The first of many holidays

And then it was the holidays. Quite suddenly and unexpectedly. And off I flew with Nik 'Smokey Joe' Koehler and lovely Lizbet to London Town.

The first curveball hurled in our direction was Ryanair's hand luggage weight policy. WE HAD NOT BARGAINED FOR THIS.

Of course, Niklous and myself had overweight baggage but the surprisingly jovial woman on the desk kindly suggested that we simply wear all of our clothes... So that we did. Nik caused quite a stir in the waiting area of Tours airport by piling on about 9 layers worth of his holiday outfits and gradually baring more of an uncanny resemblance to the Michelin man... I opted for shoving all my heaviest items down my top and meandered through the gate nursing a jumper full of shoes and books. As a nervous flyer Nik did not appreciate the, quite frankly, CRAP excuse for a departure lounge or indeed the rickety plane, flown by a man genuinely named Dragon, who took his descent far too fast, and essentially, crash landed in London.

Michelin Man

Although when travelling through the tube system he soon cheered up every time signs for Cockfosters or Shepherd's Bush came into view.

Our hostel for 2 nights was called 'Clink', located in the Kings Cross area (yes of course we had our pictures taken by Platform 9 3/4) and was a former court house - someone was aptly being arrested in reception when we arrived, ensuring we felt incredibly safe before we had even checked in. Having left France far behind, we were shocked to realise that there were probably more French people in our hostel than in the whole of France itself (London having incidentally just been named France's sixth largest city).

Planking Platform 9 and 3/4

Over the next 2 days I attempted to show these mad-cap Americans a slice of London's bet bits. We did Harrods, Big Ben, Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament, participated in a Boots Meal Deal and had a pint in a pub, wandered around Camden, Covent Garden and Oxford Circus and rounded it off with fish and chips and a Kopparberg. We obviously couldn't miss out Hyde Park and Buckingham Palace, where with her back to the glorious building itself Lizbet couldn't hide her appreciation for the large testicles of a nearby lion statue. 'Very impressive carving' was her excuse. We were having none of it.

Cheeky pint

Buckingham Palace

Balls. And new shoes.

There was also no chance that I would allow them to miss out on the greatest British institution of them all - Primark. They both left after about 2 minutes in there while I survived a little longer and managed to find a pair of shoes for £3! I bought two pairs. I was ecstatic.

CAMDEN  TAAAUUN (with Cockney Accent)

While it rained pretty much the whole time we were there, London seemed to welcome young Niklous with open arms. I have never in my life been in a group that received so much male attention! The English loved him! At one point, no word of a lie, a man stopped him in the road just to tell him he was beautiful. Me and Liz felt bitter and resented Nik for the duration of the trip.

Daniel 'Hurricane' Welsh arrived that evening, and after we had stolen about 3 hours of sleep, we awoke ourselves and dragged our heavy bags to Marble Arch to catch our airport bus at 4am. As if the hour wasn't bad enough, we proceeded to run around under the stars for about 42 minutes attempting to discover where the hell the actual bus stop was and even chasing one particular bus through the night for what seemed like miles only to discover that the sodding stop was actually back where we started. GOD I HATE THE TRANSPORT SYSTEM.

Unexplained egg.

I will save the glory of Corfu for the next post and round off with an exemplary news story that I think needs to be mentioned this week. The headline on the BBC website read "Man denies Bath sex shop arson" and was a tale about a man wandering into a sex shop and before setting it alight, simply telling the shop keeper, "I've got a surprise for you...". In such a profession this was probably not the sort of surprise he was anticipating... Poor man.

Much love and whatnot, H x

Ps Follow me on Twitter for more frequent updates and grumbles! #agrumbleaday

A fresh taste of France.

WELL. Haven’t I been being rather lazy. I haven’t posted anything for a while and have had this bad boy typed up for quite a while. I will share it with you and tell you all about my recent travels in London and Corfu après.

