Dude Walks Kinda Wavey

I decided to go out today. I rang work this morning to see if I was supposed to be working, I can never remember, and I was happily surprised to find that I didn't. It seemed nice out and i wanted to have a wander, find some interesting shops, maybe get a jacket finally. I wrapped up warm, I've been ill recently and walked out into the sunny late autumn day. I got on to the metro and began my journey but a small tickle developed in the back of my throat. It was the air being circulated around the carriage, it was irritating the back of my throat. I started to cough. I couldn't suppress it. I had a long way still to go and I knew that I wouldn't make it without a drink of water, which I didn't have. I got of at Franklin D Roosevelt because I was choking and getting embarrassed. I don't think I've ever gone above ground at this station and once I started walking, typically, I got lost.
I'm not one for turning around. It would have been easy to just go back to the metro, get on and head to my planned destination but that is no adventure. I started to see some interesting shops on my wander and was having quite a nice time looking at what they had to sell. In particular the really expensive shops that appear to sell nothing, nothing usually that is, except this one shop which appeared to sell moss!

I continued to walk in no particular direction and behold, an inexpensive jacket shop for men! Exactly the types of styles I've been looking for. They didn't have my size.
I walked some more, I was beginning to feel bloody hungry. I decided to walk to the St Michel area. There is a very good supermarket there and I wanted to get food for the week, and deodorant. I'd run out and as I was trying on jackets I realised I was beginning to get a little stinky.
As luck would have it I found the same store for jackets as before, and they had my size. Purchase made. One happy customer walks out and smiles down the road all the way to the supermarket.
I had the strongest potato craving when I got in to the store. I can't explain it but there you have it. I managed to find potato based products and knew that now was time to go home. I decided to take the RER C. It's a nice ride and never busy. During the walk to the train I saw a "normal guy" look like he'd tripped. It catches your eye when that happens so for a few moments I watched him. The movement he'd mad started to look more like he may be drunk. He was weaving all over the place. Then I realised what was happening, he had to walk on every maintenance cover, diagonally. There are some truly strange obsessions out there. I was fascinated watching him go from one cover to the next, even if it was out of his way. It was really weird.
It got me thinking. I wonder what weird things I do when I think no one is watching? I guess I'll never know. Right now the only thing I have on my mind is hot steamy potato base meals!

The sauce of all confusion

It started at about 7am with the slow realisation that I had not gone to bed early enough. I could hear noise outside, cars beeping horns and motorbikes revving their engines, trying to out manoeuvre the traffic jams that had been caused by the strike by the transport workers of France. It was total chaos but as far as I was concerned inconsequential to me. The most important thing on my mind was to ensure I arrived at the airport on time to catch my plane to Edinburgh.

I didn't think there would be a problem with getting a train because Paris' line one is usually not affected by strikes, but to be on the safe side I set off to the Metro nice and early. With my 80 litre rucksack and a large laptop bag making a total weight of 20 Kilos I trudged off to the station to start the first leg of my journey.

Upon arriving at the platform I decided almost immediately that there was something wrong. There were too many people waiting around for there to be no problem. I looked at the information board that give the approximate time of the next train and it was flickering between -- and 15 minutes. That was another bad omen but I chose to ignore it. I figured it probably meant nothing. After about 5 minutes I took another look at the arrival time of the train. --, 15, --, 14, -- 17. The board had gone nuts and it now became very apparent that there wasn't going to be any trains coming soon. I looked around, the platform had filled up quite drastically. There was a huge number of people waiting. I decided to leave, there was going to be no way that I could get on to the train with these bags.

Leaving the station was awful. No one would move out of my way or give me room to pass. It was quite obvious that I had a huge load to carry but their position on the platform was more important. It would have been extremely annoying to have allowed them to get away with this attitude. I can't stand people who don't give way, it's a common courtesy. The good thing about this situation was I had built up a serious look of determination having waited at the platform for so long, I also had a lot of weight behind me. Once I had built up momentum, which took about 2 feet, I cruised through the crowd. The people in my way parted like the sea at a ships bow. It was hugely satisfying and once I reached the outside I felt great.

10 minutes later great was considerably lower on my list of feelings. Sweaty, hot, tired and annoyed all occupied space number 1. I was still only half way to Porte Maillot and the luggage I was carrying was beginning to take its toll on my body and mind.
After finally reaching the Air France bus stop, not forgetting seeing the bus I wanted pulling away before I could reach it, I was glad of the rest. I stripped down to a t-shirt and stood in the cold afternoon sunshine to dry off. Eventually the bus arrived and I got to CDG, a little hotter, stickier and sleepier than I'd hoped but certainly happy to be there in time for my flight.

