Nullsphere

I received a paper crane from Liz for the paper crane project and I’m toying with a few ideas before I send my definitive picture in for her.

Should I take either of these pics or go for something else?

Feeling particularly confused this morning because I woke up a few ticks after 7 without the aid of either a shouting father or an alarm clock blaring in my ear, I took the unilateral decision to stay in my bed. My trusty phone reminded me soon enough of the requirement to get up and reheat last night’s coffee.
Then I checked onto Aëvry and posted some bits. After mixing up a quick latte, a brief shower and food preparation, I was almost ready to go. My last feat was to change bags because I was not looking forward to another day of being crushed in line 3 with my handbag and laptop backpack being a bother to all and sundry.

Of course, it followed that I was quite late getting out of the house. As I walked on the avenue, I thought that it would be a nice change to take the bus to Place de l’etoile instead of drudging in the métro, which in this unseasonably hot weather, is not dissimilar to being baked in an oven. The weather is mild, sunny yet springly enough for me not to be suffering.

Said bus arrived within five minutes and I hopped on, having previously stored my Starbucks cup in my large bag. Book in hand, I started reading on the smooth ride, up until a place freed itself up and I sat down, looking onto a skirt.

I took a good look at the wearer and instantly felt frumpy. Here in this bus, stood the epitome of French chic.
Not the Sloaney crew that populates my area but a bona fide Jackie O in the making.

Toned legs, with a not too golden tan that seemed to be the result of bathing and tennis afternoons rather than baking stupidly in the sun gave way to a cream skirt demurely decorated with white gros-grain ribbon. Her finely woven twinset echoed the two bands with its gleaming white that fell impecably from slender shoulders.
She was blonde but not a cheap tarty one. Either it was natural or she has a really good hairdresser. Entirely sure of herself as she alighted from the bus, I could only stare as this vision of cream and white dissapeared into the morning sunlight.
It’s not that she was perfectly toned everywhere, in fact, I could see a small bump of a stomach but she looked like her outfit was no imposition on her.

After that, the bus screeched to a halt, nearly spilling the rest of us onto the ground at the next stop and I got out.

There must be some propitious combination of elements because I managed to cross without looking on a major avenue without getting hit by a car, which, by my own admission was a pretty stupid thing to do.

It occured to me, as I sat down in the métro, that everyone else seemed to be trying too hard (myself included) to have that particular brand of chic that was exuding from the girl on the bus.

In France, métro rides aren’t anything to write home about. Everyone spends the entire time either absorbed by whatever musical or litterary distraction they brought in with them, or staring at other travellers while conscienciously avoiding looking them in the eye, lest they be a psycho. When I let out a small laugh because of the book I was reading, people either glared or looked at me warily as if I’d start flinging poo any minute.

For once, my next métro after the change wasn’t jam-packed and I was able to read while standing. Definitely an improvement from those mornings where breathing would cause severe bodily harm to a fellow passenger. Yep, definitely an improvement, up to the point where the skirt of the girl in front of me blew up, revealting her ass. I wasn’t quite expecting that one.

Musing over France and the French as seen through the eyes of the main character of A year in the Merde, I walked on to work. I couldn’t help but notice the huge pile of dogshit that was right next to the “Respectez la pelouse” sign. It drew another rueful smile from me. Pretty significative of France, in my opinion.

When I got to work, I realised that I had forgotten my lunch, quite possibly slowly drizzling its oil on the sofa… I realised this once I had let myself into the cafeteria and gone to put my salad in the fridge. Fucksticks.

Good thing I had tossed my apple in my handbag instead of my lunchbag. My cheerful mood is not yet dented but there’s a whole day to go through yet. It’s a nice change from my abysmal mood of yesterday.

In other news, it appears that last night’s presidential debate was pathetic, like two schoolchildren having a fight. Not to mention light on factual evidence of anything.
And I availed myself to a bit of retail therapy on the way home because I saw a beautiful dress at the Gap. The first one I tried on turned out to make me look like a pregnant whale (but this is true of anyone who is more than a 6), which is a shame because it gave me an awesome rack.
The second one is a gorgeous LBD with straps that makes me look quite acceptable. Particularly since I had squeezed myself into a size smaller than needed, before realising that my usual size was available on the rack. Come to think of it, I could have taken the one I tried on.