I Love Paris...

... all the time.

Apart, from the dog-poo which is EVERYbloodyWHERE.

Took Other Half to the Romance Capital of the world, and instead of needing rose-tinted glasses I'm sure that dog-poo warning goggles should be issued as de rigeur. Or all the tourists could go on strike and demand that those bloody dog owners carry around plastic bags to scoop up their mutt's mess, but then I suppose that they'll go on strike and then the whole world will come to a standstill. Howevre, to be fair we stayed in a nice posh bit of Paris (Neuilly) where the streets were lined with flower beds and the dogs were very well trained to poo in the beds by the flowers rather than on the flowers or on the pavement.

Paris was great. Met up with some friends and practised my French. Ate lots, drank lots, walked across Paris while Other Half kept pointing at signs and making me translate them to him, using the Latin Root, and other grammatical nuances and insisting that it was good for me for my upcoming French Exams, and me getting more and more blasé by the minute. I pointed out that my French was very well merci beaucoup and that the previous day after we'd arrived and gone out with French I was holding up incredibly well.

Later on we went to another restaurant and I ordered a table. But I got stuck. And it was only then that I realised that my fluency in languages followed an exponential curve with the amount of alcohol consumed: that there comes a point in the evening that my fluency in French is at the same maximum level as my alcohol intake before I start speaking utter gibberish.

However, all in all it was superb.

Off to crack open a sneakily smuggled bottle of Bouilly.