Back in Le Mans and back to school. And the world makes sense again. Enfin. . . it sort of does. I worked 5 long, hard hours in my first week back, mainly due to my teacher being ill, but also due to an oversleeping incident. THIS week, I've hit up 9 hours and it's only Tuesday! It's practically full time! I'm sat in Mamers at the moment in the glorious sunshine waiting for the bus home. I detest the bus. Whenever I take it thousands of tiny children from neighbouring schools descend on me asking me all the English they know, slash simply stare at me like I'm a FRICKING ZOO ANIMAL. I know I should be kinder and oblige, perform and encourage; especially when they tell me how beautiful I am. . . repeatedly. . .but, they're RUINING THE SUNSHINE and I'm trying to listen to Jack Johnson. Inevitably I have given in and obliged because I am WEAK. God, I hate children. I'll have to hide better next time, under a coat or something.

I have had an interesting taste of France this month. Have had an interesting insight into the somewhat humorous way Frenchies view fidelity, and continuing my recent trend, have been learning a lot more about myself and the people around me. Like a giant year abroad cliché, I'm slowly uncovering the kind of person I want to be, and hopefully am becoming that person bit by bit, shitty situation after shitty situation.

Daniel 'Hurricane' Welsh turned 21 last week and he celebrated in the understated and conserved manner that is so characteristic of him. He threw a fantastic 80s party, spent £100 on alcohol and streamers, made sneaky cocktails and an epic 80s playlist, wore leopard print leggings and danced the night away in various places around Le Mans. Subtle as ever. I dressed up in very little clothing (channelling Madonna) which included a red bra and a tiny see-through Lacey top, and in all honesty spent a fair amount of the evening in a walk in cupboard. I was not alone in the cupboard. That is all that will be said on this topic.

I have had some very pleasant experiences over the last few weeks including being treated to a delightful evening with Austrian Berni where he created a sort of crazy outdoor cinema and we snuggled in the cold on a couch with rum enhanced tea, while watching the genius of Robert Redford and Paul Newman in 70s gangster film 'The Sting'. What an evening!

I also recently spent the weekend in the city of amour with my Auntie and Uncle. I was sufficiently wined and dined and despite the heavy rain (and my epically poor choice of shoe and general attire for said weather) had a rather lovely time. We strolled around the Musée Rodin with our baguettes and fresh fraises, meandered up the Champs Élysées and took in the general delights of the Tour Eiffel and various Parisien cafes. We almost didn't make it to the Arc de Triomphe as Auntie Karen caught sight of Marks and Spencers and just had to have a gander. We also almost didn't find our way up to Montmartre after walking in the wrong direction for about 15 minutes DESPITE HAVING A MAP before Uncle Paul turned around to sneeze and saw the Sacre Coeur towering over the city behind us. We attempted to be cultured by appreciating some of the finer pieces on display in the Musée du Louvre for a few hours but very quickly my Auntie made it obvious that she would much rather subtly lose my Uncle Paul somewhere around the Italian Renaissance so that we could drink wine and chat up some dishy French waiters.

Merely 2 days after this weekend of fun, fabulous Best Friend Alice turned up for a cheeky visit. We obviously immediately ate Mcdo and drank wine - I wanted to give her the real French experience! We spent about 4 days eating a variety of cheeses, drinking all the wine we could find and watching unhealthy amounts of Cougar Town and good old reliable, vampire-based favourite - True Blood. Luckily the weather was fantastic for her stay so we had a picnic in the sunshine and spent the days we had together holding hands and reminiscing. We even had a romantic lunch date in a delightful and traditional French restaurant in the old town before spending an entire afternoon eating chocolat-framboises, swilling down several kirs and judging everyone that walked by. Heaven.

