Sport is waking up at 7 in the morning to play tennis.

… going back to bed at around 12 from sheer exhaustion.

… waking up later and feeling blue enough not to change out of jammies.

… running out the house late because sartorial choices were overwhelming.

… repeated right arm lifting a champagne glass to the lips.

… finger fatigue from rapid SMSing. 

… cheek and mouth pain from multiple kissings.

It all started a bit early on, some time after noon when I was walking down the street on the way to the supermarket. Standing near the corner, next to a metal grill fence, was a rather fat older man with no teeth, his lips sucked back and bloated from bad dentures. He held, in his upturned hand, what I thought to be a bag containing crumbs. All along the grill were pigeons. Oddly enough, though, they didn’t seem to be fluttering around him in search of food. They just all seemed to be looking at him. As I got closer I noticed there was something red inside of the bag. In fact the bag was not a bag but a long piece of crumpled paper. The red things was longish, so I assumed they were sausages. Probably merguez. But then I finally got up next to him and saw what it was. It was the underside of a long beef tongue.

Later on, I was trotting further down the hill on my way to a bar, when I spotted two men lying down in front of a Casino supermarket. They were lolling about next to a shopping cart. Inside the shopping cart were what I thought to be dirty clothes. There was cardboard blocking half the cart. As I got closer, I realised that there weren’t clothes inside the cart but something furry. Almost coming up to it, it was not a coat, or anything like that, but four very young puppies in a state of catatonia. There was nothing written on the sign.

Finally, I turned on the television much later in the evening, and came across a television show where a man was gamboling with his pigs. He seemed to make much a fuss about where they slept and how his sty was a bucolic eden. I went to the bathroom and when I came out, he was chopping off the leg from the body.

I might need glasses.

Saturday night: nothing says chic like Carambar bonbons after a great dinner. Their wrappers really have the worst jokes in them. For example…

Dilemma 1
Would you rather have gum between your fingers or mayonnaise between your bumcheeks?

or even better…

Q: Why do the Chinese use chopsticks?
A: No idea.

or, my personal favourite…

Q: What is written inside Italian buses?
A: Don’t talk to the bus driver. His hands are occupied.

Somebody ought to tell Trouville soon that their name is really Hole Town. Hole Town, like that even needs an explanation. Still, it’s the playground of the rich and cream wool-blend pants set. I spent around 48 glorious hours there, soaking up the rays, drinking, eating, chasing around three year olds, drawing extra-terrestrials and splashing about it a giant bathtub while gorging myself on the public details of Cecila Sarkozy in, where else, Public. This, of course, is me, naturally. But Nicole… Nicole is something else. If that bouffant blow-dry and vacuum sealed face is natural, you ought to be able to grow alfalfa on Pamela Anderson’s tits.

But, if that turns you off, there’s always a fine selection of panther paintings, shockingly ornate men’s lingerie, and window displays of fine jewelry that leaves no question as to the creativity of Hole Town’s inhabitants.

And not a creature was stirring, except for these louts

The tv was warming above the chimney all bare

In hopes that St. Nicolas would have a good scare

The children were drunk and sunburnt instead

While visions of white-skirted baguettes danced round their heads…

One can never be sure with French politics whether the evening will end with broken bottles, funny hats, massive screaming, or just several bald men stepping out of line. Our elections night, where, among the voters present Bayrou won hands down, was tarnished by these two baldies, both of which were virulent Sarko supporters. The screaming and tantrum pulling was enough to make me throw two books at their heads (Oh Beckett and Strindberg! You deserve better!). If they represent the right, there’s no hope for intelligent life in this country. The next time I’m going to put an immigration policy on my door: no village idiots allowed.

Candidat du Grand Rassemblement.

Si je suis élu, je promets immediatement une nouvelle election presidentielle! Et si je suis reélu, je promets immediatement une nouvelle election presidentielle!

_______________________________

(Candidate for Bringing People Together - If I am elected, I promise to immediately hold a new presidential election! And if I am re-elected, I promise to immediately hold another new presidential election!)

I ran into special breed last night only native to contemporary art/entertainment circles: human beings who are incredibly adept at talking about themselves and their work without breaking for breath. It’s like a special kind of terrestrial apnea, the face gets redder and redder, the eyes eventually getting a delusional blaze. Oh, if I had known what I know now I never would have asked him what he does. But, in the running series of “facts that prove Mensa will revoke my status soon,” I’ve already been burned by this situation many times.

For example, once I got stuck with a girl, on the TGV, who spent a good portion of thirty minutes talking about all her future exhibitions. She was getting more and more excited about her greatness with each dying breath, while I started wishing for a cardboard cutout of myself, or Jar Jar Binks, to stick in my place. (more…)

There are some things I will never get used to in France.

The husband, practising his english, translated this tidbit from the newspaper today: "A hunter killed a mushroom picker. He was a truck driver and he took a vacation to kill boars. Instead he got a woman. She got a bullet in the abdomen. He just heard a noise in a bush. She suddenly died."

This reminds of the time we were in the middle of a corn maze and all of us had to keep silent because we were recording ambient sound for a film when suddenly two little brown sausage dogs came upon us and starting barking, followed by sound of shots nearby. Sixteen people, who had been keeping stock still, suddenly broke out into angry yelling replete with luscious expletives. I tried to be amused when the sound guy said that usually by this point the hunters are very drunk and can’t shoot straight, but was more comforted by walking around with a orange emergency cone on my head.

Here in Nardac-world, we’re no strangers to inebriation. So it should come as no surprise, dear readers, that I finally post a photo of what I look like when not jacked up on the internet. My husband is trying to tell me that it’s bad to stick pictures like this of me with other men because then people will get confused as to who I’m talking about when I say Dacnar, Beef or Chunky Fingers. I don’t know how anyone could be confused. This guy doesn’t look like Beef. He looks like JP Belmondo, though I’m unhappy to report that I don’t remember a single word of the conversation I had with him. He’s stoic.

But I’m not stoic. I’m gabber blabber, even though lately I’ve been neglecting ye ole bloggering. So, here’s a quick rundown of what happened from Thursday onwards:

Thursday

Spend most of the day cleaning the house in preparation for guests who will barf all over the carpet and kick the walls. I know this will happen so why I bother cleaning beforehand can only be testament to my lack of intelligence. (more…)

We didn’t go to any Halloween parties, because Halloween bites in France, but got dressed up as disgruntled bears anyways, complaining about taxis, administration, unemployment and the lack of good porridge… in France.