Tuesday, October 19, 2004

Don’t call me madame

Word Count: 30,070 (skiving over weekend)

Age. Don’t believe the hype. It sucks. This weekend I went for a romantic break in Nice on the Cote d’Azur with the bloke. Apart from the gorgeousness of the Belle Epoque buildings, the menus, the turquoise sea, I was pre-occupied by two things:

A: How fat I feel compared to Frenchwomen
B: How old I feel compared to the last time I was in Nice

Point A: how do they do it? Cheese and patisserie and wine and even the vegetables (oh, aubergine, you oil-soaking spongey delight) are all a disaster for the women who wants to me mince. And yes I know they spend most of their take-home pay on anti-cellulite creams, but they don’t work…

Point B: last time I was here, Inter-railing with a boyfriend, was fifteen years ago. I was flakier and slimmer and I was definitely a mademoiselle. This time, universally, I was a madame. No wedding ring or anything, but I am now worthy of respect. I feel like a scary Les Dawson lookalike with a post-menopause moustache and a Yorkshire Terrier in her Louis Vuitton bag. Oh gawd. How much worse this must be for French women, the day when that happens for the first time…

Apart from that, we stayed in a far nicer hotel than the place I stayed in last time (when I was raving about what good value our accommodation and boyf of the moment said ‘ah so you didn’t see the cockroaches then. One of the benefits of extreme short-sight).

Actually, I also spent a few childhood holidays on the French coast, including several in Eurocamps (I hate camping but the swimming pools were lovely) and around Menton, Ventimiglia etc, so this area is close to my heart. And it was much better for vegetarians than I expected, thanks to the Italian influence…

Came home to discover I have to fill in impossible American tax form. Oh the glamour. Right, time to write…


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