HOW COULD I NOT KNOW?...

I really need to start paying more attention to what's going on here in London, instead of moaning about it all the time.

There was an *intimate* White Stripes gig at the Rivoli Ballroom, erm, about a ten minute walk from my house a couple of weeks ago. And funnily enough, no I didn't find out about it beforehand. Youtube is no consolation.

WISHING FOR...

For any Lyell lovers in Paris:

WAITING FOR...

...these Tsumori Chisato dresses to be reduced by 50%, preferably 70% in the summer sales. Eyes peeled, elbows sharpened, overdraft facility extended, go.

image source

AN IRRETRIEVABLE FLAW...

I was flicking through my French dictionary last night, as one might when one has just returned from France and has no idea when they might next go. Why does it always open on the page where the first word I see is redhibitoire? Always. According to my dictionary which I've had since GCSE French days, the translation of this is irretrievable flaw - the internet would beg to differ. One of my irretrievable flaws (who has ever used that phrase in English I'd like to know) may be that I never use the dictionary; another might be the frequent times I enter a restaurant alone in Paris and ask for a table for just myself, careful to construct an entire sentence, when in English I would probably just say "one" or even "table for one". "Une table pour une personne!" Why do I not say this?
According to good old Collins Gem, the phrase I have been using actually means:

I am lonely.

Hello. I am lonely. Yes, for lunch. Thank you.

Oh.My.God.

Well you know what? Nobody ever came over to keep me company in all that time, but they do always ask if I want an aperatif. Booze: my trusty companion.

As far as I can tell, "je suis seule" could also be construed as "I am alone". So, after the waiter does that wincing head turning thing and I have to repeat myself loudly - carefully enunciating each syllable and rolling my eyes, I might as well be saying, "It is I, Michelle of ze resistance. I am alone. Listen very carefully I shall say zis only once."

Help me.

It's still not as bad as when my Italian friend thought the English word for ashtray was hamster.

TRAGIC...

If anyone ever asked me what I would absolutely never, ever be seen dead wearing I always said shorts or dungarees.

I can see that shorts could look good if you have amazing legs. When shorts are continually proposed/rammed down the consumer's throat for two summers running I have no problem with the people who look good in them, known as models, wearing them occasionally. Dungarees I find heinous without exception.

People with legs like mine should never ever wear shorts, mini skirts or even a skirt/dress just above the knee unless thick black tights are provided. This makes shopping at the moment a teensy bit tricky. I apologise for having boobs, a small waist, curvy hips and not very nice legs. Apparently there are no clothes available for freaks like me this summer. It is the summer for those with spindly legs, flat chests and pot bellies to rejoice.

Even though French style can be a little conservative, some say boring, there's one thing I wholeheartedly agree with and that's that if a trend doesn't suit you or enhance your best features, avoid it. I saw no one in Paris wearing white or red Rayban Wayfarers recently, but plenty wearing black ones. I don't think that's boring, I think it's always a good idea to veer away from the Timmy Mallett look. I generally manage to take my own advice on such matters.

But today hell froze over and I purchased this pair of dungaree shorts.
But they're really cute!
But they don't suit me.
But they're so cute!

I succumbed to the I Want It Too Why Can't I Have It Too school of dressing, last seen during summer 2006 of the smock dress. I rationalised this purchase thus so: I will not subject Londoners to my legs, I will only wear the dungaree shorts when visiting my father (who, in a cruel twist of genetic fate, has fabulous legs at the age of 65) on the south coast, in a small seaside town where frankly, if you're not morbidly obese and are under the age of 85 then you are pretty hot stuff.

MEH. GRR. ETC...

We (by which I mean Lola and I) are most perturbed - disturbed even. Since 7.30am there has been a Polish plumber and his mate ripping pipes out from under the floor in the flat upstairs, which was supposed to happen at the weekend when . I . will . not . be . here. How, I ask you, are you supposed to eat the VERY LAST of your eurostar smuggled Pierre Herme macarons with all that racket going on? (If you want to see what all the fuss is about re: PH there are some good pics here.)
And I was saving the Abricot Pistache until last.