On a more depressing note, I have recently been forced to take note of the manner in which I put people on pedestals, only to be cruelly disappointed when they don't match up to my expectations. It has taken a lot of time spent reflecting to realise that this is my fault. When some event causes these people (invariably of the male variety for myself) to fall from grace and suddenly materialise on ground level as just another person, it is odd and actually quite painful to see them much smaller than you thought. We all allow our imaginations to run wild (I often spend train journeys falling in love repeatedly with every half attractive man that climbs aboard and planning our lives together in great detail until they alight) and presume that our emotions and relationships are profound and without replica in the world, when actually, you're both far more average than you originally thought.

The silver lining is that sometimes this doom and gloom may lead to something magnificent - it may allow colour back into your world where you didn't even realise it had dimmed. Les malheurs may continue to occur, like big pointy scary obstacles thrown in your path, but don't stop. It's so bizarre that I never realised before how if you just keep smiling, even when there appears to be no reason to do so, life strolls by so much easier. If I just keep leaping over these never ending obstacles with a massive cheeky grin and a pint of wine in my hand, everything will be fine. God life is good when the sun is shining.

I’ll fill you in ASAP on the next leg of my life journey.

Much love and whatnot, H x

Un peu de soleil en fevrier

Anyone reading this sat in an office or small student flat NOT in mainland Europe, for your own sanity, look away now! NOT that I'm being at all boastful, but. . . No wait. . . YES I AM. As I write this, I'm sat cross-legged bathed in sunshine on a bustling Italian train, and I'm not sure I could be feeling much more jovial. In the last 2 weeks my tired little feet have made tracks in Reykjavik, Royal Leamington Spa, Nice, Monaco and the Cinque Terre in Northern Italy. I managed to fit clothes, accessories AND toiletries for this variety of climates and terrain into my tiny travel suitcase! Impressive much?!

So, let's start in Iceland! I headed to London to join the fam and then off we flew to the capitol - Reykjavik. We swam in natural thermal springs, had volcanic scrubs and algae masks (with unfortunate photographic evidence) and saw an epic waterfall, where the raw power of nature made me feel INCONSEQUENTIAL and TEENY WEENY. Iceland is an absolute labyrinth of geological wonder - you can't cross the road without seeing a volcano, a geysir or a massive great crack in the ground!

Sisters attempting to appear STRONG like NATURE by the giant waterfall.

The first two nights we were there, the tours to see the Northern Lights were cancelled due to cloudy weather. But on our final night, a tiny ray of hope managed to break it's way through the fogged up horizon, and one tour company was running the trip. We just had to find something to do to fill our final day. . . Reykjavik is rather small and seemingly unprepared for its own inhabitants, let alone tourists as well. So, during the day, as we had run out of things to do in the city, we opted to partake in a little whale watching; my father having momentarily forgotten his tendency towards sea-sickness (which he spent the next three hours ensuring he would never forget again). The actual boat trip lasted about 3 hours, but seemed to last about 3 years, due to the freezing cold gale force winds, the lack of any actual whales, and the abundance of people vomiting over the side of the lower deck. SO. . . After losing a foot or two to frostbite and gaining what some might label an unhealthy knowledge of Icelandic seabirds, we lost all hope in our guide.

Family boat line up

Thus, that evening, with disappointment already in our hearts, we set out on our Aurora Borealis Tour - it lasted 4 hours and comprised of us driving around the bleak Icelandic countryside on a coach, chasing an imaginary gap in the clouds. Needless to say, no lights were seen.

By the time we arrived back at our hotel, there were 4 hours to spare before we had to catch our flight. Now, it's worth remembering that I do not come from a family who tend to comprehend the meaning of the word quiet, and just as we had moved about Iceland, destroying evening meals and other romantic and tender moments for others with our loud, jovial and often inappropriate or vulgar banter, we unashamedly left the hotel at 4am in a similar fashion. We flew into Heathrow on Valentine's Day. My father had skipped down the plane mid-flight declaring that the post man had been, and joyfully distributed big orange envelopes to myself and my three sisters. At least three of us having had our hearts viciously torn apart in the last 6 months, we were more than delighted to receive these cards, reminding us how fabulous and gorgeous we all are, from my Dadsie - the charmer :D

And off I trundled to Leamington to see Big Tall Tom and Best Friend Alice. OF COURSE my journey was troublesome and ridiculous. OF COURSE I had to change my route twice and buy new tickets. It wouldn't be the British National Rail Network without having to battle and bribe your way from station to station like a NINJA.