Once at Edinburgh I was met by Catriona. It was fantastic to see her and something I had been waiting for for too long. We travelled back to her place to rest and relax before our monster trip around the north east of England, briefly stopping off at a newsagents to get change for the bus. I have to admit that my efforts were particularly pointless in this regard. All I needed was a pound coin but after searching high and low for mini babybel cheese all I managed to get was a Starbar. Triumphantly, 20 mins later, I left the shop only to discover that I hadn't got a pound from the shop but two 2 pound coins. This would have irritated the calmest of people but Catriona handled it well. She expressed her disbelief that I could have managed to get this most simple of tasks wrong then bailed me out with some change.

After having had a very restful sleep we set off at almost the crack of dawn. Well to be honest the crack had long since disappeared but it was damn early for a Saturday morning. We arrived at the van hire place and took charge of a pretty nice vehicle. The sat nav unit was installed and programmed, food was purchased and music was arranged for the journey to Bradford.



Now the adventure had begun. After a brief tour of Dalkeith, where we battled with the Ken, the Australian voice on TomTom, about the real direction to Bradford we headed in the wrong direction. It turned out to be fortuitous as the journey didn't take any longer than usual but the scenery was simply stunning. Rolling hills and craggy outcrops were everywhere, the sun was shining through the grey clouds in shafts like fingers from above. It was a very pleasant way to view the world as we grew more and more impatient that we'd never see civilisation again.

Eventually though we arrived at Bradford and our first pick up point. A rather nice house in a typical housing estate in northern England. Catriona and I were glad to get out of the car. My ass was beginning to ache from the seat, I needed to stretch my legs and she had been driving for a very long time. We walked up to the door and saw this



"Yes, I am," I thought.
Catriona rang the non knackered doorbell. When It was answered Catriona said, "We're here to pick up the Windscreen,"
"No," was the reply.
" Err, I spoke to you yesterday?"
"No."
"Maybe I spoke to your flatmate?"
"No."
So, things weren't going according to plan. We walked away to phone the guy she'd spoken to to see if we were at the right address. I said that I wanted to take a picture of the doorbell so with a mobile phone and a camera we returned to the house to make further enquiries. Catriona told me to take the picture of the doorbell before she called the guy again so I got out my camera, positioned myself nicely to get the shot and clicked, then a voice behind me shouted, "Hello?" The guy we'd been looking for had turned up at the exact moment I was taking a picture of his crappy doorbell. There was only one way to deal with this situation. Completely ignore that it ever happened. The plan worked perfectly. Within seconds we were off down the road with one very nice windscreen sitting in the back of the van and one very strange picture of a doorbell.

Heading into Bradford town centre was hideous. It was incredibly busy and, like most towns and cities in the UK, it had an almost impossible to navigate one way system. Luckily Ken and his seven satellites guided us into a hellish traffic jam, then on to the street with the signpost to the car park we wanted to go to. At the top we met one of Catriona's good friends. He was giving her a front bumper for her car. We made the exchange but man was it cold up there, that wind would cut you in half! As I was loading the bumper into the van I felt a presence behind me. Catriona felt it too. We turned round to see a pleasant, confused faced security guard. He was short, a little rotund, which was accentuated by his day glow rain jacket and totally non-threatening visage.
"Hello", he said cheerily
"Hello," I replied before turning back to my task of inserting the bumper into the van.
"You're not nicking bumpers off of cars here then, are you?"
His interrogation was both subtle and direct. It had the obviousness of "I think you are thieves" but all the malice of "do you want an ice cream?" No one really said no, no one really knew how to respond to it. He carried on chatting about how he'd seen us on the camera and thought we were thieves but now he didn't, what a pleasant day it was and bade us farewell. We all smiled and said goodbye. I welcomed the humorous interlude as a break from the bitter cold and finished locking up the van. After Catriona had said her goodbyes we left, or at least we tried to leave. An error of judgement resulted in us having to return to where we had been parked to find the pay machine. Once we'd paid we began our new journey towards Leeds.

"Quick, get your camera out!" She shouted at me as we headed out to the motorway.

"What the hell's going on?" I asked, in obvious confusion.

"Look, it's a Ferrari [something or other with some numbers]!" she cried, pointing ahead of us.

"Ah, by the time I get the camera out it'll have disappeared"

"Then I'm going to catch it up!"

"Oh, all right, here we go, but if you get caught speeding I'm not responsible."

"Getting caught for speeding for this will be worth it," she said nonchalantly.
I took the picture and I totally agreed with her, the sound of that engine was awesome!

