And another thing

ST LUKE'S: See the tag below. It says france. Click on it and it'll take you back to my other French posts. Why would you do this? Because I've added a couple of pictures and you might be curious.

They Were the Worst of Times, They Were the Worst of Times

BEDFORD ROAD: Regular visitors, if I still have any, are probably wondering what's happened to the good blogger of late? Well last week I was busy working on reviews and poems that were getting in the way of blogging and then, on Thursday, I was suddenly struck down with some type of flu/virus concoction that rendered me probably the sickest Australian since [insert tasteless reference to recently deceased celeb here].

It all started when I was getting ready to leave for work on Thursday. Before I walked out the door I said to Kate, I feel like I'm getting a headache. I very rarely get headaches so I didn't think too much about it. My legs seemed to ache as I walked to the Tube station which was a little unusual but then I had played football the night before. By the time I'd gotten off the Tube to walk into work I was starting to feel really bad and within half an hour I was wearing two jumpers, a jacket and shivering uncontrollably.

I left work in and tried to bunker down into my jumpers for the Tube ride home. I was overcome by the most desperate thirst. And the exacerbate things, the train seemed to stop for five minutes mid-tunnel between every station. I shivered my way home grabbing a Lucozade on the way. Little did I know that this would be the last time I'd leave the house for the next five days. Inside I swallowed a handful of cold and flu tablets and fell into bed fully clothed and shivering.

For the next five days I watched snatches of Sky Sports News - the edges of my dreams suggested to me that I was somehow involved in the World Cup with either Australia or Ireland - some crappy films, and the shapes the branches of the trees made outside my window.

There were gay times my dear readers. When I threw up five times in an hour or so on Friday night for instance. I suppose that craving for chicken was a little ill advised. And on Saturday night I was so dehydrated that I sat up all night downstairs drinking water, not caring if I made myself sick, as long as I could drink. The hours spent with towels draped across my forehead, turning them every five minutes or so ti try and keep myself cool.

The best thing though would have to be the dreams. An example: Rod and I were driving in a 4WD somewhere along the coast in, say, Northern Queensland. We are on a cliff face twenty metres above the ocean. Out of the water below, I see a giant fin arc up followed by a tail as a thirty foot shark elegantly reveals itself. But suddenly the tide started to rise. Yes, up the cliff face, and we were forced to reverse our car. Behind us were all these wood shacks with string wire fences. Mean faced little men peeked out from the blackness pointing shotguns. Nobody wanted us around. We tried to explain that we weren't interested in squatting, we just needed somewhere until the tides receded. But they weren't interested. So I left Rod with the vehicle and the went down to find a town which was almost like Surfers Paradise and tried to rent a room from Alf Stewart!

Then yesterday I suppose all of Kate's careful nursing had started to pay off and I was starting to feel better. I even walked, with some assistance, down to the high street for McDonalds. The foods the body craves in recovery. So there you have it, I haven't been ignoring you, just trying not to go out like a Victorian (not in the AB sense!).

Jumping the Gun

ST LUKE'S: I should rescind that thing about Spring sprunging. The temperature dipped over the weekend and yesterday I found myself running home in driving snow. (I broke 30 minutes for the 6K trek to Vauxhall yesterday!) It obviously melted as soon as it hit the ground but gees it was painful on my neck.

Howzat?

ST LUKE'S: What a shitter. I just lost my post so let me just recap briefly:

#1 - Spring is here!
#2 - I celebrated by going walking in Berkshire on Sunday!
#3 - But I was tired because we'd hosted a Caribbean themed dinner party the evening before.
#4 - I visited Borough Markets on Saturday.
#5 - It's almost impossible to find a pub showing the World Cup over here.

Fingers crossed Blogger doesn't decide to delete this post!

It's a 24 Hour City After All

ACRE LANE: These Parisian posts are all out of wack but I will finish them off and then put them in order. Hope you're all well.

Wilco at She Bu

ST LUKE'S: Another gig, another night alone. I just bought a ticket to see Wilco at the She Bu Empire. If anyone wants to come with me let me know.