Being back in Leam felt un peu strange, like I would most likely settle into my final year and carry on like none of this year had actually ever happened. I had a marvellous time in some of the old haunts, having a meal paid for in my FAVE restaurant and catching up with various friendies, who all made my stay most magical. Then the travelling really began. I made my way to Nice and met Lizbet there for general Carnival fun, beach walks and romantic hand-holding in the moonlight. Daniel's arrival in Nice (2 days later) was dramatic (as per usual) and sunsoaked. We spent 2 days bonding with hostel roomies, microwaving dodgy looking food items and vaguely wandering around the city. The colours of the buildings (yellow, orange, terra cotta) was a major talking point (especially for little Lizbet who doesn't get out much ;) ) and we blundered all over Nice, loudly over-sharing and partaking in general frivolity.

Looking out over Nice

Chillaxing in Nice

A day trip to Monaco with Jenni, the guru, brought even more great weather, which we celebrated with wine at lunch time (which, obviously, became a theme of the holiday). A day later, off the four of us popped to Italy. We stayed in a small room in which, over the course of our stay, all social boundaries were thrown haphazardly out of the window. A week previous to our visit, a flash flood had managed to destroy a lot of our tiny village by the sea, as well as the four other villages we were hoping to visit, and had also washed away 3 of the 5 sections of coastal path that we had come to the region to walk. . . What luck! But we made the best of the fabulous weather - a hard job, but someone had to do it.

Our beach in Italia :)

Our album cover ;)

Jenni foolishly managed to catch a stomach bug from her Nicoise friend and was rather violently and distressingly ill while in Italy, but NOTHING keeps that girl from the soleil - the minute she had enough strength to drag herself out of bed, she was down to the beach for a bit of tannage.

The whole gang being cheesy

And so the day came to make our journey back to Le Mans, and thus you found me on my return journey from Italy at the start of this post. But since then, we have left behind the orange trees, the lapping waves and a time in which I could still feel HAPPINESS. Since then, all joy in the world has melted away. One train after another was delayed, and we ended up spending TWENTY SEVEN HOURS travelling back to le Mans, which included an overnight stay in Paris, where we couldn't afford a bed for the night and had to find shelter in the dawn light. THIS was when I began to feel unwell. . . thus these hours were probably the slowest of my entire life, and I think I aged about 12 years that night. I did however manage to make it back to my own flat before being forced to admit that I'd caught Jen's stomach bug, and I just CHUNDERED EVERYWHERE. SEVENTEEN TIMES. If I hadn't been repeatedly vomiting, I would have actually been impressed by that number - must be a record or something! I took the first day off school due to general weakness. Pathetic.

All in all, the LEAST relaxing holiday EVER.

But now, here we are, back into the rhythms of la vie au Mans - minimal work and living for the weekend.
Much love and whatnot, H x

Handbag shopping and first impressions

As a quick weather report has become my habitual intro to each post (what could be more British?!) I would hate to break the habit of a lifetime. . . So. . . When I left my homestead on Monday morning the snow had just begun to fall. I got terribly excited and genuinely skipped nearly all the way across the centre-ville to meet the teacher fellow that drives me to school. The downside to this weather is that it is UTTERLY FREEZING so I can only leave my flat wearing about 14 layers and even contemplated climbing inside the photocopier this morning as it's the only thing that emits heat in Mamers.

