I also had to get an extension on my passport so that I could return to the cloudy shores of my homeland once again. Both of these things required getting up relatively early. As many people might be aware this is not something I am particularly good at. I tend to need a good cup of coffee and some kind of baked goods inside me before I can make any kind of intelligent conversation. So this is what I vowed to do.

First of all on Tuesday I had to go and get some groceries as my fridge had become seriously lacking in the food department. Things were getting serious – I had almost run out of both green beans and chocolate (two things I have started to rely on as food staples but not necessarily in the same dish). I made my way to Franprix which I knew opened at 8am but when I got there they had nothing on the shelves. “Monoprix would never allow this kind of shoddy business practice” I said to myself so I walked there post-haste. The ever wonderful and omnipotent Monoprix however was not open. But never fear there were many cafes nearby for me to purchase piping hot espresso and croissant in true Parisian style. So as I sat there watching the world go by and laughing at the silly Americans sat next to me I had a little think. Usually I don’t dabble in such dangerous matters but I was having a happy-go-lucky day so carried on in my pensive mood.

This year has been pretty good really. I’ve passed all of the modules of my first year of university. I’ve managed to live on my own without burning down the building or having to go to A&E. SOPPY ALERT: I’ve made some really awesome friends. Not the fake kind, but the kind of friends who will pass embarrassing photos of you round the lecture theatre but also the kinds of friends who offer to bring stuff round when your ill and ring you up out of the blue to organise a night out on the tiles.

The rest of my day was fairly uneventful but it did include a bit of sunbathing and reading James Bond so it was pretty epic really.

I also managed to combine the eating of baked goods with having to go to extend my passport. A task that I was slightly daunted by but it needed doing so it was going to be done. The fact that I was half an hour early for my appointment didn’t deter me, but the fact that the building didn’t open for another half an hour was a slight issue so I had a cheeky little wander. I haven’t really explored the 8^th arrondissement all that much which is a shame because it is gorgeous! I managed to scrap together all of the cents I had in my bag to go and grab a pain au chocolat and sit watching all of the goings on in the beautiful designer shops and the up-market hotels. Extending my passport was simple enough – I finally feel like a proper traveller now because I have a funky stamp in my passport.

The Au Pair's Guide to Babysitting

Before coming to Paris to take up a job as resident professional babysitter I had only ever done it once previously. I wouldn’t even begin to say that I think I have the art of looking after children down to a fine art after doing it for 9 months but I’m certainly starting to wise up to all the intricacies of getting two dangerously devious girls to do what I say. Here are my words of wisdom:-

1.       Make sure they know the boundaries. For example my girls know that I’ll let them stay up a little bit later if they don’t disturb me when I’m totally immersed in Game Of Thrones because if not they will incur my wrath. Something that is never pretty on a Saturday night when I could be out having fun.

2.       Don’t snitch on each other. I’ll tell your mum that you went to bed without a fuss and at the designated hour if you don’t let on that I’ve eaten most of the crisps. And drunk all the tea. And eaten most of the Percy Pigs.

3.       If I’ve let you watch Desperate Housewives past your bedtime (which coincidentally is really badly dubbed but it such a way that it’s even funnier) then you have to slowly glide from the living room into your own bedroom with the stealth of a leopard when your parents come through the front door – something I never perfected as a child.

4.       My solution for you being in a strop/scared of thunderstorms/not doing what I say is to tickle you. A fail safe negotiating tactic – why haven’t they tried this in the Middle East?

5.       Try hard to help with homework. Even if it’s explaining the German case system which fogs my brain in English never mind when I’m explaining it in French.  #linguistproblems

6.       Wifi passwords and laptop chargers are essential. But an emergency book is always good. Even if it’s just to pick up when the parents walk through the door so it doesn’t look like you’ve been watching a whole series of Real Housewives Of Atlanta back to back but actually reading Proust. (Fail safe technique – no one finishes Proust so you can keep it up for ages)

It is an occupation that is not without its certain struggles – I mean who can reason with 8 year olds? But it can be quite rewarding. My favourite moment babysitting was hearing some guy in the street screaming “YOU SHALL NOT PASS” to his friend. The Lord of The Rings nerd within me was quite gleeful that night I can tell you.  

The Half Birthday

Now, most people who know me know that I like a good party. Any excuse for a party and I’m there. Most reasons for a party I find acceptable. But a party for your 8 ½ birthday? Even I find that a little bit extravagant. But nevertheless I found myself in a situation where I had to attend a birthday party for an eight and a half year old this weekend. I wasn’t invited to J’s party as a guest per se, more as someone to dump 13 screaming eight year olds on and someone to corral them into playing games.

