"Well that's quite enough of that," I muttered to myself as I slammed the door on the suspiciously blacked-out car, adjusted my fedora, and wheeled my battered kit bag to the irritatingly code-locked Parisian apartment block. I've often had occasion to remark on how all the streets in Paris are eerily similar - the Chic police rule with an iron fist round here, making sure that the same vaguely mock-Italian architectural style drapes itself round the whole Ile de France like a charmingly minimal fabric shawl.
Of course, at the time I was actually shouting after the car in slightly slurred Russian, "And next time you want someone to go to [REDACTED] and check up on your [REDACTED] for you, tell [REDACTED] to shove it so far up his arse he'll be choking down his cabbage soup twice!" That bit of lushly overdescriptive prose was just to set the scene.
I wish I could tell you, dear readers, what I've been up to in the interlude between my last post, in which I thought I would be leaving Russia imminently, and the anonymous Parisian suburb which I have so effortlessly conjured before you - I dearly wish I could. However, if the agents of [REDACTED] at the [REDACTED] intercept this post, the very best I can hope for is some clumsy censorship and the caresses of a length of rubber hose. Also, I'm turning it into a film script that I'm going to make millions off, and I'll be fucked if I let yous lot get your dirty internet paws on it for nowt.
All I can say (pending my script being picked up/me disappearing in a puff of flavourless herbal condiments) is that my incoherent vitriol towards certain aspects of Russian life made me ideally suited to be tapped for wild [REDACTED], moderately paced expository [REDACTED], breaking into and spending the night inside a carousel, strangely erotic [REDACTED] and foiling the biggest dill distribution ring within at least fifty miles of Petrozavodsk. And I sincerely doubt I would be able to stump up the enthusiasm to do any of it again.
The long and short of it, folks, is that I'm back and I'm in Paris, and now in a position to have internet on my rapidly ageing laptop. Also secret agents have completely lost interest in me now they've seen what my spy novel prose looks like. Honestly, I'd like to see you come up with John le Carré on Dan Brown-level material.
The French connections (I'll get my coat, shall I) that I've been making have mostly been on a conversational basis. Whereas in Russia I was happily enrolled in a uni course I think I've been kind of meaning to get a job here or something. You've got to remember I'm a particularly lazy arts student, so this gainful employment thing isn't something I'm used to. I discovered this when I had a couple of phone interviews and the eagle-eyed intern-scavengers (picturing them as buzzards, the cold, dead eyes clawing through the flesh of the desperate undergrad-wannabe-intern is about right) tore their way through the carefully constructed tissue of waffle that was my CV in a matter of minutes to reveal that I've never really had a job doing anything.
Actually, the worst was when someone hadn't actually read my dossier and asked me to take them through my experience (in French). I was so taken aback by this no-bullshit tactic that I ended up regaling her about the time I helped my mum with filing work when I was sick off school, which, to her credit, she answered only with a curt "so where is this on your CV?". Icy, dear readers, icy as the grave. A grave that has been filled with ice, or perhaps is located in a part of the world where there is lots of ice for some entirely feasible reason. Shit, these dramatic simile are tough. Never again will I laugh at Robert Ludlum's glassy-eyed word cruft as I work my way through The Adjective Noun because literally the only alternative is to do something productive with my life.
Ahem. So yes, being in Paris. What can I say? There are delicious and mostly reasonably-priced French bakeries everywhere, the people are as French as you'd expect, though occasionally less so, the streets and especially the metro smell of piss all the time, but the ravages of the Chic police really do come together to create quite a pleasing whole. I'm probably biased because I've been here before and my French is much, much better than my Russian, and I know a fair bunch of people, but y'know.
I'm here while the end of August, so I'm sure I'll find something interesting to write about. Also, I have to read roughly twenty full-length French and Russian novels (ie. twenty of each) including War and Peace for an essay (did you forget? I fucking wish I could) that's apparently due in in less than a month, unless as I sincerely hope someone has hacked into my Google Calendar in retaliation for the [REDACTED] incident and moved all my Year Abroad deadlines six months closer than they really are; all I'm saying is that unless recording a lightly fictionalised version of my exploits here magically turns into my procrastination crutch of choice (don't flatter yezsen) it might be a while. Well, I'm going to pretend you'll be upset.
While next time, and for the love of [REDACTED] don't touch [REDACTED] after the 28th of May!
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| I just typed 'french' into Google and this came up. I'm guessing it's also going to be haunting my (and possibly your) nightmares too. Sharing! |
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