 ANYWAY, let's move onto more pressing issues. Since returning to singledom after nearly 3 years of being unmoved by charming smiles, fabulous hair and boyish good looks - unless those of the former boyf - I have suddenly been forced to ponder my place in society as a femme célibataire. My dating guru, Jennifer Hopkins, connoisseur of fine wine and finer men, has imparted a genius analogy to me. She says simply that men are like handbags. That when you buy your first fabulous handbag, you imagine it will last forever, that no other could look as wonderful on your arm. You may occasionally find yourself window shopping; having a shifty; appreciating that the new Kate Moss range for Longchamp has just come out in a rather delicious shade of burgundy that would go with your new coat LIKE A DREAM. But you always put it back and leave the shop remembering how much you love the one you have. But when you're single, you can effectively whip out your bank card and go mental. . . Maybe it's better that I've realised now that bags (slash love) don't always last forever. Modern statistics RE: divorce rates seem to confirm this, but I really do believe that this is the fault of today's generation, who are not willing to make an investment, or the right decisions regarding who's worth that investment.

For me, this relies a lot on first impressions, and how easily people can be fooled by them, misjudge them, or build a relationship based on them. I've been thinking about this a fair bit recently mainly because of how crazily hard it is to make any worthwhile impression at all in a foreign language. It's all about getting the tone right, the level of colloquialism right, the interpretation and response right. So often I have these terribly awkward moments when I realise I've been smiling like a moron while someone's telling me their dog just died, or blindly agreeing when I've actually just been asked my thoughts on the state of immigration. At best I must appear rather rude, at worst, as thick as shit. It's a very humbling experience being almost continually humiliated by your own hand, but nevertheless, a great lesson to learn that if you ever have to repeatedly state "ne t'inquiète pas, je suis pas folle" (Don't worry, I'm not mad), you're not making the smoothest first impression and should probably cut your losses and simply walk away. Most of my personality seems to be completely lost in translation; dampened by a monotonal plod through a labyrinth of unknown verbs, fiddly prepositions and nonsensical tense changes. Thus recently, I've actually been conversing with French youth and making more efforts to meet new people. It's all been very exciting. I've now been invited to go skiing with some real French people, and have also spent more than one awkward evening in the company of my creepy French neighbour, all in the name of realising a true French experience.

 It seems though, that if you make a bad first impression in terms of work, friendship or romance, it is hard to go back on it. There is so much pressure on us all nowadays in a world where people will judge you after a few clicks on your Facebook page, employers will decide if they want to hire you in an average of 10 seconds and I even noted, on reading the literary classic, Cosmopolitan, that now our magazines are telling women all about men's opinions concerning our styles, make-up and even the way we act in public and on first dates. WHY ARE WE ( SLASH JUST ME) SPENDING HOURS READING THIS RUBBISH AS IF WE'RE CRAVING THIS MASCULINE APPROVAL. And what happens when we first meet people that has the potential to cause so much trouble? We are all rather quick to judge in such situations but are we necessarily to blame for our actions? The brain is on natural overdrive: taking a snapshot of choice of greeting, body language, tone of voice and even odour. . . And I think these moments will tell you a lot about someone's character, even if they shock you later.

Prehistoric man needed this quick judgement for survival on a day to day basis, and today I still believe it's a necessity but because in our modern world where there is so much to do and see, who wants to waste their precious time with someone who turns out to be a massive twat? Life's too bleeding short. But if it's really biology that's controlling us, can we really be blamed for our reactions? Like when attractive, young men talk to us on trains and we giggle so much AN ACTUAL SNORT COMES OUT and then get our words so insanely muddled that we sound like Yoda after a few Breezers. I mean, just as a hypothetical situation. . . I think I'm just in desperate need of manning up and gaining the right sort of confidence that comes hand in hand with finding oneself 'out there' again so as to avoid any more of these "I carried a watermelon" type moments.