We got to Leeds in no time at all, though probably more time than it would have taken the Ferrari. Once there we arrived in a very pleasant neighbourhood. Nice, large, well kept houses, quiet and inviting, it was time to knock on the door and collect a rear bumper. Catriona rang the doorbell and almost immediately a head popped into the window. "Well at least there's someone in," she smiled.Two or three minutes later we were still standing at the door waiting for it to be opened. I looked at Catriona and she looked at me. We were both thinking that this was a little odd. I decided to look into the window to see what was going on. Inside there was a young boy sitting watching TV. Obviously if someone knocks on your door in this area the normal response is to look at who it is then leave them to freeze to death on your doorstep. Catriona rapped the letter box and eventually the boy answered.

"Is Shamim in?" she asked the boy.

"Shamim, doesn't live here." he said, looking very confused. "Hang on," he added "I'll just check." then off he ran into the house.

I looked at Catriona. I was a little confused too. How can you not know who lives in your house? He came back and told us that no one lived at that place called Shamim. Was this a case of deja vu? didn't this happen in Bradford? The road trip was beginning to become very unusual indeed. We walked down the road, a little tired and despondent, and tried to call him. There was no answer so we decided to do a little investigating. We looked at the house next door. There were some Volkswagens in the garden. This only added to the confusion. Shamim is a VW Golf enthusiast. Catriona decided that these people might now his whereabouts so she knocked on the door. No answer obviously. I was getting cold so I suggested that we got back into the van. Luckily when we did this we found there was a message waiting for us. He told us he'd given us the right address of one of his houses, but the wrong house. Well of course. Doesn't everyone have more than one house?

Following the directions of Shamim and Ken we drove to the new address. It was a little unsettling. The area was very run down and it gave me a very uneasy feeling driving through it. Every door that wasn't boarded up had large iron bars blocking the way. It was a little like a war zone. We got to the house and knocked on the door. A little girl answered telling us he was on his way. He pulled up and we then followed him in our van to the street round the corner where we made the exchange. He invited us to his restaurant for dinner but we really had to be going. Next stop Scotch corner.



The drive was getting more difficult. The light had gone, we were tired and we were hungry. We really needed to stop and stop soon! The only thing keeping us awake at this point was the radio. We finally arrived at Scotch corner. After a little wander around we met Catriona's friend and put the final pieces of the car in the back of the van.

It was time for food. Catriona mentioned that there was probably nothing in here that she could eat but I felt that the Little Chef would be able to help. We stood at the "wait to be seated" sign and waited and waited. There was no one in the restaurant and all the tables were free but the manager insisted that we wait to be shown to our table. She was engaged instructing a new member of staff on the use of the till. It was obviously a very complicated procedure because it took ages. We were so hungry and tired that we didn't have the energy to go anywhere else, not that there was another option. After the very important training had finished the manager turned her attention to us.

"Would you like to walk this way," she said flailing her hand in the direction of a wall.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she added, apologising for the random hand movement. "We used to keep the menu's here but now we've moved them to the tables."

She guided us to our table, which we picked, then in a burst of enthusiasm, whilst pointing at the menu's blurted "Look, here they are!"
"Oh yes," We nodded, smiling a little nervously.

Once we were seated we ordered our food and drink. Another very new member of staff came with our coffees. Very carefully and with much concentration on his part he approached our table, placed the tray down, put each cup in front of us and then said,

"'I brought you some milk. I didn't know if you'd want some milk or not, but I brought some anyway'"

I wasn't really sure how to respond to that. I mean, yes, I do normally take milk with coffee but don't restaurants usually provide it anyway? Am I suppose to congratulate him on a well thought out and executed plan? All I knew was that the careful way in which he'd delivered the drinks made me think he'd probably dropped a few of those on the poor souls who'd come here before us and that I was eternally grateful he'd got it right this time. I thanked him very sincerely though I wasn't really sure what I was saying thank you for, and he left a very happy man.

Minutes passed, they turned from single to double digits. Catriona pointed out that we had probably been sitting there for an hour. I didn't think it was possible but when we calculated it she was right. Where was our food? We put on our concerned faces and tried to look at the staff in the manner that suggests, whilst not wanting to be rude, that we really want our food now. After a while my burger and chips arrived. I wanted to tuck in but Catriona still had nothing. She'd ordered a salad and fries. How long can it take to do salad and fries? Five minutes longer than a burger and fries it seems. Her food arrived and the manager, who was serving us this time, said she was sorry for our wait but they'd had no chips. Didn't I have chips? If I didn't then what were the limp yellowy potato like things on my plate? I didn't want to challenge it. The restaurant was already too weird. Catriona looked for some mayonnaise but couldn't find any in the bowl of sachets on the table so naturally she asked the manager standing to attention for us.

"Mayonnaise, oh, no, we don't have any. Would you like some in a bowl?"

"Oh, you only have bowled mayonnaise, not actual mayonnaise," we thought.

