Although back from twenty four hours of delicious powerpoint torture, and safely borne in the metallic embrace of the death bird, I am still somewhat constrained in my blogging freedom, by a certainy tiny eyed French person, whose pursed lips and hissed reproaches ("Madonna et Guy? Blackberry sous leur pillow? Ca te dit quelquechose?") seem to indicate I am neglecting my 'real' responsibilities in favour of my self-imposed self-indulgent gibbering. Surely not. Those small people over there still look vaguely familiar and aren't they marvellously self-sufficient now. Monobrow and Toes, isn't it? I did, however, feel a shiver of self-loathing at paying twelve euros to sit crouched in front of a hotel tv attempting to make a recalcitrant clockwork mouse scroll painfully across the blogspot log in page, then laboriously typing stuff I could barely see. Especially when Paris colleague filled me in on her Veuve drinking, sumo wrestling, pillow throwing, table dancing 'til 6 am exploits. I am addicted. And pathetic. As if being forced to see her in her thong wasn't punishment enough.
Never fear, however. This realisation is unlikely to lead to any less posting. We are in England for a week which will doubtless inspire me. I am meeting up with Antonia (who I idolise above all bloggers and love creepily - she is a brave woman agreeing to see me again), tormenting Violet, invading the Bearded One's zen palace with brightly coloured plastic, crap food and strident tv and then going to York on a nostalgic trip to my birthplace with Lashes and Fingers. Actually, I fear I have probably over-estimated the amount of entertainment it is possible to squeeze out of repeated trips to Barnitts, the hardware store to end all hardware stores, feeding the vicious geese and the smellovision delights of the Jorvik Viking Museum. By Wednesday I will probably be sitting catatonic on a bench around the fountain in Parliament Street with all the teenage mums, eating a pasty and drinking WKD (is that right? The alcopop? I sound like a high court judge) as the boys go shoplifting in Woolworths.
Must go, the CFO's eyes have shrunk to the size of currants. I sense an uncomfortable conversation approaching.