This week we have been mostly: 1: Hating London. 2: Doing that annoying and completely futile comparison thing where you compare everything in London to the way it would be in Paris. 3: Blaming all ills, petty annoyances and problems on London/England. 4: Not helping: Walking (yes walking! Being in Paris cured my foot somehow) through the city at lunchtime watching investment bankers rush in droves clutching sad plastic bags with plastic sandwiches in, talking on mobiles saying, "re-mortgaging's the only option..blah blah...terms of contract..blah...shall be instructing my solicitor.." and realising with absolute certainty that I have nothing in common with these people, and even if they earn 100 times more than I do, their quality of life sucks and I think they are all insane.

We, well I (since Loly has never been to Paris and is only grumpy if you try to pick her up) have been very busy with the above - moaning, complaining, being generally grumpy and so have not lavished this space with the attention it deserves. For this we apologise and make amends with this picture of cuteness.

BRIGITTE...

It was annoying me that the first thing you saw when you clicked on this page was a photo of A.A. So here's B.B. instead (in the window of Les Archives de la Presse). Something about it made me think instantly of Kate Moss and the media's obsession with her. Nothing much changes does it? Except the camera isn't right in her face/up her skirt.

And p.s: I admit it, I bought a vest in A.A. - and a bandeau top. Grr.

CHARMED...

And so, the gentrification of the north Marais is complete.
The End.

But! Where to now?
Northwards friends, ever northwards...and er, left a bit...

Ooh, that looks more like it. Where's that?
The haut haut Marais I believe some estate agents are referring to it as. Well, it's Temple really. Behind the Carreau du Temple (often used for shows at fashion week) is a very lovely area, and one that I wouldn't really know well if it weren't for the rumour I heard that there was a Lyell shop up there. It's the kind of place people really live and work - go down the cobbled Cite dupetit Thouars and you'll find children on bicycles, homes with windowboxes spilling geraniums, arty looking offices with doors open to let in the breeze and a sleepy dog lying on the mat. Wander round a bit in the quiet, quiet streets - once in a while you get spewed out into the crazy crazy of rue or boulevard du Temple then back in to the cool quiet streets.

In rue Charles Francois Dupuis there is this charming shop opened by a charming Australian girl. It is the Lyell shop but it's actually even better than that. Marie Louise de Monterey is a vintage clothes shop as well. Shoes line the floor around the entire shop, bags hang on one wall and vintage sundresses, white broderie slips and evening dresses hang on the rails. There are (I'm not typing the word vintage again) bakelite belt buckles and jewellery and such and there's a children's (oh bugger it) vintage clothing section. Then one half of the shop is given over to Lyell - their only Paris stockist as far as I know.

I'm really quite obsessed with those tiles.

After much dithering, I bought a snakeskin bag.

It did not cost ninety euros and no one felt the need to have a hissy fit.

{EDIT: Marie Louise de Monterey closed down after about a year, sadly. AA is, at the time of writing, still there, still selling neon headbands.}

DEJA VU...

Home.

Over tired. Extenuated would be a perfect English word too.

Feeling like why have we made London so ugly, harsh, crazy, expensive and almost impossible for anyone to live well in? But it contains my little Loly, lovely friends and neighbours, my just the way I want it flat. It's home. My own bed - heaven.

So why do I always feel like crying when I get off the Eurostar at Waterloo? It's not just the length of the taxi queue.

Why is Paris so wonderful, soul nourishing and designed in every sense for living? But what are the people there so pissed off about?

Round and round I go again...

Now . must . sleep.

YOU GO...

What do you call that little wire where you put one end in your camera and one end in the computer, thus allowing you to upload photos? It doesn't really matter does it, since I forgot to bring it with me. So: Words now, pictures later...