 As a verdict, it seems to be the way of the world today that people are expected to sell themselves in every aspect of life in order to get past the 'audition' stages, whether you're on a date, at a job interview, or having a chinwag in a queue for a sandwich. We all have layers, and trust issues, and history, and we're all looking for someone to share it with. So with such little time to spare in our day to day schedules ( I'm talking in general terms and am not implying that working 12 hours a week and drinking wine the other 156 constitutes a full diary) we should always be putting our best foot forward. Anyway, I'm off to find Jenni and go shopping. Ironically the straps are breaking on my Claudia Canova and I'm in the market for a new handbag... Much love and whatnot, H x

Back into the swing

I've come back to school with a vengeance this term. With one fellow English teacher substituted due to pregnancy, things have slightly changed, and I'm now finding myself more able to be creative in the classroom. I actually have favourite students! That means I actually like some of them! I feel like I'm making real progress. I am now taking smaller groups, and have targeted the ring leaders to either unashamedly humiliate them in front of their peers in an effort to force them into silence, or have taken out restraining orders against them. I.e. have had them BANISHED from my lessons. For like 2 weeks... (how much power do you think we realistically have?!) This week is already proving rather delicious, as all of my 3ème classes are doing mock exams and work experience, so my life seems a little more peaceful. But this does mean I have to sit in the staff room for even more hours, finding things to amuse myself... Like writing a new blog post... The highlight of my day today was lunchtime. For those of you who know me, this will not come as a surprise, BUT it was not simply thanks to it being a socially accepted mealtime. As I gingerly whipped out my large Poulet et Bacon McWrap from (just incase you haven't guessed) good old McDo, I caused quite a stir. I swear I heard actual gasps emit from several teachers. One asked if he could touch it. He said he was joking. But I could see it in his eyes. He wasn't. They were all jealous. With their carrots. And their broccoli. And their rice. While I will inevitably die much sooner due to my salty clogged arteries, they will die unhappy, and I, I shall be smelling of ketchup and grease with a smile on my face. But honestly, I'm getting rather worried about my intake of such stodgy (but tasty) nonsense, and so have been going for lots of runs as of late. This is also partly so I can cause myself maximum physical pain (in an effort to numb this emotional ache) without it actually being classed as self harm. . .
   Saturday was a good day. I was recovering from a night out about which I would love to spill a heap of anecdotes of our goings-on, but I have little to no recollection of it, thus the escapade would be pointless. I did not however suffer from any hangover (a miracle considering my intake) and so caught up on the latest from Vampire Diaries, True Blood, and other teen vampire-related programs. Magic. In the evening, I was invited to a little soirée at Liz's (who from here on in I shall refer to endearingly as Lizbet). Jenni the Essex gal, Jane the New York Yankie, Daniel 'Hurricane' Welsh and myself made our way to the house of little Lizbet. We were in for a night of candid banter, snuggling in a bed far too small for 5 people, and pushing boundaries in terms of how much flatulence is acceptable in an intimate social setting (IN WHICH I TOOK NO PART). We movie watched (there's nothing like 2 hours of Penn Badgley to warm the cockles of your heart), we Brownie baked, we Camembert devoured. This made it even harder to fit in the bed, as by the end of the night, we'd all gained about 46 stone. When the morning came, we decided it was more than OK to have cheesy nachos with salsa for petit dejeuner, and due to my depression, I must admit, I forced the issue.
   My beautiful friends have managed, fantastically and with flare, to thoroughly take my mind off the rain cloud following me around (cue Travis Why Does It Always Rain On Me). Couldn't ask for much more. Coming home to check Facebook is now an actual event for me: finding little (Or MAHUSSIVE) messages from my friendies containing uplifting music videos and pictures of the various men in my life - Patrick Swayzee, Colin Firth, ETC - who can make me feel snugly whatever the weather. Thanks so much y'all (I'm trying to pick up this American drawl - let me know if it's working).
   Yesterday evening, even washing my clothes was penciled into my social calendar. I bought dinner to head on over to LavCity with the aforementioned Daniel (he couldn't believe I'd brought bread and cheese to the laundrette) and while I was held up as a security guard searched me after accusing me (rather rudely) of shoplifting (!), I eventually made it, and we settled down to chew the fat and air our dirty laundry in public (literally and metaphorically). I've noticed actually that we do have a tendency to all talk very loudly here about very private things, as the assumption is that no one really understands what we're saying... That belief was cruelly shaken after a frank and emotional chat entre Daniel and myself was overheard recently by a young woman sat near us in McDo, who proceeded to lean over to our surprise, and say in an American accent, "I've been through the exact same thing". We're now friends.
   To round off on a slightly depressing note, my feelings have lately been leaning towards the genuine pointlessness of life. Since I became toute seule, I have noticed that everything I do seems suddenly to have no point to it, now there's no one to tell about all those silly little things that have happened in the day. Friends are only interested in a certain amount of pointless facts that you might tell slash text your partner in a sort of daily ritual. Like when you realise half way through the day that your left arm has a number 6 on and you don't know why; or that you've forgotten your lip balm and it's affected your mood with dire consequences; or that your alarm has just gone off at 5.30am and you refuse to get out of bed, when you both know you're probably already up. The banalities of daily life, that when shared with someone you love, become actual fun. It's just strange suddenly realising that no one is interested anymore. If anyone ever was.
   The best feeling by far about being with someone, is waking up with them, and being able to immediately discuss all your hazy mental dreams. Like when Frodo dies, and it's suddenly your responsibility to get the ring to Mordor, but you realise you have chips where there should be legs and you've accidentally super glued your arm to a dolphin. Because that's just the kind of gold that should NEVER fade into obscurity without being shared. Maybe the lesson is that you should just always have someone with whom you can share these things, and not rely on those people who may become more transient in your life? If I uncover the answer I'll let you know.

