paris in sepia

I am back from the city of lights.

Balls.

Flew on that double decker massive Air France airbus. One wonders how the dickens it gets into the sky. And yet it was the smoothest long distance flight I’ve ever experienced.

You hardly feel it even touch the runway, it’s like, ‘I say, did a bird fly into the turbines? Oh wait, we’re on par with a house in Jet Park.’

So, Paris.

Paris reminds me of Buenos Aires. An upmarket version of its South American sister if you will. The architecture is the same, as are the big boulevards and tiny cobbled streets.

I don’t know which is more romantic, Paris or Rome. I was working on this trip, and although my Brit was around, both cities go hand in hand on the romance. Maybe a touch more fountains and moving water in Rome.

Café culture. All the chairs face outwards onto the street so that you can people watch. And you wanna people watch. Between the poodles, fashion that you drool over, every third person wearing a variation of stripes, and people snogging each other.

Or old French men in seersucker jackets.

The French eat a lot of veal. Never noticed this before. Usually the world focuses on the whole snail and frog leg thing. Baby cows not so much.
The French had an obligatory strike on Saturday. Over pension funds. The gendarmarie, fire brigade, the whole armed forces were out and traffic stopped. It isn’t a cliché; it’s what they do.

People aren’t that unfriendly there. Granted, I spoke French most of the time.

I love my Brit. And I can’t wait to be with him again soon.

april in paree

After work, my colleague and I went shopping.

It's always a risk going shopping in Paris for three very simple reasons:

1) Outfit jeopardy. You always look less than fit walking in.

2) Bankruptcy. You can easily spend your pension, mortgage and consolidated savings on high fashion. In a space of 10 minutes.

3) There really is a frightening number of stripes.

On the stripes - they have ripped the ring out of Le French red, white and blue. And frankly, it's fantastic. I have already bought 3 skirts, 2 tops and had to physically abort the mission when I almost bought a pair of blue and white striped ballet pumps.

(My orthotic won't fit into it...........I am going to burst into tears soon over this fucking podiatry nightmare).

So will be decked out in stripes this winter. Ahoy there sailor.

Paris has been wonderful. The weather is bright and sunny, sun only setting at 9:30pm. We are staying right in the centre if town, a gooi from The Bastille.(Which de Sade was jailed in....and therein wrote lots of porn. At one stage.)

Every evening after a full day conferencing, we all hit the cute gastro cafes for some juicy wine, while walking cobbled streets, stealing kisses with my Brit, and embarking on gastronomic heaven.

Everyone is so chic and beautiful. I'm practically floating through the days' sessions.

medical screen 4 & 5: boobs like you've never seen them before

I'd like to introduce you to my boobs.

No one has ever got to see my noombies in this kind of detail, so consider yourself lucky, Yolandi from Graaf Reinet, if you're reading.

Ultra-sound on my tits. You're not only getting to see my boobs, you're getting to see inside my boobs. Now how's that for too much information?

(It does look like a blobby smorgasbord, truth be told.) I present to you, my boobies, the anatomy of Hannah (left breast) and Elizabeth (right breast):

Mmmmmm. Boobs.

It's amazing to see live tissue, can I just say. It must be one thing seeing your baby under ultra sound, but even just my tissue sans baby, is amazing.

All your tissue is moving, and you can see cellular activity going on in real time.

My prognosis:
No dominant palpable lump noted.
Fibroglandular parenchyma with occasional benign cysts, especially on right. (Her words: 'You're fulla cysts.'---> gak?!)
No suspiscious masses noted.
Suggest screening mammography from age 40

I have cysts, because apparently I have very 'dense breasts.'

I'm not concerned, but it does sound concerning.
..............

As for my eye test yesterday - I have sparkly spangly 20/20 vision. Even after years of solid 9 hour geek screen exposure.
Slightly far sighted in left eye, don't need sexy librarian glasses. Need a fucking orthotic, but don't need glasses. How is THAT fair?

She tested me for glaucoma, because that also runs in the family. She tested this by shooting a spurt of air into each eyeball from a alienatic laser machine.

I screamed, got all sweaty and flew through the roof. As a highly strung person would do.

I am over medical shit now. I've been all bloody week. Completely over doctor's rooms and hospitals, my work here is done. Hopefully.

In other news, I fly to Paris tonight.

Yay for Iceland and it's volcanic brethren for behaving and only erupting with lava now, not ash.
My Brit is also coming so I'll see him tomorrow. I am so excited.

My red beret is packed, and I'm ready for rebuttle in ze Franch language.

Fwonce. For the second time in a month.*

*I don't believe I've even been to Parys twice in a month.

catastrophic mountain baffs

Fuck.

Has a lot happened in the month I was away. Just catching up with friends and family over the weekend, and it seems, the sex politics is on fire.

As a result, it’s possibly the first time I’ve started to be a leetle concerned about South Africa’s current political situation.

Malema nearly made me cry.

There is clearly no accountability here, and why is he still allowed to talk?

Then there’s the Don’t Touch Me On My Studio. And the aftermath of this, now downloadable as a track. It’s so fucking ridiculous you have to see it as downright hilarious.

I’ve been away this long. I started slowly packing up some of my stuff for storage this weekend; ripped photos out of albums to whack in one big box, went through old papers, took pictures of things I’m keen to sell.

Getting ready for my relocation, my work transfer to Inkland. Where politics are yawnworthy in relation to what’s going down on our soil. Crisis.

Then there's the eensy fact that I fly to Paris at the weekend for a work conference. I would be exceptionally excited, if it weren’t for Iceland exploding and spewing it’s ashen load across greater Europe.

From a mountain nobody can pronounce (except Bjork), and predicted to explode by a geologist named Thor.

You can’t make this shit up.

I’m meant to be flying to Paris with my team on Friday night for a conference. That's right, France twice in a month.
I'm a lucky lucky girl - IF in fact we can fly.

(And if so, for this one, the red beret is coming with me. I will henceforth jam a baguette under my armpit, and be La Touriste.)
My Brit is meeting me there too; the excitement.

I’m going to Paris for a week, so excited could hump my plant.

However, if Iceland decides to fuck the world over with its ashen volcanic catastrophe longer than Friday, we won’t be going anywhere.

Will put it out of my mind an concentrate on getting Highly Skilled visa for UK (I can apply! I get all the points!) and not on Paree, Franch people, My Brit and work conferences being annihilated by an explosive mountain baff.

The Dove and I got ready to go to a cocktail party Saturday, where we had to dress up as cocktails.
I put on a frightfully foofy gold skirt, a Mexican sombrero and my white Berlin communist boots and called myself Tequila Gold. Tried to convince Dove to dress up as Liquid Cocaine in my blue euro dress, but she wouldn’t have it.

Decided to sack it off, and rather drink J&B in my lounge, listen to cheesy music and talk shit all evening instead.