I set off last Thursday after my last ever day at work (wooooooooo), more excited than a child on Christmas Eve. Turns out in my excitement, I had failed to pack a single bra, other than the strapless one I was wearing (problematic for practical purposes such as spinning) but I wasn't going to let that hold me down. Nor apparently were my boobs, as proved by a very-almost flashing incident as I ran to catch my plane (never trust timings of the Paris-Beauvais bus system). Thankfully there was no one around to see and I made it to Malaga without being arrested for indecent exposure, where my fabulous flatmate was waiting for me at the customs exit. What followed was one fabulous-isima week of spanish, sun, spinning, fiesta, tapas and 1 kilo of strawberries for 1,50 €. I may have got very burnt within 18 hours of landing, and pomegranates may now be out of season but you'd never have known from the permanent smile on my face. That smile lasted until Thursday morning when obviously the tears came, and lasted all day. Yes, I was one of those people you see crying in public, who appear mentally unstable, but well at least I know I'm not, even if half of Paris now thinks I am.
In all my excitement I did not get round to snapping my holiday outfits so we shall finish with my outfit for today in which I have so far lain on my bed doubled over with pain dreading the day I ever have to experience child-birth. I am however now venturing out to a franglish event, not particularly looking forward to the awkward conversation that is bound to ensue, but how else is one meant to meet French people in Paris? If you can't change the situation, change your attitude to the situation, right?