The latest in the series of Parisian shopkeeper vs. me hostilities was really the pinnacle - one hopes anyway. I had hobbled down to the K.Jacques shop, which is tiny, late in the afternoon. It was jumping with customers and I couldn't even get in the door, so I resolved to go back early the next morning. Wandering along to rue Malher I was looking at this shop I've often passed but never felt compelled to go in, called Gavilane. There are gothic looking lycra clothes and skull pendants in the window - sort of Ozzy Osbourne meets Flashdance. Could be someone's cup of tea but not mine. Incongruously there were some really lovely vintage handbags in the window, and never one to pass up a possible shopping coup, I decided to have a look. You could drop me off in the most unappealing retail location ever and I will always unearth something worth buying.

Anyway in I went to the shop - first commiting the unforgivable sin of forgetting to say bonjour. I was only interested in the bags and what a choice - I could've bought them all and immediately saw the one I wanted. A burgundy leather frame bag with a cool stainless steel clasp and a really thin shoulder strap - it had been re lined at some point and there was no label. The man in the shop said it was "good leather." I would say it was Spanish leather and had not been an expensive bag when new. Then I noticed there was a water stain on one side. If it had been 15 or twenty euros I would've bought it in a second. Fifty and I would have thought twice. In fact I've never paid more than fifteen pounds for a vintage bag so that would have been stretching it. But it - and all the other bags were ninety euros. Ninety! I could've bought it but why pay such a hefty commission to someone for their good luck in finding it? It's the thrill of the hunt and the bargain that makes it all the more satisfying.

Since in Paris I feel I must always give a reason for not buying something, I said quite honestly that I thought it was lovely but it was too expensive. The man started saying, "Yes you can go out there and buy lots of bad cheap bags. You go! You go and buy bad bags out there! You will find many bad bags for ten euros. Me, I have good bags!" I had to agree with him and said so, again praising the loveliness of his bags. I kind of thought we were having a bit of light hearted banter but before I knew what was happening I was being physically ejected from the shop and found myself standing confused on the pavement outside. Then - did he just slam the door and lock it behind me? Yes he did. I looked down at the floor for answers and saw only a dead pigeon in the gutter - possibly the only previous customer that day. This only heightened the sense of surrealness.

How curious, I thought. Then I thought actually that's quite sweet that he cares so much about his bags. It's absolutely true that you could rifle through the depots ventes of Paris all day and find loads of faux leather '80s clutch bags for ten euros, but never a really nice one. I almost thought of going back in the next day but when I walked past on my way to K.Jacques my man must've seen me approaching because - again - he closed and locked the door! I mean whatever next? Customers wanting to spend money in your shop? Disgraceful. Anyway I had a little chuckle to myself then went on my way to buy sandals, or as I now say: Tropeziennes.

The girls working in the K.Jacques shop were SUPER NICE, even cooing in sympathy and I think a little admiration over the impressive bluey purpleness of my broken foot. They patiently let me try on every sandal in the shop and I ended up buying the Orion ones and being seriously tempted to get another pair as well. Oh yes, I do believe I have a new obsession.

THIS IS WHY I NEVER HAVE A PLAN: PART 348...

In the parallel universe where my right foot would not win first prize in a special effects make up competition for Most Gruesome Looking Toe Tagged Corpse Foot Sticking Out Of Sheet In Morgue, I would buy some K.Jacques sandals in Paris. Or should I say I was planning to buy some K.Jacques sandals in Paris. I was planning to trot down to rue Pavee and quite simply, buy some K.Jacques sandals. (Please don't hold their website against them.) And then I was going to buy a falafel sandwich. It seemed so simple. And this - again! is why I hate planning anything. Unforseen freak wedding accidents aside, I can still dream. It's between these:

 Maybe I should still go and horrify the shop assistants when I take my sock off.

WHERE ARE ALL THE VEGETABLES?...

