Luck of the....Penny

I have just realised WHY I'm so unlucky in love. 


Mirrors. Not only do the bastards remind me of my terrifying morning look, they are also in my way too often. For example, a couple of weeks back I casually knocked my extra large mirror over and it smashed... in dramatic fashion.


And I slowly began to discover how the prophecy of bad luck was indeed factual. 


By 3pm that day, I had already missed a seminar, walked into a tree and then proceeded to be unveiled in the changing room by a 2 year old boy who started announcing 'NAKED GIRL NAKED GIRL'....


Delightful. Bastard mirrors. 

Apologies…..

Bon nuit mes amours. Oui oui, desole desole. I have re-located to gay Paris and my my, it’s very very gay. Currently longing for my own boudoir en Angleterre but I shall get over it and just write some posts. 

Alors. Life has been busy. Apart from the usual shite that goes on in my day to day living, and the frequent moments of je-ne-sais-quoi that equal my life, I am rather enjoying Paris. Yes, I still bump into awkward strangers and attract the most peculiar of men, but alas, I feel very Parisien and am slowly finding my feet. I have decided that I want to ooze culture asap and sprout off quotes from Voltaire’s tales or a Moliere script. Give me time. I will be a culture queen with a passion for French men and coffee in NO time. 

A mature cheese or a fresh egg?

Last week, I had an epiphany. What is this new culture where beautiful women are obsessed with having a toy-boy? I used to believe entirely in ‘feeling young and footloose’ but news of Ashton Kutcher broke my heart and confirmed one fact to me: toy-boys suck ass. Ashton, a very handsome boy, marries a rather Goddess-like (if a little botoxed up) Demi Moore… and finds a younger ‘thing’ within a couple of years. Gah. Toyboys, I repeat, suck ass.  This was the conclusion I came to last week and I set about trying to find a man who would ooze maturity and just be so delicious, I’d be rendered speechless every time he came near…. like a good cheese or a beautiful wine. (on that note, I tried Camembert yesterday. Orgasmic to say the least….who needs men when you have cheese?)

Anyway, in a fortnight, I have found myself in three compromising and totally mysterious situations…all with older men. First, I was caught off guard by no other than the King of Older Men, Monsieur George Clooney. And, for the record, I wasn’t smooth and he is by far one of the most handsome men I have ever seen and I was unbelievably overwhelmed and wanted to jump on him and just let him have his wicked way with me there and then and and and

Breathe

Sigh

Seeing him reignited my determination to find this ‘perfect, charismatic older man’. Preferably A George Clooney, but I am prepared to settle for something a litttttle less fabulous.  Begrudgingly. I was definitely the most shameful member of the crowd at his premiere shouting ‘GEORGE! GEORGE!’, amongst the cream of Parisienne cinematographers and normal human beings. But it was George Clooney for Christ’s sake! My behaviour was totally excusable.  

Cough.

One soiree avec mes amis, I found myself talking to a taxi driver enroute to my petite boudoir. I told him I loved Paris, the city of love. 

This comment OBVIOUSLY meant that Joel from Haiti wanted MY love. He was so persistent in getting my number, and I just couldn’t for the life of me give him a fake one. I know that apparently giving a fake number is a skill learnt at the age of 16, but after receiving more attention from my own dog than boys at that age, I have not developed any of those…’skills’. My conscience just plays such a massive part.  So instead, after about 8 minutes of rambling in which time he had turned off the engine and parked up at the side, I took his number. As I left the taxi fairly swiftly, he told me he’d wait for my call. Alas, I fear my romance with Joel from Haiti, aged about 45…. is not to be. 

I wasn’t going to suddenly start thinking that Paris was not the city of love after just that experience. I still had faith.  One must give cities a chance. After the next incident, I fear Paris needs a couple of chances. 

I was on the RER at a God forsaken hour catching an early morning flight. Sans make up with about 3 hours of sleep to my name and a puffy face that would compete with a hamster, I sat on the train reading my book totally minding my own business. I feel that however unladylike this may sound, it must be said to really emphasise the context and my mood at that time: I had seriously bad wind. 

And then this man appeared on the seat next to me and for the next 40 minutes, he sat on his iPhone talking to ‘Azhib’ and staring at my breasts. This was not at all subtle in that he had to turn his head to the left to stare at them. I was uncomfortable, but in Paris I have grown accustomed to random staring at the mammary glands. I feel like Nepal Buddhist tour guides prepared me for that: Parisian perverts, BRING IT ON. But, this man was a lot older than my own father and of North African descent and I thought that he’d just give up after a while. 

But, NO. He clearly wanted his early morning fix. Eurgh.

When his stop was coming up (Aulunay Sous Bois for future reference) he tried to get my attention and got a piece of paper and a pencil out of his bag and ‘romantically’ left me his number on the seat. 

I died. Mortified. I had to text my mother I was that shocked. I thought after ‘is this what it has come to?!’ Because, Paris being the city of love seems to be a myth right now. I came to the conclusion that day that an older man was definitely not worth it. 

Then, tonight happened. Nothing exciting, don’t get your self too excited. I was catching up on 90210 and Annie, this awkward character meets an older man who is just dreamy. I’m sat here now sipping on my brew whilst Paris dances the night away and I’m listening to the classical song from Love Actually. My conclusion of ‘no older men’ has just gone out the window, but so has my ‘no toy boy’ rule.  I feel that age should be limitless. I know what I love, and that’s charisma and humour, age is just a number. Of course, if George Clooney adored me, I’d be completely ok with that. Similarly, if the curly haired one from One Direction felt an instant connection with me, I’d be just as ok about that. I feel I must be more open-minded if I really want to find that Monsieur Correctamundo.