The programme of events was meant to go something like –

1.       Welcome screaming children

2.       Take screaming children to the park to play games

3.       Come back and do their make-up/costumes

4.       Do arts and crafts

5.       Eat some food

6.       Quietly recover in a corner as they danced to Disney songs

7.       Cake and presents

What it actually turned out to be was a lot more harrowing. As I have already tweeted, there should be white wine on hand after every small child’s party. (At this point I’d like to make a public apology to my dear Mum for putting her through this pain).

Admittedly it started by going to plan, but when my boss decided that the roundabout was a good place for L and me to set up base it started spiralling slowly downhill. The games we had on offer were pétanque, skittles, hoopla and something where you had to catapult balls at a frog – maybe they don’t like their international stereotype all that much…. This was all fine until the kids started running up the statue in the middle of said roundabout. I did my best angry shouting but realised that I was mostly shouting in English and that half of them couldn’t understand me. I then employed my mean Parisian stare which seemed to work a treat. Six of the children then proceeded to explain how to play the game moules-frites to me, which is an awful lot like stuck-in-the-mud but a little more gastronomic.

When we went back to the flat I was put on make-up duty. I was handed my tools of hideous eyeshadow and glitter with which I had to turn each child into something slightly different but still keeping a slightly princessy theme to the overall look. I emerged from the bathroom what seemed like an eternity later covered head-to-toe in glitter and a broken woman (no hyperbole there).

Next in store for us was food, thank goodness. Pizza and little balls of potato, which I swear L and me ate more of than any of children combined – applying blue eyeshadow is hard work and requires a lot of sustenance. Whilst they were eating someone thought it was a good idea to play a game of “Guess The Disney Song”, which I could have been quite good at if they weren’t all in French…..This seemed to go on for eons until we finally arrived at a change in the programme. We were to have a dance off instead of arts and crafts, which was lucky for me as I think I may have turned a little Lady Macbeth with a cry of “Is this a dagger I see before me?” (Thank you to Pip for sending in this handy little quotation). One child rather enjoyed dancing to a song from the well-known musical Cats but all I could hear was T.S.Eliot rolling in his grave.

Eventually we got to cake and presents time, which I must admit was rather good as L and I were expressly told that the kids couldn’t have more than two different flavours of ice cream but that these restrictions were not imposed on us. In true teenage fashion, we rather went to town on the frozen delicacy. J then had a blindfold tied around her eyes so that she had to guess which friend was giving her the present by feeling their face. This perplexed me ever so slightly. I’m not sure whether it is some weird French tradition as no one else seemed to find it bizarre but I don’t really want to go to another child’s party to find out this nugget of information about French culture.

In the end I was so glad to get back to my flat. I poured myself a large glass of vino blanco and thus sat in silence to stop the ringing in my ears. Overall it was an interesting Saturday night which I’m still not sure whether I enjoyed or not but I was glad of some quiet yoga and the company of people my own age the next day. 

Watering Holes

Watering Holes

One dark night in February my dear self and another member of the ULIP Student population were meant to be working on our Dragons’ Den project but we got a little distracted by several bottles of wine and the Time Out website with its vast list of bars, clubs and other vendors of inebriating spirits. I cannot take full credit for finding all of the establishments I am about to describe but I most definitely have drunk in all of them so I think that’s just as good. Isn’t it?

Dirty Dick

This unusually named bar on rue Frochot looks rather bizarre with its wooden exterior amongst all of the sex shops in everyone’s favourite trendy area SoPi. When we made our first trip the delightful bouncer (said with no sarcasm at all) asked us for our ID because he didn’t believe we were as young as we said we were – a new experience for me as I recently got asked if I was a friend of the 13 year old I look after not the person who was in charge of her safety. But I digress. With their Tiki themed interior including puffer fish for lampshades and fishbowls which arrived in conch shells containing floating halves of passion fruit on fire, I can’t deny the strangeness but brilliance of it. It isn’t massively cheap but they do a rather interesting coconut concoction for 6€ for lovers of all things a little bit Malibu. Overall a triumph of a find.