Now, I don't want this to sound as if I'm complaining.....but I want to know, how do they do it, these Parisians. I mean how do they have enough energy to last the day? Do they secretly mainline cocktails of vitamins in the privacy of their homes, sprinkle Greens + over their morning coffee and linseeds on top of their tarte aux poires?
Yes I've read that book.
When I'm in Paris I treat my body like an engine that needs no fuel. I start my day with a cafe creme and a croissant, walk for three to four hours, stopping maybe for another coffee. At lunchtime I might treat myself to a selection of cheese and some bread, washed down with a glass of red wine. Then I walk non stop for another five to six hours, maybe stopping for a Berthillon ice at some point. Later, a coffee, then an apero, then a proper dinner, usually some kind of meat with perhaps some gratin dauphinoise masquerading as a vegetable. To bed still digesting that creme brulee. Then at some point I go, "Oh my god, I'm so exhausted, I just don't understand it." Yes it's fantastic to eat all that yummy food, but I'm not three. If I was three I'd sit here all day eating nothing but gummy bears. I'd never eat that way at home but I have the When in Rome mentality - trying to get my fill of decent pastries while I'm there, knowing I won't even be tempted by the greasy examples back home. It's worse if you eat out a lot, as I do. I can tell you that it's entirely possible to go for three weeks in Paris without eating any vegetables and not even realise. (I did it.) The dauphinoise potatoes don't count. I sometimes wonder if there's a secret menu I'm not being given that has all the veg on it. Of course there are lovely seasonal veggies at the market, but apart from tasting the new season's asparagus or whatever, which most likely will get made into a 75% cream soup, it's kind of tricky to eat anything apart from bread products, meat, cheese, caffeine and alcohol. Then there was that time when I tried to eat - and cook macrobiotically - in Paris. Ha! That's why I end up going to LPQ, even though I swore I'd never go there again since they've gone all Starbucks and after they put up a sign - in English - with a diagram of how to eat a tartine. They do salads, that's why I go - and rye bread. But that sign, and the cup at the till with "Tips" written on it in English is inexcusable and makes you feel like you're at a theme cafe at the Epcot Centre.

So, maybe it's just me - maybe you get bored of all the tasty naughtiness after a while, or your digestive system implodes/explodes and you get punished for not being hardcore enough by having to shop in the grim macrobiotic shop and eat millet for the rest of your days.

COINCIDENCE...

Still resting, toes still black and blue, no idea what's going on under the plastercast until they remove it, please let them remove it, going to Paris in four days hiiiihiiiii. I've become quite attached to the notion that Paris won't take kindly to me with a gammy leg. My ugly NHS crutches will be confiscated at customs; because of my biscuit eating/resting induced poor muscle tone I'll be sent home with a copy of the secret leek soup diet tucked inside my passport. If I do manage to slip through with my crutches people will give me withering looks as I gingerly negotiate the cobblestone courtyard outside where I stay. Someone may even tread on my foot - the worst possible scenario. I don't know why I think this, maybe because I can't remember ever seeing a person in a wheelchair in Paris, or any disabled access - I've always noticed these things of course.

By complete coincidence I discovered the 1930s swimming pool in Paris I was looking for when I still thought I'd be flapping my feet around in no time. Because the film of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly was shown at Cannes I decided to read the book again in anticipation. The author, Jean-Dominique Bauby, recounts a memory of going to the Molitor swimming pool as a young boy and I knew instantly that was it. It looks like it was fantastic, but sadly, was closed down in 1989 and the building is now in a dilapidated state. It's kind of tragic - the pool and the book.
Jean- Dominique Bauby was the editor in chief of French Elle. At the age of 42 he had a massive stroke and went into a coma. When he woke up he was completely paralysed, unable to speak and could only move his left eye. He dictated the entire book by having the alphabet read to him and blinking when it got to the letter he wanted to use. It's a very humorous book actually, as well as sad: a mixture of memoir and daily observations on his condition, the reactions of people around him and the frustrations of being looked upon as a "turnip" when his mind is still fully intact. Another coincidence: when I opened the book again there was a label inside the cover with "Please return to..." and my mother's name written in her handwriting. I can't remember if it was her book and she lent it to someone in hospital, or if it was mine and I lent it to her.

For some reason the book and she popped up at the same time - probably to remind me of Jean-Dominique blinking his way through a chapter or her steadfastly refusing any help when it would have taken someone else 10 seconds to do what it took her an hour to struggle to do.

I'll just think of them when I have to get on the metro with my broken foot and suitcase. Easy.

J'ADORING...