On the plus side, no pervs hassled me enroute back into Paris. So, all is not lost. Perhaps this really IS the city of love?! Or, maybe I was on the ‘lucky’ train. Anyway, demain I will open my eyes to the world of possibilities and embrace what lies ahead in true British style. And besides, who needs men when you have cheese, wine and fresh bread? 

I am Britist; I am fabulous; I have a great rack and I love my red lipstick: practically dynamite. Pass me the Camembert, get me a brew and I'm off to embrace the most important thing in my world....my beauty sleep obviously. 

Boxercise, Schmoxercise

When my flatmate and I heard about a local boxercise class, images of bodies like Rosie Huttington- Whitely sprung to our minds promptly leading us to book in for the soonest class. After turning up 10 minutes late to lots of agro from the (arsey)trainer we joined everyone else in a punishing hour of, well, punching….and more punching…finished off with just a couple more punches. 

My body was crying 'FUCK' for the entire time.

What was once a wonderful idea soon became something else; to cut it short lets just say we aren’t feeling that wonderful movable by the end. I had to MAKE my friends buy me cake just so that I could function in an orderly manner because I can't actually PHYSICALLY move my arms. I now understand why Amir Khan has SUCH a great body. Punches = a Wolverine-esque appearance/Miranda Kerr bod.

Saying this, it is doubtful that i will be going back. Even though there is something rather calming about the whole ordeal, you know, the feeling that of punching your partner with the pads on, imagining it is an ex-boyfriend you would quite happily beat the crap out of given the chance.... I value 'moving', something i just haven't been able to do...for about 3 days now. 

Must dash, I hear my name being called...'Miranda Kerr!' 'Miranda Kerr'.... ish.  

Sweet Jesus, make me a man.

Hier soir, I was minding my own business shopping in the local centre commercial (i've decided that speaking French creates a certain aura of sophistication... it's a phase. It will pass)when I saw a couple holding hands. Literally, just that. And, I suddenly began to sob like a baby. Actual tears gushed from my eyeballs. Absolutely mortified, I ran into the local coffee shop to have a good old brew and I bought a massive piece of cake to compensate for my sudden loneliness. As I sat down, fucking couples were everywhere. EVERYWHERE. Was it a September Valentines day yesterday? No. Is it a romantic month? No. THEN FUCK OFF ALL OF YOU. 


Yes, I'm slightly bitter. Where the fuck is my 'prince of my labia' in the famous words of Samantha from STC. But, I'm not usually THIS pathetic. I was absolutely mortified at not only my sudden hate for every lovedup.duo around me, but also at the fact that I was sobbing like a lost monkey. The ordeal then continued when I sat lonely with my brew and spilt the jug of milk all over my cake. 


So, there I was. Lonely and bitter with a soggy piece of cake and panda eyes. Even my worst nightmare would have felt some form of pity for me. I couldn't understand for the life of me why I was sobbing so incessantly. There was absolutely no reason. I see couples all the time. Yes, I am (horribly) single but c'est la vie, no need to blub.


This morning I wake angrily and it dawns on me.... it was my hormones. And I spend the best part of my morning cursing my sexuality. My behaviour generally confuses me. 

An Unloved Looney.

Needless to say that after yesterday's ordeal, my parents were NOT in my good books. My mother especially, because she generally drives me loca/up the wall/fucking crazy. I asked her to pick me up today from town, sharing a car with your entire family can sometimes send you into a mental lockdown. So. I walked, but fuck me, I needed a lift back. Too much walking = excessive chaff-age. 


I'm going to say that after an hour, she STILL hadn't turned up. Very, very late. I was a little (ok a lot) pissed off. When I finally saw the car heading towards me ever so bloody slowly (the cheek!), I naturally stormed into the middle of the road, blocking her and flailing my arms angrily to emphasise my pissedoffness. Rightly so.  


Mid-tantrum, it suddenly dawned on me that this car...was NOT my car and that a poor innocent family were staring at me, frozen to their seats clearly wondering which mental hospital I had just escaped from. 


And then mum calls to say she's forgotten about me. 


An unloved looney. Marvellous. 

Afternoon Nap= Error.

Autumn leaves are falling and I can feel the air getting HEAVY. Hence my regular decisions to fall asleep at about 2.30pm daily. I adore to sleep in the nudders whilst the wind attacks my bedroom window, and I'm protected by my trusted teddy, knowing full well that when I wake, I can prepare my dinner without having to wait hours. Bliss. 


This very afternoon, I decided to take a nap. I was disturbed by the phone ringing; I'd forgotten I was meeting a friend at exactly that time. SHITE. So, I ran to bathroom whilst on the phone to her, apologising profusely, completely naked, and then fuck. The alarm goes off. My parents (yes, i still live at home) clearly didn't hear me so presumed i was elsewhere. I don't know the code. Fuck shit tit balls bollocks. I'm panicking downstairs, blackberry in one hand pressed to my ear, other hand preoccupied with the alarm box....still naked. Then, that awful moment when the doorbell rings and the over-protective neighbours are peeking through the windows in the kitchen, doing their 'bit' for the community.


And I'm STILL naked.