I have lost the run of myself. Not only have I been flirting in French with some guy called Romain (I was holding out for a Benoit but none were materialising….), but I have asked him out!!!! In fairness, he’s the first one to have progressed a conversation past ‘bonjour ça va tu viens d’ou“, (“hello how are you where are you from”) and I think I got over excited. Apparently his car is broken today and I have refused to travel into the mountains to meet him (Internet dating rule 101 -do not go into the mountains with strange men), so I’m off the hook for the immediate future. The weird thing is that I actually WANT to meet him. I have warned him he will flee in horror when he realises how bad my French is, but he seems undaunted, and is apparently currently installed under the bonnet of his car, working furiously.
As for me I’m installed horizontally on the couch, much the worse for wear after last night‘s attempted socialising endeavours. I say attempted because we did not get past the aperatif stage of the evening, and it was all my fault. I had the apartment looking lovely (read: clean), I had all the ingredients for making Kir Royales, Christmas music playing and a selection of snacks ready. The girls came over and we were very proud of ourselves because we spoke French the whole night. However, before they arrived I had worried about looking like a hound in front of them, so I decided I could live with the guilt and drank a bottle of cider before they came over. Quite the self-congratulatory dance I did around the kitchen, so pleased was I with my genius plan. I was reflecting on the fact that this is akin to what those female customers I see in the crêperie do, eating big meals before they go on their dates, so they can be seen to pick delicately at the plate for four hours before elegantly pushing it away from them, half finished. All the while telling myself, ‘sure I’m Irish, I can’t be drinking like a German, but if they know what I’m really like they will judge me”. Oh they judged me alright. Or at least they should have, because I’m judging myself. So I swigged the first cider (about a pint and a half), with a view to delicately sipping some Kirs for the rest of the evening. But having gotten off to a swilling start, I forgot about the delicate sipping aspect of the plan, and was puking in the toilet by 10pm. The sound proofing in the apartment not being what it might be, everyone was painfully aware of this fact. I made valiant efforts to recover, thinking that with time (and focusing on a fixed point in the wall) that I might get better, but the puking recommenced and everyone had to go home a half an hour later. Now the night was lovely while it lasted, but THE SHAME. The girls were extremely nice about it, but Jesus you would think I would have learned how to manage myself by this stage in life. I woke up from my drunken coma having succeeded in removing my jeans and socks but nothing else. I was highly entertained however to wake up and find Karim in the kitchen, still in his work clothes from last night -he apparently had a similar experience. Two right beauties we are.
And the self same Karim is currently installed just opposite me, eating freshly purchased raw shredded carrot from the carton, apparently because I gave out to him a few days ago for not eating any vegetables. He is also lamenting having a bad hair day. He has a piece of hair sticking out that he can’t control and he had to get passport photos earlier, in the process of which he met a girl but got shy and couldn’t talk to her because of the state of his hair. It might be just the lack of serotonin, but I find this hilarious.