Public Reading

Don’t get upset, this is my own shoulder I’m reading over. Not an easy feat.

You know those annoying people who read over your shoulder on the metro or the bus?

Well, hello there, nice to meet you. That’s me.

I love to read what you’re reading, regardless of what it is. Newspaper, novel, text message, it really doesn’t matter. It’s always the most thoroughly interesting thing I have ever seen.

Sometimes I realise I had the exact same paper as you five minutes ago,

Doggy Bag

Thank you to the lovely lady who let a complete stranger (me) photograph her dog repeatedly in the street.

When I first came to France eight years ago, there were many things which confused and alarmed me, but nothing so much as an official sticker I read on the window of the bus one day.

It said:

“Un animal domestique? Oui! S’il est petit et dans un sac.”

Which, translated, is basically,

“Want to bring your pet on the bus? Sure! As long as he’s small and in a bag.”

WTF?!

What sort of bag? A plastic one? A holdall? Do I zip it up? What does ‘small’ mean? Could one really consider putting Rover in a rucksack?

Cotton Buddy

 

The warning on a box of cotton buds has to be the most universally ignored caution ever printed on any product. Not only do we disregard it, but we buy the product to do exactly what it tells us not to. “Never insert a cotton bud into the inner ear or nose.”

Yeah, whatever. They know that’s the only reason we buy them. It’s like selling a hamburger with a warning not to insert it into your mouth. “Could cause fatness and indescribable bliss.”

Happy New Year

Someone once told me that for them, the beginning of the year felt like standing at the foot of a huge mountain looking up; a scary, insurmountable obstacle, that filled them with fear and apprehension. (If that person is you, maybe don’t carry on, I’m about to get optimistic about your most dreaded time of year.) For me, it is quite the opposite. I feel I am at the top, ready to slide down on a mat of perfect sliding congruousness with the surface of said mountain. Weeeeeeeee!

I would like to start, appropriately, with the 1st of January, which every year has to be one of my favourite days for the following reasons:

Milky Way

Now, being an English person living in France, I am used to hearing the opinion that every culinary output from the British Isles is an abominable, slap-dash mish-mash of incompetently scrambled together leftovers of both sweet and savoury sort.

So imagine my delight when one day a student uttered the most welcome words I had ever heard a Frenchy bestow upon an edible item from England.

Need for Speed

My name is Denise (hello) and I like to go fast.

I am not in a rush.

I am not stressed.

I’m not trying to save time.

If I am walking for the sake of walking, I do not go fast. But if I am on my way somewhere, I like to go fast and in long, cadenced steps.

Don’t tut when I run for the metro. Don’t ask me why I’m out of breath. It’s not that difficult to understand. Mr Bugatti-Veyron does not drive the fastest car in the world because he’s in a hurry. He just likes to go fast (and has lots of money and possible erection problems (joke, Mr Bugatti!! Please can I have a lift to the the shops?)).

Metro Matters

I even love the Metro sign. This is my nearest station in the 5th arrondissement of Paris. Isn't it pretty?

I mentioned my love for the glorious Paris Metro while talking with a French man the other day. He simply couldn’t comprehend it. He made that face reserved for food you don’t like, and informed me that the Metro smelled. “It smells”, he said but his face said, “Urgh, you like something that smells”. It was difficult to make a comeback after that. He had made me feel like a beastly outcast who rolls around in toenails and licks cat hair off the floor (god, it’s not like I said I like the RER).

It was too late to change his mind about me, but I could still save face for the Metro. Ah, the Metro: practical, stylish and affordable, an example in efficiency and a veritable free, daily theatre, where every aspect of life is recreated underground and for all to see.

Genuine scenes of animal interaction are silently played out as privileged positions are contended and personal space is defended. Plus real, live entertainment of all kinds can surprise you at any moment. Sometimes people actually join in; either with the performer and his music (I’ve seen whole carriages come to life (granted, they are usually tourists, but they’re real people too!)) or with fellow passengers enjoying a good old collective tut because it’s repetitive or unwanted or simply because they’ve had a long day and can’t I just go home without this racket lordy, lordy? It’s thoroughly entertaining.

Bracket Oh Bracket! (I heart you.)

Semi-colons are for show-offs (or is it just me that feels smug when I use one?), ampersands are for the idle (exaggeration?), but brackets (you guessed it) are brilliant.

I’m a somewhat excessive user of the bracket; maybe because I’m too rational, maybe because I have a minuscule attention span. (This last sentence should make a great deal more sense later if all goes according to plan.)

Sometimes I put whole sentences in brackets (as above), sometimes I place just one word in brackets (chipmunk) and sometimes I use brackets inside of brackets (this is just an example (don’t read this to your audience if you are reading it out loud (but if you’re reading it in your head, go back to the beginning and say it out loud instead))). I once used eleven sets of brackets within each other, had to lie down for ten minutes, then spent the next four days coming to terms with what I’d done (I never said there were no drawbacks to the bracket).

Without You…

  

Dear Butter,

 

Yesterday you ran out on me. You were there when I woke up. Then all of a sudden, after breakfast, you were gone. I couldn’t run out into the street to get you; I was still in my pyjamas and there were buttons missing. So I lay down on the floor and cried.

 

You made everything better, Butter.