I am an idiot. Seeing bubblegum pink heart shaped sunnies much the same as those on the right, in Tesco's of all places pre-footgate and immediately thinking, "Those are sooo perfect for Gracie!" I snapped them up for a quid. And now? Gracie loved them as I thought but... I keep thinking about them. Can't see them anywhere online...I know they're silly but you can never have too many Lolita-ish novelty dressing up accessories knocking around can you?

New blog love alert: Cherry Blossom Girl I think I might love you. You like all the same things as me: The Little Prince, Bonjour Tristesse, macarons, Au Revoir Simone...Your wardrobe of Zara, H&M, bit of Chloe, bit of APC, too, too many gorge vintage bags - how do you make it all look so . perfect? There are so many good French blogs, I really must try harder to learn the language properly. Somehow it just falls straight out of my brain.

Also: Labels! I've labelled all my Paris posts so you can see them all together under the inventive title of Paris. But! At 30 posts and counting, Blogger appears to only have room for half of them. So it goes back as far as March 2006, then the rest are buried in the archives somewhere. Annoying! Maybe I'll call those ones Ancient Paris. In fact Blogger is behaving very capriciously today. I am going to leave it alone now.

Happy long weekend - or if you're in England, don't forget your brolly...

PLASTERED...

I just joined Love Film and found all the films I could never find in my local video store, which by the way, just went out of business. So far in the queue there's:

Auberge Espagnole
Cleo de 5 a 7 by Agnes Varda - I've been wanting to see this forever, I think it's being re-released.
Dans Paris (reserved - again, good to have a steady flow of Romain)
Play It Again Sam
Darling

Love Film claims to have the largest selection of films in Europe and I think I believe them. My only two quibbles are that there's no classic film section in their search categories, and also that when you reserve a soon to be released film it doesn't give you any indication of when you'll receive it. But how exciting to see all these films and plop, they just come through the letterbox. Anyone have any recommendations? I'm trying to only get films I've never seen, but how are you supposed to know which films I haven't seen? I couldn't think of any more recent ones as I generally see every new release I'm interested in at the cinema. But do give me any recs although, (as you may have gathered) I am incredibly fussy and particular about what I like and do not like. Unless you were going to recommend The Holiday in which case you have no one but yourself to blame.

And why the need for all these dvds? Why am I not going to the cinema this evening to see This Is England? (I know I keep going on about my foot - god knows there are many worse things that people deal with. Really, really I do know and I bless every bit of my otherwise healthy body and yours too.)
I went to the hospital for what I thought was a check up this morning. I thought the doc would say, "Well done, healing nicely" and send me hobbling off again. But I was manhandled into a little room where they encased my foot and half my leg in a plaster cast, and placed a blue velcro "shoe" on my foot. "But I'm going to Paris," I squeaked repeatedly to the plaster loving Nazi doctor. He agreed to let me have it removed before I go thank god, because frankly, apart from anything else the blue smurf shoe is not at all chic.

Lola runs away whenever I go near her with my enormous cumbersome mummified leg and the builders had to carry me up the steps when I came home. Thank goodness they're there really, especially the young handsome one. And sweet too! Bit young for me though. They say it's crucial to the recovery process to have something pretty to look at.

RECHERCHE...

A few days in Paris beckons - I hope to saunter around rather than hobble by then; but a week of "resting" prone on the sofa eating a steady intake of ready meals has done nothing for the old forme. No trying on clothes in those horrible communal changing rooms particular to Paris where women openly stare, not at how the clothes look, but at each others figures, for me then.

Luckily for those in need of exercise, Paris has some nice public swimming pools - the Club Quartier Latin looks lovely - it's only 3.70 euros for a swim and Cathy Horyn went there during fashion week, which somehow reassures me that it must be reasonably hygienic and aesthetically pleasing. But maybe I'm missing out on a better pool. I once read about a public pool in Paris that still had its beautiful art deco interior intact. Ring any bells for anyone?

I also found a place that hires out lovely Dutch bicycles - look! Ding ding! - by the half day, day, weekend, even for three months if you're lucky enough to be in Paris that long.