She disappeared into the kitchen and moments later I heard her say,

"Shit, I lied, I do have mayonnaise!"

She lied? This restaurant clearly operates on a whole different level to the rest of the world. We eventually finished our meal and paid the bill. Catriona benefited from a free salad as, according to the manager who was again training the poor new employee, they don't normally do salad separately, even though it is clearly marked on the menu as a side dish. I think the girl in training had better run whilst she can. I hear that Starbucks have an excellent training schedule and the benefits from not having to work on a motorway speak for themselves. Most importantly, I got lots of free lollipops. We all know the only really good reason for going to the Little Chef is to get the free sweets when you leave.

The journey home was beginning to take its toll. Catriona was beginning to feel the strain. We played games and chatted for the rest of the journey and eventually got back home.We immediately went to the pub.We came back from the pub. Moments of note were, in no particular order:
We got carded???
We lined up lots of drink, and drunk it.
We discovered the answer to a movie quiz that has been in the process of completion on and off for 3 years.
Some dude got thrown out for being an arse.
We left smiling after a very very pleasant time.

Naturally we decided to play drinking games when we got home.

"What have you got in the cupboard?" I said enquiringly.
"I dunno, have a look, there's all sorts in there."
"Ahh, Whiskey and Jägermeister. Perfect!"

This is where the story becomes blurry. Someone suggested a word association game, I, being an English teacher, agreed immediately. I had an obvious advantage working with words all day. The game began after laying down the rules, the most notable being only one word to be called out, no sentences or multiple word answers. Each mistake would mean a shot of Jägermeister. 10 rounds later and we were a little hazy as to who was in the lead.
"I've been loosing because I've drunk more," I slurred.
"I've drunk the same as you," Catriona said, defending herself from my ludicrous protest.
"No, I have, I've had 5 shots and you... you've had... err, hang on." I got out my fingers and concentrated. 10 games, I've had 5 shots that makes, er, 5.
"And you've only had 5 shots!" I exclaimed.
"yeah, the same as you." Catriona pointed out smiling.
"that's what I've been trying to say." I tried to save myself but it was a big hole.
Catriona looked at me and nodded humorously"Say your word you fool".
The next few rounds could be represented like this;
Catriona, "taste."
Me,"eyes!"
Catriona, "eyes, that's not an association."
Me, "it is too. Its related to the body."
Catriona, "that is a bit tenuous isn't it?"
Me "damn it, I was thinking of sight, then thinking of catching you out. I out thought myself and said eyes. Where's the bottle?"
Catriona, "OK, next one, hospital."
Me, "Doctor."
Catriona, "Health."
Me, "Coronary heart attack!"
Catriona, "that is clearly not one word"
Me, " ah, fuck it, why can't I get this one word bit right. OK here goes another shot. Errgh, that burns."

Eventually we decided that I was too gone to do word association. I did feel, however, that I was easily sober enough for poker. Catriona didn't know how to play it so I explained the rules and thought to my self that this was where my luck would change. The stakes were 10ml of Jägermeister for each bet, loser drinks the lot. The first hand was a tester. Once we were happy we played for real. The cards went down on the table. I lost to three queens and had to drink 2 shots. The next hand I lost to 3 queens. I had to drink 2 shots. I am reliably told at this point that I got up looking a little pale. I was asked if i was going to be sick, to which, I replied yes. I sauntered out of the room and disappeared for about 10 minutes. I returned in my underpants with a wet face.

The only thing I remember after the 3 queens was waking up semi naked in bed, alone, in what felt like the fires of hell. I managed to get up and float to the living room where I found Catriona asleep on the couch and the heating on full blast. I had gotten so drunk that she decided to sleep in the living room because, and I quote, "you, were drunk and smelly and I wasn't getting into bed next to you." Which is fair enough I think you'll agree.

Moral of the story? Spend one full day locked in a car with your girlfriend and you will leave it totally in love and wanting to celebrate but what ever you do, don't think that you will beat her at word association games. It just wont happen.

Hump

You may be wondering why the title of this story is the word hump. It all started last night after returning home from the 5th bar quiz. I was, it should be mentioned, a little drunk. In the words of Catriona I was "talking bollocks". The one overriding memory of that conversation was a 5 minute rant about Michael Flatley and his magic feet of destiny. I don't really remember why but I just went off on one about him. I can't stand his smarmy, Celtic, new age prancing and that he seems to think he is a god of men, although I must admit Riverdance isn't bad. This naturally lead me to the one other celebrity that fills me with rage. Damien Rice. God I hate those songs. They're whining bags of tripe with lyrics that make me want to puke. Float like a cannon ball, aghhh!

