My darlings, I must apologise for leaving you unattended for so long. It’s neither because I have given up this whole dating lark and got me to a nunnery, or that I and some gorgeous specimen have only just emerged from betwixt the sheets (more's the pity). It’s merely because for the last few weeks, I have been having ideas...
...which translated into more ideas.
...which translated into plans.
...which translated into the rather exciting fact that I’M GOING TO PARIS!!
I’m going for a month this summer and I’m so ludicrously excited, I’ve had to limit myself to emitting only one high-pitched squeak a day (you should have heard the squeak-frenzy I emitted when I was permitted the time off work – time off work I had to beg for and write a thesis detailing why I should be allowed to have it, but I bitterly digress).
The plan is thus:
In the mornings, I shall be studying an intensive course in French. I studied French for a few years at school, as did we all, then as soon as we chose our GCSE subjects, I ditched it for German. Not the most spiffing idea, seeing as the net result of that was ending up with a particularly frog-like boyfriend (I met him in my A-Level class), and a piddling, barely-scraped qualification in a language I can hardly speak any more. Not to mention I’ve been to Germany and put said qualification to use only once in the last decade. So all things considered, I really should have stuck with French. At the moment, I’m trying to brush up a little at home with a textbook, and it’s fairly painless so far. Then again, I haven’t tried to conjugate many verbs yet.
In the afternoons, I shall grab my new camera, my guidebook, and bum around the city. I shall visit museums, galleries, cafes, shops, wander around pretty little streets, buy yummy foods to take home, take photographs, ride bikes along the Seine, sunbathe in the parks, watch outdoor movies, and generally pretend I’m in a film. Oh, and of course, in the name of gathering useable material for this blog, meet an array of delectable Frenchmen (or at least try to...)
And in the evenings? I shall retire back to the apartment I’m renting, for dinner, drinks, and stimulating conversation with my temporary flatmate – a 27-year-old, blue-eyed, six-packed, cute-as-a-button Frenchman.
Whoops. That’s my high-pitched squeak allowance used up for the day.
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