Or maybe I could just blend in and not eat, smoke loads of cigarettes and drink coffee all day while I'm there.

I'll get in the Paris mood by seeing Dans Paris at the Institut Francais here in London before I go - something about depression, anyway it's got Romain Duris in it so who cares about the plot.

And when I return: To stave off post Paris malaise, Paris Je T'Aime is finally being released in the U.K on June 29th. It's taken so long I thought I'd missed its release and asked for it in my local DVD shop. I stood there for about ten minutes trying to explain to the boy working there that it was directed not by one person but lots of different people, but I couldn't remember who any of them were and he wasn't really getting the whole arrondissement scenario.

TAGGED...

Here be the rules for this meme thing:

Each person tagged gives seven random facts about themselves. Those tagged need to write on their blog seven facts, as well as the rules of the game. You need to tag seven others and list their names on your blog. You have to leave those you plan on tagging a note in their comments so they know that they have been tagged and need to read your blog.
Lottie kindly tagged me so here goes:

1. As an (only) child I was obsessed with the cartoon of 'Inspector Gadget' and used to run round the block as if pursuing baddies with my hair in bunches, talking into my Casio digital watch.

2. I have not worn any bright red clothes for nine years.

3. Every time I think of something random I think I may have already mentioned it in a meme. Am I memed out? I am a bit paranoid about the amount of random info I may have sent out into the blogosphere; and that someone will catch me out and realise there are only 13 or so things I can come up with before I start repeating myself. Oh okay, that's not really one. Um...I have a tattoo. Did I tell you that before?

4. In the mid '80s I won a disco dancing competition on holiday in Bournemouth (what's more random, the competition or the fact that I went to Bournemouth on holiday?) I won a 7" single of a song called Pump It Up and a bag of Walker's Salt and Vinegar crisps.

5. I'm in love with film, I love music, but have a deep and unexplained loathing of plays and musicals. They just make me cringe. Also when people break into song on television I have to hide behind the sofa.

6. It's quite unbelievable that I've kept this blog going for almost two years as usually any kind of routine goes out the window in a matter of days. There is actually nothing else regular and habitual in my life. Perhaps this is the rock that holds me together.

7. I have a collection of accidental collections. Somehow on my travels I always end up purchasing salt and pepper shakers, eggcups, more glassware - to the extent that I keep the surplus in a box under my bed, odd chandelier drops and eye creams. (And obviously bags and shoes but that's completely normal.) I also have a habit of always buying people decorative doorknobs or teapots (hi Mia!) as gifts.

Elizabeth, Julia, Adeleine, Ashley, Catharine, Lauren, Elisabeth - consider your good selves tagged.

MAYBE EITHER A POWERCUT DUE TO A BOLT OF LIGHTNING OR A FLOOD THAT SWEEPS MY LAPTOP AWAY?...

This may turn out to be like when I went on about how great having a fringe was, only to have it trimmed a few days later which left me looking like I was trying to hide my frontal lobotomy scar for the next month.

This may turn out to be like when I said "You have to be careful 'cos you don't want to end up getting pissed and falling over," before doing exactly that which left me unable to walk.

This may be like when I said I was going to see Au Revoir Simone play live yesterday but instead stayed home with my foot up due to above (clue - it wasn't because my fringe wasn't up to their admittedly high standards.)

This may even turn out to be like when I finally got round to buying a bike, and went on about how great it is to pedal (ouch) along, only for it to languish in the hallway because.....I'm sure you can work out the rest.

I may be tempting those cruel gods of internet fate, but I must tell you that I am sitting at home, writing on my laptop, which appears to have been connected successfully to the internet for at least half an hour. Okay, the light is yellow when it should be green and the techie people didn't turn up (of course!) so I have somehow cobbled together a connection.

I shall now stay up all night reading the last two month's archives of my 500 favourite blogs.

Unless The Universe decides not.

YOU SPIN ME RIGHT ROUND BABY...

Edit* Curioser and curioser. Not only has the remote control broken, as well as my internet but we have builders renovating our front steps so they are unusable. I am literally trapped! I also have a lovely new bike and a new lawnmower which are as much use to me as a chocolate teapot. Edit 2¤ I just decided to put my foot up on a three legged stool and it broke.

