I am aware that it has been far too long since I updated, and so I am proud to present, on a real life QWERTY keyboard, another instalment of the blog. Although I have written a little in my physical journal, I’ve been rather distracted by creative writing, reading, and wine at an exceptional one euro sixty-five a bottle. So, what has happened to me over the last week? I’m probably not the best person to ask.

We had a new tumbleweed for six days. Dan was a medical sciences Phd from Cambridge who first stayed at the shop seven years ago for seven months. He gave us an insight into how things used to be: no showers, bedbugs, no systems or computers. Part of me warmed to this from sheer nostalgia, but I am rather glad the bed linen is clean and I can have a wash if I feel like it. One afternoon the two of us went for an adventure. We visited the Museum National D’Historie Naturelle and saw an entire room of extinct species. Maybe they’ll stuff me and put me there after I’m dead. Dan was also a zoologist and therefore the ideal guide, and after wandering around there for an hour we had mint tea and shisha in the garden of a nearby mosque.

The title of this post is drawn from what might have been Saturday evening where a few of us went to an old man pub round the corner after closing. The Leffe tasted rather odd, and Ben (one of the paid staff at the shop) pointed this out to the barman. The phrase has been stuck in my head ever since – un peu bizarre ce soir…

I have also managed (after a rather long delay) to meet up with Amy. In fact only a couple of days ago when returning from grabbing myself a bannane chocolat (a superior form of pain au chocolat with banana from a nearby boulangerie) I noticed the suspicious figure of sleeveless Steve lurking outside the shop. That afternoon the three of us had wine and cheese sitting outside a cafe – it is peculiar, nay, bizarre! how little cheese I have been eating. In fact I might remedy this later. Chat was on top form, although I am still mystified as to what a “simple sandwich” as advertised on the menu might be. I don’t think Steve’s claim that it was especially designed for Amy is all that plausible.

Another recent happening was the open mic poetry night at au Chat Noir. I headed over there with tumbleweed Patrick and we each read our poems, although alas we had to hot foot it back to the shop in time for closing and missed the second and third rounds. There was a guy there called Strangely who was also at the tea party on Sunday. He is, in his own words, a modern-day vaudvillian, and has cultivated some exceptional facial furniture. Find out more about him at:

http://www.strangelyandfriends.com

(Although his site appears to be having problems)

My most recent adventure was last night where instead of working my usual shift in the shop I was sent out as an envoy to the American Library in Paris where there was an event. Carmen Bugan was reading from her poetry and also her autobiography “Burrying the Typewriter: Childhood under the eye of the Secret Police.” The title comes from the fact that her father, a political activist, had an illegal typewriter which he kept buried in the back garden, unearthing each night to manufacture revolutionary pamphlets. It’s classic Radio 4/World Service fodder, and was enjoyable enough to listen in on. My job was to sit behind a desk selling copies of her books and some other S & Co stuff after the event. Frustratingly there was a contingent of a specific style of elderly American woman who, when questions are invited from the floor, decides she must talk about how she feels. Genuine questions: great. Long rambles where you get confused between Romanians and Roma peoples and don’t ask the author anything? This time-wasting was rather painful for me dreaming of a cheap pizza I had waiting for me back at the shop.

And to get there I needed the RER.

The RER – A Defence (although it doesn’t go to La Défense)

This is perhaps one of the most controversial things I’m ever going to write, but I wish to defend the poor  cousin of the more glamorous Metro, the RER. RER stands for, well, fucked if I know: google it and you’ll find out. It’s like GCSE and JCB and B&Q and all the other acronyms, the only person likely to know is my Grandpa (who recently told me that B&Q stands for Block & Quail, the surnames of its founders.)

Derided by such notable francophiles as Amy Hendry and Kirsten Fyffe for its unreliability and general scaffyness, it has to be admitted that the RER is no sae swish. At Musee d’Orsay it stopped for ten minutes for no obvious reason (I imagine it was a mini strike). There are no announcements to tell you which station you’re at, and occasionally the speakers pick up snippets of conversation between the operators that make absolutely no sence to me because not only are they in French but they’re also half obscured by static.

But there is one thing nobody ever told me about the RER, one redeeming feature that means it shits on Metro. THE RER HAVE DOUBLE DECKER TRAINS! On an underground system this is, to say the least, hilarious and when I saw them pull in it was at first un peu bizarre because from the outside I couldn’t see how they could possibly fit two stories to each carriage. The RER is the closest thing I have found to the TARDIS to date. (For those not in the know, and since we’re on acronyms today, TARDIS stands for Time And Relative Dimensions In Space)

More instalments at irregular intervals soon, later, or not at all.