Thought provoking stuff. The main thought being that standards of feminine pubic grooming have changed significantly in the past 30 years. Or maybe it’s just a French thing.
Emma and I walk along the Champs du Mars and eat a baguette at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. I tell Emma I think it’s just a glorified TV aerial. She’s not pleased. It’s romantic she says. I say it’s a cliché. This goes down badly. She asks me if I’d like to ruin any more of Paris for her. I suggest a walk along the Seine.
I noticed that when wearing my flat-cap and scarf I get approached a fair bit in the street and get babbled at in French. This doesn’t happen when I wear my beanie. The only conclusion I can draw is that no self respecting Frenchman would be caught dead in my beanie. Which is a shame for them. It’s very warm.
Drinking on Thursday night with a prop from the university rugby team in Beunos Aires. Massive lad. He takes his seat at the bar, peeling off his jacket to reveal an English rugby jersey. The locals avoid us like the plague until he tells the barman he’s Argentinean. Relations thaw. The French really do dislike the English.
Every Australian child learns to ride a bicycle in a cul-de-sac. In France, it’s done on a patch of tarmac out the front of the municipal building in Arrondissmont 17.
Everywhere in Paris the Christmas decorations are still proudly on display. I tell Emma that this is because those responsible for taking them down have not yet returned from Christmas holiday.
I buy a chicken sandwich. There is something familiar about the taste. I am half finished by the time I realise the taste I recognise is actually chicken. Not sure if that’s because the chicken is better in France or if I’m suffering the early onset of some kind of taste-related dementia.
That is all,
Dale Atkinson
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