Sunday, 30 January 2011


It's quarter to six in the morning and Sam is not a happy bunny. More on that story later.

After sitting in the staff room on Friday for a substantial amount of time doing.....not a lot, I went to English Club (which was nice apart from all the intruders - I well need a new, better room) then to the principals office to ask about the timetable change. As I had asked her in the morning if I could talk to her later, she was clearly expecting some terrible news or a mass problem that I had. She invited me into her office, sat me down, closed the door, and arranged all of her paperwork out of the way, gearing up for some serious conversation. When I asked her what I really wanted, she was so shocked she was just like "Yeahhh sure! Don't even worry about redoing the hour elsewhere, just tell them you're not coming!"

Apparently though, they're gonna cancel that class because the kids CLEARLY aren't going to turn up for their extra, optional English lesson, at 4pm on a Friday when ordinarily they'd have finished by then. Well, would you?

On verra. They didn't turn up yesterday anyway, so I'm not expecting anything different next Friday. So I think I'll be working elsewhere. I really hope I can get rid of them. I've never felt such resentment for a group of twelve year olds before.

After this, I went into Paris to get Lauryn, Katie and Vicky. I arrived at Chatelet at half past five, as did Lauryn and Vicky. We found each other at quarter past six. Not good times, although we got there in the end. Did a quick wine and tampax run at Monoprix before going to Gare de Lyon to get Katie.

Plan was: go to Notre Dame, take a few pictures, go to the Irish pub next to it, eat some food, drink some drinks, relatively chilled out, well-behaved night. It got to about 11 o clock before we decided we wanted to eat, so we just went to the kebab shop up the road. Via Moulin Rouge, obviously. We walked past the bar I spoke about in a previous blog, where a friend of mine disappeared and I got very inappropriate advances off of two black men.  I DEVOURED a kebab before wandering back, halfway between chatting to my friends and dealing with IDIOTS trying to interfere with my relationship.

Okay, it's now 3pm, I kinda crashed hafway through writing. I'm stil not a happy bunny though, so the tone shall remain similar.

We went to bed and got up the next day. Went sightseeing, was kinda nice actually. I hadn't been to the Sacre Coeur before so going up there was pretty nice. Except I had raging period pains and when Katie introduced her friend to me I must have came across as a right miserable bitch. However, likelihood of seeing the guy again? Pretty small tbh, so I'm not going to worry myself too much. He's a nice guy though.We went to a bar by Notre Dame for lunch where I ate a beast of a burger and the nicest chips I've ever put into my mouth.Then I started falling asleep at the table, so it was coffee time. Why have I started liking coffee? I'm so French. Kill me now.

Upon arriving back at the Metro for our hotel, we were approached by a number of people trying to sell fake cigarettes and the likes. There were people everywhere. Each one trying to sell you something equally as illegitimate as the next. It was like Hell. This is how I imagine Hell to be. Once I get there, I'll start a new blog and let you know. Me and Katie bought the biggest stick of candyfloss in the world. It was glorious.

So we got ready and went out, met Lauryn and Vicky in Paris (they'd been to Disneyland) and headed to a bar, where a really good night started happening. We went to the one across the road because the queues were massive, then we ignored the Facebook event itinerary (rebels!) and went to Montparnasse. Couldn't get into the club we wanted, so we then went to...

...Folie's Pigalle.

The bar we'd walked past the previous night. Where it went horrendously wrong last time. Oh well, I thought to myself, maybe it'll be a bit better this time around. And it was, for a while it was really nice. I wasn't drinking in there because I just couldn't be bothered, but the conversation and the company were really good.

Or so I thought.

It got to a point in the evening where the girl in our group who I didn't know became so horrendously drunk that she was slumped in a chair, passed out. We got her up and out of the club and were planning to get her home somehow before making our way to bed.

My friend, however, came out without his coat. Went back in to try and find his mate to get his ticket, we didn't see him again. Katie went back in to find them both, couldn't, then tried again, found them, and they said they were coming. The whole time I'm being approached outside by police officers hungry to arrest some non-French people, and pervy old men offering to give this girl a "lift home". Managed to stave everyone off, this girl managed to get herself up off of the piss-soaked pavement, and starts telling me she's getting a taxi.

Good luck to her. She couldn't even tell the driver where she lived.

Katie came back out telling me it was all okay, and that Kyle and his friend were in the queue for the cloak room and were coming out as soon as they had their coats. Awesome. I was gonna have a go at them for ignoring their phones, but then it would have been fine. We'd have all got back to the hotel, found beds for the other three and got some kip. Except they didn't come out.

A group of several men started bothering Katie and this drunk American. I was on the other side of the road, so I could see the exit from the club, so I could call Kyle and his mate when they left. It was at this point where the woman who had been trying to make conversation with me for the last half an hour asked me to wait elsewhere.

"Because this is my bit"
"What? No I'm waiting here"
"No but this is mine"
"I work here! So move, you're stealing my clients"

Apparently me in jeans and a hoody makes a prostitute successful enough to steal clients from this woman. I was a bit insulted, and told her, in English, to fuck off. She then accused me of not having a girfriend, to which I went back into French, to tell her "actually yes I do have a girlfriend, and I don't have to pay for her, so..." She continued telling me to move saying I was affecting her work, despite the fact that every potential client she approached was responding to her advances by calling her a dirty whore. She became quite rude and threatening to me, but I wasn't scared of a stick-thin slut holding a cigarette and a can of Desperados (Oh, the irony!) so I asked her what exactly she was going to do.

Next thing I know, she's all up in my face, demanding to know what my problem is with her and why I won't just move. I continued to ask her what she was going to do, eventually she backed off and said "absolument rien".

I could have moved, granted, but whores don't own these streets (Not even in Pigalle) and I had friends to look out for in two separate places.It was 5 o clock in the morning and I was fucking cold. Maybe I should have told her to pay me if she wanted me to move. That's how capitalist society works isn't want land, you buy it?

Kyle still wasn't answering his phone, neither was his friend, and they'd been in the cloak room queue for an absolute age. Katie asked me to come stand with our acquired drunken American whilst she went back in, yet again, to find out what was going on. The security guard informed her that he couldn't let her back in for a third time, but that her friends had gone back into the club.

Left us out in the freezing cold with THEIR drunk mate, for over an hour, in a less than safe district of Paris, staving off police, leching old men, groups of blokes who wanted to "take her home" and prostitutes who are angry because a fat lesbian is risking demand by standing on her corner. This girl couldn't get home, she didn't know where she was, what bus she could get, she couldn't even tell a taxi driver where home was. Thanks guys, thanks.

We couldn't exactly leave her. So we walked in a bit of a zig-zag back to our hotel where SOMEHOW we snuck her into our room. She passed out on the bed, I started to write this blog post, Katie went to sleep then I eventually managed to grab a couple of hours cuddled up to the radiator after failing to sleep next to the coldest draughtiest window I've ever known, on the makeshift bed that Katie had kindly constructed for me out of towels and spare bedsheets when she felt bad about me not having a bed for the night. Wasn't her fault.

I'm still not decided if I'm glad that I was sober through all of this.

Now I am at home safe and sound, waiting for my lasagne to cool down, waiting for my lady to come on Skype, and waiting for my explanation.

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