I Spy With My Little Eye

ST LUKE'S: Almost completed a rare double celebrity sighting at the Barbican last night. After three and a half hours spent watching The Seven Samurai I was walking towards the Tube. I stopped to ask a policeman directions. Had I not stopped. Had I walked on fifteen metres. Had I been fifteen seconds earlier I would have seen the Queen. Would have fitted in nicely with Tony Blair who I saw in Tallinn in 2005.

Alas, it was not to be. The film was fantastic though. And afterwards it was the most crowded cinema toilet I've ever seen. There were queues. For the gents.

Hump Day

ST LUKE'S: It's midmorning on a Wednesday and all I can think about is sitting in a rainy cafe or pub or room somewhere in SE Asia watching the rain puddle in the streets outside safe in the knowledge that I've got nowhere to go and nothing to do.

Spontaneous Prose

ST LUKE'S: Devotees of Jack Kerouac will no doubt be familiar axiom that the first word is best word. However devotees of Kerouac are also no doubt aware that first word is quite often not the best word. A fact that some of the less worthy volumes oeuvre attests. But the demands on my time, and computer access, are such that I'd much prefer to use the precious time to work on shitty little poems. So what I give you is often first word. Rarely best word. If you see spelling mistakes please don't hesitate to point them out.

I will finish blogging my trip to Paris and adding photos, if only for my own memories and vanity.

On another note though I thought I'd give you a quick rundown of what I got up to on the weekend.

Friday: Mick was down so we went to The Windwill to get drunk on cheep booze watching unsigned bands. All the bands were good though one of them played like they were auditioning for Top of the Pops which, given the tiny stage and the dingy venue, made them look like right wankers.

Saturday: Visited several art exhibitions including a Hunter S. Thompson's photos in Chelsea, Banksy in South Kensington and Anselm Kiefer at Green Park. For just £70,000 you can get an A3 size canvas that Banksy has stencilled on. For the same price you can get a nice Utrillo and a road the world holiday (twice).

Saturday night: Equus at the Gielgud Theatre featuring Harry Potter in the buff. Then a cheap as chips three course meal in Chinatown. The play was superb, the production design evocative and the acting convincing. There was only one problem. Star Richard Griffiths was ill and his understudy had to read from a copy of the play all night.

Sunday: Lunch in Brixton with Elerig and Libby and then Hot Fuzz at The Ritzy.

So that's it, a first word is best word account of my weekend. Sorry if it's crap but I'm off to see The Seven Samurai at the Barbican in a couple of hours and it's time I got back to work.

Jour Trois

BEDFORD ROAD: Day three was all about Montmartre, the neighbourhood famous for its artists and most recently for its appearance in the film's Amelie and Moulin Rouge. Being massive fans of guided walking tours we decided to go with Paris walks. Along with a handful of Welsh (over for the Six Nations), a family of San Franciscans, an Indian student based in London and a handful of others, a Cornish expat pointed out various locations associated with Impressionists and Post-Impressionists like Toulouse-Lautrec, Van Gogh and Utrillo. We finished at the foot of the sandcastle cathedral Sacre Couer. The views of Paris would have been stunning, if the entire city hadn't been dressed in a London-esque coat of drizzle.






After picking up a couple of excellent ham and cheese baguettes we crossed town to the Musee d'Orsay. Following the trend to build art galleries in converted industrial sites, the museum expertly utilises it's former life as a train station. However the art was disappointing. But I got the feeling that most of the pictures I really wanted to see where either being loaned out or rotated.

Afterwards we took another meander through a less populated part of the West Bank, winding back through Jardin du Luxembourg where Hemingway allegedly hunted for pigeons. Then past the Sorbonne and a host of streets associated with Lost Generation adresses before winding up in the now familiar Rue Mouffetard. This time we found the house where Hemingway spent much of his original sojourn and I bought a copy of A Moveable Feast in the bookstore downstairs. Kate bought a beautiful red coat as well.





On the beautiful square at the top of the street we bought more 9 Euro beers before another three course feast in another house that Hemingway used to live in. More interesting, though, was it's status as the house where the poet Paul Verlaine departed this mortal coil. Stuffed and thouroughly sozzled we poured down the hill back towards La Republique.