Back in reality ville, that was the precursor to my morning. I woke up with a slight hangover and a terrible feeling of anxiety. It was the Michael Flatley induced nightmare that I've always dreaded, exacerbated by Damien Rice nausea. I think they have Nightmare on Elm St, Freddy Kruger like powers and invaded my dreams. In future I will be watching you very carefully boys!

The moring feeling was so horrible I texted Catriona for some comfort. Like an angel to my rescue she rang me for a chat. We talked for some time, it was very nice to hear her voice, but as my Flatley fear subsided I mentioned to Catriona that it was one of those mornings, that if she was laying next to me I'd put my arm around her and say "let's go back to sleep," to which she replied, "don't talk shite. If you were here you'd poke me until I was awake and then try to hump me!" We erupted into laughter. I haven't laughed that hard in a long time. I laughed so loudly that my left ear popped. We were both on the phone in hysterics simply because Catriona was right. If I'd been there that's what I would have done.

Oh, the joy of laughter. Now I was wide awake and realising that I had to go to work. Time to get busy. I had a wonderful idea about making tea. Usually I'm not able to do it because I am half asleep even as I'm walking out the door and totally unable to function well enough to operate a kettle. This morning, when I walked into the kitchen, right before my eyes was a bowl of noodles being prepared. My flatmate Geoff has an obsession with Japanese noodles, he eats them morning noon and night. He once had them instead of a cup of coffee because there was no sugar in the house. Like a 3 year old I wanted some too so I grabed a packet and fired up the kettle again. After an agonising 4 minutes of having to wait for the noodles to soak and soften I wolfed them down like I hadn't eaten in years. They tasted good. Really good.
I told Catriona about wanting to write about the experience but I was disappointed at not being able to write a backwards d like child's writing. She pointed out that a backwards d is a b.

I think it's time for a three year olb tantrum!

When you need it the most it's all around you...

But it sure as hell isn't anything to do with you

(all images below are clickable)


It's about 10am and I wake up feeling in a very loving mood. I recall the conversation I had with Catriona earlier in the morning when she got home from the couchsurfing sub crawl in Glasgow ¹. I find myself thinking that it would be nice to make her a cup of tea or some breakfast and generally look after her when she eventually arises from here inevitable hang over. The thing is that it is impossible to do this as she is in a different country to me. The feeling of love doesn't change, I still feel my heart beating faster as I think of her. I go back to bed so that I may wake up again with that lovely warm feeling.

I wake up again and again I feel enamoured by thoughts of her. It's Sunday and the day is starting off well. I really have nothing to do so I decide to play some poker online and kill time before Catriona gets up. Things go well for a while. I'm not becoming a millionaire but I'm winning and having fun.

Time drags on. The poker games become same ole' same ole', monotonous and repetitive. I drift into a continuous loosing streak. Frankly all I can think of is wanting to spend time with Catriona and I'm becoming depressed at not being able to do it. Finally the text comes through that she is awake and I grab my headset to have a chat.

I love her. We hang up and after an hours chat I feel uplifted, I feel like the wait is possible, I feel like I can get through another week in Paris but after 10 minutes I am getting restless. The high from talking to Catriona is beginning to wear off and I start to feel lonely again. I decide to go out and take some pictures, clear my thoughts of sadness and hopefully find something beautiful for Catriona to come home to.

3pm and I'm out the door. After a short, bleak walk through Neuilly I jump on the metro and head to nowhere in particular. It is packed in the carriage and I want to get off as soon as possible. I can't decide between Butte Charmont or the Louvre. I choose the Louvre as the better option because there are more street photo opportunities and there is a nicer backdrop.

I get out of the metro and find it has begun to rain much more determinedly that earlier. I walk through the grounds. Nothing seems at all inspiring and the rain is coming down harder. I decide to take refuge in an adjoining square to the main entrance and wait out the downpour.

Whilst I wait there I realise that I am in a very downward spiral in my mood. A combination of the melon colic songs on my MP3, the grey, wet and cold weather and my loneliness about Catriona is beginning to affect me a lot. I look into the square and see everything in a different way than usual. I get my camera out and start clicking at things that represent me inside. The rain is thundering down. Pounding the ground relentlessly, causing rapid rivers on the ground. It would be suicide to go out there with my camera in my hands so I wait patiently. A click here, a click there, it's all building up around me and filtering through my lens into my camera.



Eventually the rain stops enough for me to leave my refuge and walk some more. I stand at the side of the road waiting to cross onto the Pont des Arts when someone in their car, obviously having as equally a depressing day as me decides the only way to relieve the monotony of life and the sadness inside is to create the worlds largest street tsunami and cover me in water. The car speeds towards me, swerves into the huge puddle on the side of the road and launches the water in arc in my direction. It soars upwards and forwards, rushing in at me with all the force of... a small child jumping into a bath. The water drops with the most energy fall helplessly at my feet like defeated enemies begging for mercy. I smile and give the universally recognised sign of acknowledgement shown to all those that reveal themselves to be the idiots that they are then cross the road onto the bridge.

