I am ill. Like a silly little weed I cough and I blow my nose while the fashion week is flying past me. If had a pass Id be there ill or dead, no difference! But instead on the metro I cough into my hat looking shocked and disgraced at my own sickness. While I am actually choking on that irritating tickle at the back of the throat and going slightly smurf-esque in the face. I decide that I hate Madeleine and Concorde.
Lack of things to do is giving me deranged ideas of re-organising my itunes even more than they already are.
Ah but I lie, even though I am a weed I have not declined an offer of visiting a musician’s flat on the first settlement of Parisian life, the isle of Notre Dame.
There I sit (coughing) drinking freshly brewed coffee, listening to music whose composer is sitting opposite me. I get tough how to play chess. I feel slightly more intelligent. He plays a lullaby for me on his piano.
He wears vintage suits and matching ties, his collection of ties makes me ponder on a thought that he could be a serial strangler. He offers me a crep, i decline in caution of spoiling my good luck with the Frenchness of it all.
Perfect, I tick the box of meeting a real French romantic in a matter of 18 days! Lovely.
Ps; A crystal Castles gig is swapped for Phil Collins.