Le Cristal  

A personal favourite of mine not only because it is a 2 minute walk from my flat but because I’ve never had a bad night there. Found at 163 Avenue de Suffren it looks rather unsuspecting during the day but is usually rammed most nights of the week. Despite it often very hard to sit down in the cramped conditions especially when it’s raining and all of the people from the smoking area cram themselves in to. With Kronenbourg sold in plastic cups, it isn’t the classiest of places but it has a certain charm. The bar staff ring a bell each time the get a tip which causes more and more people to cheer the more time passes and the more alcohol gets consumed. The atmosphere is very friendly and if you want to go and talk to French people in a non-forced environment like a speed-dating type thing then I’d recommend it. I must finally add a disclaimer though if anyone does decide to go. The loos are horrific but it definitely has character.

Chameleon

Now before I write about here I must admit that I’ve only ever had an actual drink here once because each other time we’ve been there has been nowhere to sit. A sure sign of a quality establishment I think you will agree. The one time I did manage to grab a pew there I had a cocktail called an Aretha (insert pun about giving them RESPECT etc), so it can’t be bad at all in my book. Hidden away at the end of Rue Saint-Andre-des-Arts it is very handy for a cheeky kebab from Gyros on the way home. Need I sell this place to you anymore?

Whether these three haunts of mine are unknown to you or your regular drinking dens – I hope they give you as much pleasure as they have given me but hopefully it is in the form of a stiff drink after a hard day picking up children/despairing about French bureaucracy/celebrating the arrival of your student loan in your bank account. 

The School Concert

So this au pairing lark has brought out some maternal instincts in me that some people (including me I may add) never knew I had. Yesterday I did the usual picking up J from school who had the key for the back door in her bag so we could let ourselves in…or did she?

We tried that key. Several times. Did it work? I think not. So as we were texting her mum to let her know we couldn’t get in we heard the front door bell ring. J initially thought they were burglars (interesting breaking and entering technique ringing the doorbell, don’t think she’ll be a criminal mastermind..) but I deduced that it was her sister. We walked down and around to said front door only to find her sister. I then get a call from their mother who asks me to put J on the phone. Out of the 8 year old, 13 year old and the 18 year old any sane person would choose the 8 year old wouldn’t they?  By the time she gets home its half an hour into the two and a half hours I meant to be working but that’s fine. I mean I love playing tic-tac-toe in the corridor!

Then L and her mum have to pop out to go and get something so I am tasked with going with J to pick her friend up form school so they can have a play date while this kid’s mum is chatting to Tony Blair….no kidding. This child has no clue who I am bless her but I take them back to the flat and sort the snack out for them. So as I’m chopping orange segments which they then precede to eat and make orange teeth out of (some jokes never get old!) they start watching the television on the lowest volume possible (because that makes it so much better!)

They went off to play and I just sat and drank tea until the others came back. Life is truly difficult sometimes. When they arrived I went back up to my flat to have my dinner before going back down to go to L’s school concert with them. This part of the evening is very boring so I won’t recount it unless you enjoy reading about boiling pasta?

I go downstairs at the agreed time only to find that none of them were ready or had eaten any food. So I’m sat there while they are all arguing about what to have on their bagels etc and before long we’re on our way after J has been told off for wearing an inappropriate coat. In the car on the way to the concert we had very random conversation; mostly about the Van Gogh exhibition I had been to see which obviously prompted chat about him cutting his ear off. An interesting concept to get your head around when you are eight. So we get there and take our seats in the school’s theatre while L goes to set up. J is already saying how bored she is but also boasting to her mother that she understood almost everything in the Little Red Riding Hood performance she watched at school (I must have helped a little bit with that!)

L was in the second performance out of 10 so by the time that she had played I think we were all ready to go but we had to sit through an hour more which wasn’t so bad as they were all quite good. I did feel like a proud mum clapping L when she had finished. I will definitely have to book her in to play the harp at my wedding…

Saying all of that one of the other performances did stick in my mind. There was a very cute little lad who played the accordion and reminded me a lot of my good friend James (he had a lovely tweed jacket on you would have been proud mate!) Stereotypical French instrument but he was very good so I didn’t mind too much.

At the end of the night the girls’ parents were chatting away to everyone as J and I were sat playing on Flappy Bird. Turns out I’m not very good at it.

Their parents agreed to give one of L’s mates a lift home which means that we have to squeeze 6 of us and a cello into Volkswagen Golf. A sitcom waiting to happen. But with J sat on my knee and a cello on top of her we were going nowhere which did present a certain difficulty when we had to get out of the car when we got back to ours!

I never thought this job would be as fun as it is and there is something quite funny about sharing fruit sherbets in a school concert with a very chic French woman or laughing about L and her mate sharing a job as a dog walker. It will be weird not seeing them when I’m home for Easter but it will be good to see family and friends and not having to deal with the chaos that does on here!