About 20 mins later I find myself wishing that I hadn't taken this particular metro. Everybody on the bridge had been involved in loving embraces and had found the rain only made things more beautiful. I couldn't bear it any longer and decided to go home. Of course the metro was packed with lovers too. I can't escape from it, the most unusual, intimate moments of attention to each other being laid out for all in the carriage and I can't help thinking I wish I could be doing the same to Catriona.



I get home and treat myself to a baguette, the ice-cream I intended buying was way overpriced so bread and butter will have to do. I wait to speak to Catriona, passing the time with a film.

The phone rings and instantly I am overjoyed. My dark veil is lifted to reveal a moonlit ,bright evening full of joy and conversation. The chat with Catriona fills me up with comfort. I felt dead inside for a while, but in a moment, that moment, it was all gone. I've come back to life because of her.

To quote a the queens of the stone age " I may not be worth a dollar, but I feel like a millionaire "


1 A sub crawl is like a pub crawl. You must visit a pub at every stop on the underground system until you have completed the tour or you die, pass out or develop a fear of public transport.

From French Unions to Ferrets

I've spent this morning browsing the Internet for information. This isn't as normal as one would believe. Usually my primary use of the internet is nothing as lofty as furthering my knowledge but increasing the amount of time I can actively do nothing at all. I think this is probably true for the majority of us.

This particular morning I had a real plan for the Internet. It was going to live up to its potential for a change and give me information. I had just had a lovely conversation with my girlfriend. Its nice to wake up to the sound of your lovers voice, particularly when she's 700 miles (1120Km) away. The end of the conversation was me remembering that I had no idea when the planned transport strike was actually going to take place. All I did know was that it was very important that I found out before I got stranded in the middle of Paris. There is no way I'm going to miss going to Edinburgh next Friday.

I looked in the most natural place for information, RATP.fr, but obviously there was no information there. My search then took me to a forum (god bless them all) which then directed me to the Reuters news site.

This site was a wealth of information and frankly I don't think I was prepared for the kind of mind blowing data I was about to uncover. first things first, the strikes are probably planned for the 13th of November and will probably last 2 days. So, nice and vague. Whilst I was skimming the article for info my eye was attracted to another headline. 9 Die in Finland School Shooting. Some kid went to the local school and opened fire on the kids in the name of natural selection. The thing that really caught my eye on this was the line

"YouTube video predicted Fatal School Shooting",

I was thinking that maybe one of his friends had made a video and thought this guy was going to do something crazy but this wasn't the case. The killer himself posted a video entitled

"Jokela High School Massacre - 11/7/2007,"

I would say that isn't so much a prediction as an outright statement, although it did take place earlier than he thought it would. As you can imagine, after an article like that, I needed a little light relief. This is where the Internet and news sites really shine.

"Hide Your Old Pills In Poop, Government Says".

Well how can you not click on a headline like that. I had images of people trying to to perform all sorts of strange routines and none of them were pretty. The article was talking about dangerous prescription drugs and how to dispose of them. The original suggestion was flushing them down the toilet but someone said that providing the local fish population with opiates and tranquillisers wasn't a good idea. It scared the fishermen to think that a super strength, doped up trout might attack them looking for its next fix. Naturally the suggestion moved to ferrets. Here is an extract from the article, it is the most bizarre leap of topics;

"Mixing prescription drugs with an undesirable substance, such as used coffee grounds or kitty litter, and putting them in impermeable, nondescript containers, such as empty cans or sealable bags, will further ensure the drugs are not diverted," it says.

Of course some people do not drink coffee. But maybe they have a pet ferret.

"Ferret waste, like nearly any other form of pet waste, can be effectively used to help prevent the abuse of unused prescription drugs," SAMHSA spokesman Mark Weber said.

This news delighted the American Ferret Association."

What the hell was that, if you don't drink coffee then you have a predilection to ferrets? What's next, the abstination from tea predetermines your love of Iguanas?

The artcle continues with;

"The U.S. government declares ferret poop to be an effective weapon against drug abuse,"

Well there you have it. Ferret shit is officially recognised as a weapon. A weapon of mass de-drug-tion one might say.
I am so terribly sorry for that last bit but if you're going write about something weird then it seems almost essential to end it on the ridiculous.