 Much love and whatnot, H x

Bonne année

2012, thus far, is a big pile of crap.
   On April 30th, all of this will come to an end, and I will breath a massive sigh of relief. I know I'll be sad to leave some of the people I've met here - some people that even after 3 months, have proven themselves as genuinely amazing friends - but I think it'll feel strangely uplifting just getting the hell out of here. I won't have to worry every second I'm alive about not understanding anyone in the world around me. About knowing the phrase IL A ROMPU AVEC MOI just in case someone asks why I'm sobbing into my soup. In England I could just scream obscenities at them and they'd understand and leave me alone.
   I have few grumbles today, as in a shock twist, even I have limits. And I'm feeling a bit too empty to grumble about trivial things (this I am certain will not last long).
   When I got up this morning, I imagined that the blue sky and the sunshine would seem disgusting, that people laughing would make me vomit everywhere, that even talking to my friends would cause me actual physical pain. But it all feels fine. It just seems somehow besides the point.
   Life isn't much like how art portrays it to be. This isn't a huge dramatic event, where he leaves me and I die an agonising and drawn out death. My life isn't going to fall apart and I will not just go mental. I refuse. Everything will be the same. It will just be a lot harder. And with a lot less smiles.

  I'll be fine. (Cough).
  
 Not much love left, H x

"It's the most wonderful time of the year" - Andy Williams

I am now the proud renter of a one room flat at the end of Rue de Ports in the city of Le Mans. BOOM. I have a bed, a table and a small toaster oven plus new levels of independence. After paying huge amounts of money to secure said flat, and signing the contract, I had but a few hours to pack for my Christmas themed return to Angleterre. Definitely NOT enough time to incorporate doing the washing up, and taking out the rubbish. . . Tasks I haven't carried out for a good few weeks. Inevitably I was rushing to leave.
My journey home was not hugely eventful as I recall. Apart from someone being hit by the tram causing it to nearly make me miss my train! Selfishness if ever I saw it! But I don't think I have ever been more ready to go home before. My flight landed early and I had to wait in Arrivals for Dadsie to come and get me, so I whipped out some nostalgic classics to add to the general excitement, including Hall and Oates's "You make my dreams come true" and Donna Summer's "Hot Stuff". . . What an uplifting soundtrack to return to!
Home was as magical as I remembered. Sisters everywhere, small dogs running around licking everything, such a massive amount of food that it was literally forcing its' way out of cupboards with a deter,ination you don't often see in inanimate objects. And, soon enough, we were all rowing like we'd never been apart. So Christmassy!
I had a little reunion with my uni friend Alice just before Christmas - we decided to meet in Covent Gardens - a place vaguely halfway between us. What a choice. There were oversized Christmas trees, a market full of novelty aprons and hugely expensive jewellery, and twinkly lights everywhere. We bought pretty things for ourselves from Sass and Belle (What. A. Shop) and had lunch in a tapas bar which included a bottle of vin rouge (comme normale) and about 8 dishes between us. It was like we had never been apart. Sigh.
