Twas the night before my birthday, and all through the residence, not a creature was stirring, not even... oh hang on.. I heard my neighbour just now.
The sun is still shining in this wonderful country. Its just before 8pm and back home people are wrapped up in warm scarves and knitted jerseys - prolly sitting in front of a huge roaring fire, sipping Muscadel from the Nuy valley.
I, on the other hand, have just been to the gym downstairs - and have turned the aircon onto full blast while BBC world plays its familiar noise in the background.
31 (thats in human years to you) tomorrow. Who would have thunk that I'd be back in the city of my birth on my 31st birthday.
Was planning to go back to our old house, and to the American hospital of Paris - to celebrate the day - but I'm rather nervous to navigate without my GPS unit (sad... what hold technology has on us feeble folk nowadays).
Instead, I'll wait until Mother Goose's favourite fan arrives with the respective technology and rather plan a morning at the hair salon (it takes a lot of effort looking as good as I do), a picnic in the gardens of the Palace of Versailles, followed by a stop off at the local pub to befriend some locals and maybe indulge in a little Pastis.
Twinge of sadness at being away from home on your birthday = 1, Mother Goose = 0.
Oh well,
Here's to another at least 31 years.
Sante!
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