Ferret article - http://uk.reuters.com/article/newsOne/idUKN0756745220071107?pageNumber=1
French Transport Strikes - http://uk.reuters.com/article/worldNews/idUKL3136118020071031?pageNumber=1
Finland Shooting - http://uk.reuters.com/article/newsOne/idUKPAR75179520071107?pageNumber=1

The wonderful forum Rick Steve's Erope - http://www.ricksteves.com/graffiti/helpline/index.cfm/rurl/topic/7640/planned-french-rail-strike--november-13-2007.html

P.S. Don't you just love people with two first names. They always sound like stunt men to me.

Don't tell anyone or they'll lock you up

So yesterday evening I was waiting for a phone call. There is a spot near the entrance to my work place on St Germain boulevard that I like to stand when I am waiting for both something and nothing so I headed there to wait for the phone to ring. From that little square cobbled point, which is on a side street off the main boulevard, I like to look out at the city passing by. On many an occasion I have stood looking at the map of the quartier and lost myself in thought about the streets, parks and buildings that are in the area.

The main thing about staring into a map and loosing yourself is that you definitely need a map to do it. There was no map here now. Having noticed this rather obvious gap in my view I still felt a question tugging at my brain. OK, where did this lamppost come from?

I stand in this spot a lot, almost every day, I find it hard to believe someone could sneak in a lamppost without me noticing. Other things were troubling me too. The lamppost looked like it had been there forever. It had even acquired the ubiquitous urine stains that surround almost every permanent structure in Paris.

I walked around it looking at the floor. Everything seemed normal. I pondered over it for a while and then came to the conclusion that this lamp post had definitely been placed there by aliens with a disliking to dimly lit side streets. I decided to get a second opinion because if you're going to go around telling people that aliens are redesigning the city you want to make sure that your story makes sense.

I went back into work, walked up to reception and said,
"have you seen that lamppost before?"
There was a small pause where the French and Russian receptionists processed the sentence in their minds to make sure that what they'd heard was what I had said.
"Are you all right?" Virginie asked me.
"Er, yeah but I was just wondering If you had seen that lamppost before", then added "Oh and the map is missing too!"
Virginie and Anton stood up and looked over the reception counter, looked at each other, agreed that the map had indeed disappeared and the lamppost was new. I asked if they knew when it had happened but they hadn't seen any construction men out there. They also said that they don't generally take a great deal of interest in maps and lampposts. It was a good point that I had to agree with them on. My interest in these things is usually limited to needing maps when I'm lost and if there is a light around when this happens it would help matters tremendously to see where I'm about to mistakenly send myself. The situation here was different in that I was intrigued as to when the post had got there and why it looked like it had always been there. I couldn't help thinking that Parisian maintenance crews were under obligation to install and antediluvianate all fittings in the city. The more I thought about it the more I kind of liked this idea.

I wondered how many other objects in the city had provoked this line of thought and how many other people would question their mysteries in the way that I had. I already knew of two people who wouldn't but there must be more who think like me. I posed the question in my English lesson and quickly discovered that in fact I am nearly the only one who thinks this way. There was one inquisitive man who, when running his regular route, had seen English graffiti on a Parisian pavement. It asked "Are you there?" He wanted to know what was a grammatically correct response to this and I had to reply with "No, I moved. Now I'm here".

Well I'm still here and I still don't know what those aliens really wanted to achieve with a brighter street but if they come across this story I would like to say to them that the new old lights are fine by me but please leave the maps alone, I get lost easily.

Today I will mostly be walking that way

OK, you know when you have one very interesting girlfriend when you have a conversation like the one below

me: I need to get out of bed in the next 10 mins. put on a wash, go to the supermarket then make an actual dinner for myself this afternoon. This evening I'm going to the quiz and celebrating Karims birthday, what about you, do you think you will get to go home early today?

Catriona: no, i am meeting the ice maidens at 7pm then going to see Jelena afterwards about our cloaks

I find I just don't meet enough ice maidens these days.

As it turned out my day was pretty interesting too. A simple trip to the supermarket (is there ever just a simple trip for me?) turned into an adventure in Neuilly and a foray almost to the Arc d'Triomphe. It was also an insight into the psyche of the lost man. Do I ask for directions or continue on a straight line to the horizon.
I tried the latter first but figured after 20 mins that circumnavigating the Earth because I am too pig headed to turn around would be a little extreme to say the least. I tried the former next and discovered I had only been 100 meters from the supermarket originally. The real question is will I do it again. The answer is almost certainly yes.
One good thing came of this. My adventure had given me a desire to investigate in the shop and in doing so I found gluten free goodies for my girlfriend.

You're all a bunch of comedians but I'm the only one laughing

So yesterday was the final of the rugby world cup. It was something I'd been looking forward to for a long time. Even more so because England had, unbelievably, made it to the finals. I turned up to the bar 4 hours in advance to secure myself a seat and settled down to wait for the match. I was alone but thankfully not the only one wearing an England shirt so I pulled out my book, sipped my pint and began killing time.

