Monday, 22 November 2010

Ecouter aux portes

Ah Paris, the city of love. The place is jammed to the rafters with people smooching, holding hands and gazing into each other's eyes. Bless their little Parisian cotton-socks (isn't the image of tiny, Parisian-cotton-socks totally cute?!). This was the perfect setting for Alana Banana to get up to her old tricks. The day was Monday and the name of the game was 'eavesdropping' (it was raining, we were sat in a cafe, what else was there to do?!). However, the sneaky old Parisians managed to get one over on Alana Banana with their French-speaking lark. So there I was, consoling myself with an Irish Coffee (which, for the record, was all 'Irish' and very little 'coffee') and suddenly it dawned on me, the people next to me were speaking English! English! Luckily for me, they clearly were French so they had the awesome French-English accent going on (in case I wanted to pretend in my head that they were actually speaking French and by some beautiful, miracle I was able to understand them).

First, let me set the scene. A man in his late twenties is sat at a table with a young, beautiful, woman. They are both drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes like all the cool kids do. There is clearly chemistry, at one point their hands touch, the atmosphere is electric (well, not really, but let's pretend!). Now before you feel all happy inside, you should know that the whooooooooole time he was with this lady, he was complaining about his actual girlfriend. Shock horror! Naughty Parisian. Complaining about your girlfriend whilst flirting with another lady! What followed from this moment, was some absolute conversational gold (make sure you put on a beautiful French-English accent in your head!)... Imagine, he's been complaining for a good twenty minutes and the girl he's with has barely said a word (though she hung on every single word, she clearly fancied the sap) when he comes out with this:

"I don't even work on my music anymore. I come home from work and there is no food in the fridge and I go up to the bedroom and she is drunk and the room is full of smoke and I think to myself 'I can't write music under these conditions'!"

Really? You can't write music because your fridge is empty and your girlfriend is so sick of your complaining she's in bed drunk right now? If you ask me, that sounds like the start of a brilliant song!

"Hello Whiskey, my old friend."

The Eiffel Tower from within the shelter of Jade's
favourite mode of transport, the Batobus.

Our Parisian home!

The classic Paris shot.

Au revoir!

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