Something that must be noted here, is the choice offered to those people using the public transport system in Covent Gardens. When you approach the exit of the Tube Station, there are about 6 lifts all with large queues, or there is a sign, announcing another exit via 193 steps. Unfortunately, I missed the sign for the staircase on my way out and got straight into a lift. Alice informed of the steps when we found each other, and proudly stated that she had climbed to the top (hence she was a little out of breath). This was obviously an admirable move, and a surprising amount of people seemed to be having the same idea. I noticed this more when I went to go back home later that day. I took the stairs down this time and was SHOCKED by the amount of people who had seen that sign for the 193 steps and thought, perhaps in a moment of Christmas fuelled excitement, "I know. . . I'll take the stairs!" For many, this was a huge error. Walking down these stairs was like watching the open scene of Casualty, or that bit at the end of a marathon, where people are collapsing and vomiting everywhere and crying out in pain for those shiny blankets or inhalers or something. As the staircase curled round, I could see what seemed like an endless line of people (most of whol had obviously midjudged the distance and started off a bit quick) bent double or just writhing, grasping at my ankles in desperation. Pathetic.
Decorating the tree is always a great moment for me. I actually cried a year or two ago when it was done without me. . . Awkard. . . This year, Mr Tree was a bit smaller than in preious years, but was beautiful nonetheless. It took us so long to stand  him up straight that at one point my own father lost his temper and truthfully asked me if I was on acid. I felt like I had perhaps been more of a hindrance than a help. I did the decorating with Ellie, my little sis, who managed to rip off a finger or something on a pointy bit of the sparkly lights, and preceded to bleed everywhere. This put a slight downer on events, but we soldiered on regardless, such was out Christmas spirit!
I have decided however, that while Christmas spirit is much talked about, it is virtually non-existent. Most people just become really vile in this period - on the roads, at work, in the shops. While walking around Tesco, I could see behind the eyes of most people that they would probably beat you to death with a Chocolatey Yule Log for that last jar of cranberries. . . God forbid if we had to go to Lidl; people just turn up with guns and bats with nails in them - totally prepared for the Brussel Sprout shortage and the inevitable battle to the death for the acquisition of the last box of crackers.
BUT while most people would say a main cause of said Christmas aggression is the music, I think it's AWESOME; In our house, we just can't get enough! Ellie whips out her Christmas albums in about October she gets so excited!
My final comment is just about my first weekend with my family and Roblah in our new house in Cornwall. The doggies had what can only be described as the FUNNEST TIME EVER on the beach, just running around at top speed looking absolutely mental (joined by Rob who looked equally as mental)! It was lush spending some time relaxing, playing monopoly and making cookies, before my journey back to old Franceo.
I can't talk too much about my journey back or I think I would go MENTAL. You just wouldn't believe my bad luck when it comes to travelling! Essentiellement, my plane back from Bristol was delayed, and so I missed the last train from Paris, and had to stay the night. Stress! Got the first train back in the morn, and strolling back into Le Mans, massive broken suitcases in tow, actually felt quite good, and I ran to meet my friendies almost immediately!!
For now, I'm finalising my move, so will pop up some pics of my beaut new room next time. I'm too busy listening to Dirty Dancing tracks now while I dress. Fab.
Much love and whatnot, H x