I suppose that a rugby fan reading a book in a pub on their own must be an unusual sight because I very quickly attracted attention. I heard a noise different to the general hubbub of the conversations in the bar and being an inquisitive sort I looked up to see what it was. In front of me was an oldish, drunkish, very sweaty looking man shouting the Welsh national anthem at me. I ruffled my brow in confusion. I mean, I thought I could hear this man singing at me but it was a little odd so I didn't want to commit myself too soon. I decided that I was imagining things and got back to my book.

The singing became more distinct. I looked up and asked the man where he was from. Thinking back on it now I feel that this was not the most intelligent question to ask, after all he was singing Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau. Imagine my surprise when he walked up to me and said "London mate", in a Tottenham accent.Well this was odd. I generally don't get my own countrymen mocking me so with with a chuckle I said "Fair enough" and continued on with my book.

He was still standing at my table. He looked half drunk and seemed oblivious to his runny nose which looked dangerously like it was about to cascade onto my table. Out of politeness I asked him what he was doing here though I hoped his nose held out longer that his answer. If my judgement is anything to go by I was going to be in for a good story.
"I'm here for the rugby match", he said. "I went to the stadium this morning but they aren't selling tickets".
"Well of course they're not", I replied, "its the day of the final. They've been sold out for, well, for about a year to be honest"
"Yes I know but I thought I'd go down to the stadium and buy one, maybe off the touts."
"OK, good luck, I hear they're going for a good price. About 3000 euros". As I was saying this I was beginning to doubt myself. He looked totally unphased by this remark and definitely did not look like the type of person who had three grand to throw about. Did he know something I didn't?
"Ahh" he growled, "I'm not going to be paying that sort of money. I'll offer 500 maximum. They can take it or leave it".
"...", I said. This was getting more intriguing.
"And if I don't get one then I'll go to a bar near the stadium and watch the game with this".
My confusion cleared instantly. It wasn't that he knew something I didn't. It was just that he was mad. Out of his pocket had come an ear piece on a lanyard.
"It's a referees link". He made this statement to ease the obvious suffering on my face. "I'll be able to hear everything the ref is saying".
"By the look of that thing you'd better find a bar on the pitch", I thought.

Some time later when I had recovered from my trip to planet crazy I heard another shout in my direction.
"Eay, you. Are you stupeed, you think you're going to win tonight?"
I looked up because this kind of remark is often directed at me and I find it's important to discover what it is that I am doing so I can stop it as soon as possible.
"Yeah you, are you stupeed. Why you reading the book in the pub? Eez eet shakspeer?".
This was followed by a hearty group laugh. I realised it was the group of French men at the bar. They had seen me reading and I guess had found that type of thing highly unusual. I can't say that I'm terribly surprised, they didn't look the literary type. In a perfect twist of luck I held up the book, just under my chin to accentuate the sweet smile on my face, to show them the title.
"Merde happens", or Shit happens to translate. He looked at the book, looked at me, looked totally out of his depth and, probably not for the first time, lost. He said shit and turned away. There really is no better way to win an argument than to say nothing at all.

The game started, the game finished, the South Africans won and I decided to go home. I collected my belongings but I wasn't looking where I was going and as I took my first step away from my table I felt wetness on my shoulder. I turned round and saw this tiny man in font of me. He and his friends had been getting on my nerves all evening singing the intro to 7 nation army repeatedly during the game.
"Look what you did, you spilt my beer on your shoulder. Why weren't you looking where you were going?", he squeaked at me.
"Sorry pal it was an accident, I guess we both weren't paying attention".
There had been about a centilitre of beer lost from the glass. My shoulder was almost dry already but the England top was spurring him on to argue.
"No, you weren't looking where you were going, you spilled my beer".
I don't have the ability to be in a situation like this and not point out the obvious.
"Well you weren't paying attention either," I stated matter of factly.
"I was".
OK, now I had to say it. "Well If you were looking where you were going then why did you pour beer all over my shoulder?" I felt rather smug with this line of argument. I had him on the ropes.
He pulled out the big guns. Cupping my chin softly in his hand and looking deep into my eyes he said "Well maybe I wanted to get your attention".
I wasn't expecting this. I had to admit defeat. All I wanted to do was get away from there as quickly as possible. He had well and truly won the argument.

I think about that night and I am reminded of the free t-shirts that were being handed out to the punters in the bar. On the back of them was written, "You gotta know when to hold 'em, you gotta know when to fold 'em, you gotta know when to walk away and you gotta know when to run away".
I think that just about summed up my entire night.