In the North of Paris, past the retentive barrier of the Peripherique and close by the canal lies Aubervilliers, a small town that snootier Parisians will claim ‘isn’t really Paris.’ To get there one must entrust oneself to the tender mercies of RER B, a line which is to efficient public transport what it is to your olfactory organs. Arriving at La Courneuve Aubervilliers, head out under the underpass, past the shopping trolley braziers of the corn-sellers, and veer South once more, looping the occasional road works which are in fact Metro works to bring Line 12 out to this neck of the what for want of a tree we might hesitate to call woods. Turn left at the large, neon green ‘LABORATOIRE’ sign and on your right you will eventually find an old paper mill. There, in an almost converted loft space scattered with scavenged furniture, in a no longer functioning lift-shaft hung all about with vines and populated by pot plants, you will find your humble narrator, ensconced on a ragged armchair, casually sipping a glass of Muscadet because it is a public holiday and the water really is still more expensive.

That’s right, my avid consumers of Francophobic diatribe, once again the hulking, expansive form of au’d TSJH has descended on Paris, glass in hand and experiencing every one of his former difficulties in getting out of chairs.

The descision for the move was not taken lightly. From the last instalment of this in every way irregular blog you may or may not have deduced that I moved to London for a while. There I learned the bookseller’s art, namely how to eat Hobnobs whilst at the same time ordering obscure books from Ingrams, and had many adventures which I am unlikely now to retrospectively document so I shall just say they mostly involved a bicycle made of spare parts, grifting canapés at literary events, and Putney. Perhaps had it not been so expensive, and had I not such a great yearning for the finer things that Paris has to offer I might have stayed there, but in the words of Jim, Gonzo and Rizzo in ‘Muppet Treasure Island’, I knew that there ‘must be something better for me.’

You want HOW MUCH for a bottle of wine?

Just over a month and a half ago I revisited the ancestral home in Falkirk, slung my records in a suitcase, and lifted off on the wings of a train and got tae France. Since then I have been subletting a room in the previously described loft, through which has passed a great cast of characters, only some of whom have been vegan. As I speak my antipodean flatmate is working on her masters in the other room. Last night she revealed she has made an extensive study of the aromas one might find in various ‘piss alleys’ around the world, for instance in parts of Cairo the urine smells of coffee and cardamom, whereas in Venice it is scented with red wine and baccala mantecato, a local fish spread. This interest might explain why she chooses to live so close to RER B, and indeed with our other flatmate.

The other flatmate is of the feline variety. Patrick and I were getting on very well, right up until the night of a thunderstorm when he pissed all over my bed. I’m not sure I would forgive any of my friends this sort of behaviour (although I recall an incident in second year when someone pissed on the sofa) and I felt rather disinclined to accept this from a comparative stranger. Still, it was with something approaching nostalgia that I humphed my duvet into work and cleaned it in the massive machines of the Place Maubert laundrette.

SCORCHIO!

I have also been working for Shakespeare and Company in weather conditions that could best be described by the Fast Show. Although on the website it is advertised that we will stamp, ‘poetize’ and even perfume your books, if you bought one off me in the first three weeks I would have literally sweated into it for you. Now that’s customer service.

I must be off, now, my insatiable readers, for tonight we’re having staff drinks in Belleville. As ever, more irregular instalments to follow: sooner, later, or not at all…