1) Have just finished Petite Anglaise.
Have never read her blog, but for purposes of contrast, research and curiosity – I bought the book. A handful of us have published books as a direct result of our blogs, and so I'm interested to see what they have to say.
Her book is, I suppose, loosely based on events or characters true to her life. Hell, I rather enjoyed her memoir – she really does make me want to live in Paris more than my heart aches to.
I think I'll send her one of my books and see if she likes mine.
2) I can now do Saturday Night Fever for my parents. How delighted they will be. Seeing their rythmically-challenged spawn attempt 70s disco fever. Friends can watch if they pay me. I accept Mastercard.
3) Please may I wake up and have my normal laugh again. What the fuck, it's been almost three weeks of guffawing like the village idiot.
I woke up and suddenly had this terrible affliction – I'd engineered a new laugh in my sleep, and it was completely involuntary. Unladylike. Loud. And it terrifies people. I need to keep a low profile in Israel, so that I don't piss of any...militarist cock... and actually get to Brazil.
4) Was listening to The Stylistics last night. I just love those guys. It's the naffest boy-band-of-the-70s stuff you'll ever quite experience, but it reminds me of France. Always.
I used to play this shit in the Ford Escort I got to drive around the countryside, shunting kids to ballet. I was young – 18 and platinum blonde – those were the days – and the village I lived in near Grenoble was ideal for back country driving. I'd whack the Stylistics on, and drive for miles around the countryside through little towns, listening to this shit, and marvelling at how achingly beautiful it was around me.
Either the Alps were covered in snow, or it was stunningly green and rolling. The Rhone-Alpes are beautiful, I highly recommend it.
Maybe when the global crisis has handbreaked it's fucking self, go for a holiday.
To think I lived in a town that consisted of a fire station, 'mairie' or mayor's office, a cathedral and a boulangerie. That was it. I spent my year driving through little Frenchy villages – and like I was telling someone yesterday, a town called Chatte the one time.
Chatte is directly translatable to Pussy. It was a real...hole.
Actually I'm lying. It was a...pleasant spot.
5) Oh and because I need to worry more about Brazil and whether I'm going to make it past New Year alive, a mate sent me this, on the apparent obsession with the dirt track.
“And if they kidnap you Peas, they won't be asking for it.”
6) While hanging like a ripe pair of donkey's bollocks – over lunch on Sunday– Mum was asking me a whole lot of shit I couldn't answer because a) I was catatonic, b) I didn't know the answers to her questions and c) I was not all there.
One she asked though, was whether Tel Aviv is on the coast. Rocket science for a Sunday hangover, Jesus. But I've found the answer now and it looks rather temperate. No A-bombs in the picture like Nagasaki.
But I suppose F-Bombs (“Fuck Almighty!”) are out of the question. Must control my mouth, which flows like a sewer.
The city itself means “Hill Of Spring.” Bless.