Okay so I kind of spoiled the surprise and bp you are so spookily right about the shoe though I can't blame it entirely. Alcohol, a man and a wonky floor were also involved. But anyway I'll leave the post as it was when I wrote it, below:


Did you know how much I love to dance? We Pisceans leap at the chance to twirl and shimmy, so what better excuse than the wedding of my dear cous last weekend?

I hastily reconsidered wearing the backless chiffon dress (purchased during the recent heatwave) as the skies opened and the temperature plummeted. Spirits were not dampened however and with the aid of about a hundred golf umbrellas, we all got from the abbey to the marquee in one piece. It was a beautiful and emotional day - the end of one era and the beginning of another as (sniff!) the first of my cousins took her vows.

I ended up wearing an aquamarine chiffon and silk '60s mini shift dress that was my mum's, my fave black Martin Grant boat necked jacket, opaque black tights and one of my two pairs of "comfortable" heels - the black satin vintage Ferragamos picked up for a song at Greenwich market. (My other comfortable heels are the Rupert Sanderson ones with the 55mm heel. Clever old Rupert has essentially discovered the holy grail of heel height. I've been meaning to write a post about it for ages.)

So, back in the marquee I have no idea what music the band was playing or with whom I was dancing, but there was much twirling and spinning, spinning, spinning in the other direction, spinniiii......snap.

Don't worry girls it wasn't the heel of my vintage Ferragamos snapping. That would merely have been a wardrobe malfunction; this was searing, indescribable pain. The snapping noise was the fifth metatarsal and cuboid bones in my foot breaking as I fell off the edge of the dancefloor.

I believe my dance partner, whose identity so far remains a closely guarded secret, sort of stood there swaying (I will discover his identity - I may be physically compromised but a few days of detox and the old noggin will retain its usual powers of deduction.)

After a few minutes of sitting on the floor for a lifetime, somehow The Tallest Man on Earth, elegantly I'm told, scooped up the crumpled leaden weight of moi from the floor and carried it to a little golden chair. My foot was placed on another little golden chair. (Chivalry: apparently not dead as previously suspected.) There was soon a crowd viewing the large egg shaped lump on my foot which was clearly visible through my tights. A procession of rather pissed wedding guests/off duty doctors was summoned to prod and poke the lump in a professional manner. "Dosshish hurr whenna dojish? Canya wiggle yer toes? Nah, yabbe rigghh ish jush twishted."

"Yes it does bloody hurt and no I cannot wiggle my toes. In fact anyone who is not a foot specialist but is a gynaecologist or a dentist or indeed a VET has no business prodding my foot," is what I said to myself in hindsight the next morning. At the time I just glugged silently on a water glass full of straight vodka which I believe I may have requested "for the pain."

And then the water was leaking from my eyes because it really did hurt and I was the centre of attention for all the wrong reasons. So my other cousin's boyfriend who is The Go To Guy In All Emergencies was charged with getting me and my foot across a waterlogged paddock, along a potholed lane in the dark, down a couple of cobbled paths, into the house and up three flights of stairs (how I have no idea, the vodka had kicked in by then) to the attic room where I promptly crashed out.

The irony is that at the beginning of the reception when we were all being plied with refills of champagne I kept refusing more; uttering these exact words to someone more sensible than I:

"You have to be careful 'cos the last thing you want to do at a wedding is get pissed and end up falling over."

SNAP...

I have not been around this week because not only do I have no internet connection, I am currently unable to walk to the internet cafe, or anywhere, due to a BROKEN FOOT. So obviously all I can do is lie on the sofa with my leg elevated watching daytime TV, or at least I was until THE REMOTE CONTROL BROKE. Do you think someone's trying to tell me something - like stop procrastinating and write that bloody thing everyone keeps telling you you should and shall write? My lovely neighbour is letting me use her internet for a moment to say I will be back, and soon, with up and running internet and the funny story of how the foot came to snap...

Wanna see a picture of my black toes?