I love Paris in the summer, because the French aren't there...

Now I know that sounds bad, so I will explain. In August 50% of Paris escapes to the relative cool of the coast, leaving the city quiet, calm and relatively easy to get a table in. And given the amount of food I ate, that's quite a consideration!

But getting ahead of myself; I left Waterloo on the Saturday of a long weekend and arrived in the early afternoon in Paris, to be met off the train by Bertil (lately of my garden, now relocated to Paris) and my cousin Kelly who lives in Amsterdam. After a short metro journey, we emerged from the underground into the middle of Paris! I love the Eurostar.

Bertil proceeded to spend the next 3 days showing us the whole of Paris, which saw us walking from Sacre Coeur, to the Louvre, to the top of the Arc de Triomphe and all over the Left Bank. In the 29 degree weather this was quite a mission, although we were rewarded with large icecreams at suitable junctures, otherwise I think he would have had another French revolution on his hands!

And yet more food - we ate outside on the streetfront for breakfast, and under the Paris stars in the evenings (I counted them, there were 5), and walked home marvelling at the beauty of the city at night, and how hot it still was. Even at 1am I felt safe walking to my hotel by myself through the Marais - as a female in the predominantly gay district I knew I was pretty safe! Yeah Mum, I was careful...

I definately fell in love with the city, and thanks to Bertil for allowing me to walk around aimlessly while making sure I saw the best of the city. I came back very relaxed, and am already calculating how soon I can get back, if only to learn how to stop myself saying 'si' and 'grazie', when I mean 'oui' and 'merci'!

So back to real life with a bump on Tuesday morning, as I stepped off the Eurostar, walked 5 minutes and arrived at work.

On a side note, congratulations to Gabor and Sarah on the birth of their first son Kaspar, the first of a number of happy events that will be happening over the next few months. Glad to hear everyone is happy and healthy.

Free free free

One of the things I love about London is the amount of free stuff you can get here throughout the day. To illustrate; as I cruise through the gym in the morning I pick up a workout towel and a shower towel, and enjoy the complementary shower gel, shampoo and conditioner (which so far seems to be kind on my '50% off' highlights).

On the way to work with one of several radio podcasts playing on my iPod, I stop to pick up my free Metro paper placed for convenience outside each Tube station, and browse for vouchers on my journey - this morning the latest freebie from Marks & Spencer (a higher class of supermarket) was the freshly squeezed orange juice, which went very well with breakfast. Out for another free paper at lunch - the Evening Standard Lite - to see what free events might be on in the evening. At this rate, I may even come home with a few pounds in my pocket.

Or maybe not - I am off to Paris for the bank holiday weekend on Saturday, and something tells me that I won't be completely unable to resist all the fresh baguettes, unpasturised cheeses, handmade chocolates, diptyque candles and bijou shoe stores that the city will profer up...

Oh, and lest you think I have it too easy here - I calculated the other day that I am paying $17,000 a year in rent. Never convert back!

Don't let the bed bugs bite

Well too late for that. I would have expected this in France, but the realisation that the large ugly welts on my arms were bed bug bites from my new house came as a nasty surprise. So I have been stomping around grumpily for a few days now (between bouts of itching) waiting for the landlord to come home to organise some fumigation - as there is basically nothing you can do yourself at home to get rid of them.

It took me until this afternoon to see the funny side - at the memory of me in the dark last night, carefully peeling back the bedclothes like some 3rd rate CSI investigator with a maglight flashlight between my teeth, and using my lint remover to collect 'evidence' from the mattress. I need to stop watching so much TV.

The great tube decal mystery - an interactive blog

So on the crammed rush hour tube everyone is very careful to avoid any eye contact with their fellow commuters that could be mistaken for an acknowlegement they exist. So with little to look out the windows at, you spend a lot of time staring at the ceiling or the ads. In doing so I have become aware of decals at the bottom of the route maps on the wall of the train that carry codes that I just can't seem to work out. I've googled a couple to no avail, so I thought I would see if anyone else had some good ideas.

All the info I have on these are they seem to be 'official', on more than just one line, and appear in series of 3 individual stickers. I can take a photo of the exhibit if this helps anyone! Leave a comment if you have any ideas.

Example 1: BattlS SC comS
Example 2: BIC SC DIC

Updated - here's a photo:

A Cantwarabyrig Tale

Today a visit to Canterbury, most famous for its Cathedral, where in 1170 Thomas a Becket was famously martyred by 4 knights to please Henry II (that Rough Guide is paying off, huh!) Badly bombed in the war, it was still a pleasant place to wander around for the day with some lovely old buildings from as far back as the 16th Century.

I was quite taken by the epitaph in the cathedral for Major Cairnes who "left this sublunary scene" aged 30 - "Brief but most noble was his career and his end most glorious, bravely asserting the cause of a beloved monarch, he fell on the fields of Waterloo". What fantastic language.

I tried something called an Eccles cake today - I didn't know what it was myself, so for those that are wondering, imagine a Christmas mince pie, but without the fruit. I'm not sure why you would do that, but perhaps that kind of explains the Goon show character?

Canterbury is also the birthplace of the creator of Rupert The Bear, and so I visited the Rupert the Bear museum in search of something to post to my nephew.

The lady behind the counter blinked vacantly at me through thick, cokebottle glasses, and while she didn't ask me not to touch her stapler, she and the other occupant of the shop (inexplicably sitting in the middle of the floor) watched me in anxious silence as I perused the lovely things of the shop.

They seemed quite unable to understand even simple words like 'postcard', 'nephew' and 'I'm leaving now because you're scaring me'. This was definately a local shop for local people in every sense I think, and they seemed very relieved when I left without buying anything.

So, sorry Justin, no postcard from Rupert, perhaps we'll have better luck with Paddington, an altogether better class of bear I believe.