First things first. 'The Dust of Humanity' is what I told my good friend Sarah Cronk I’d call this blog, after last week’s ‘deep and meaningful’ thespian experience. Not much relevance to what I’m planning on writing about, but it sounds good right? And a promise is a promise.
Now to the real meaty stuff. Mincemeat, as it happens. My latest attempt to appear down with the kids by proved a spectacular failure this morning when I proudly offered up a tin of Mr Kipling’s finest mince pies at the end of my lesson, brought (again by Sarah Cronk) all the way from Tesco, England, and painstakingly cut into exact quarters so as to avoid disagreements on who had the biggest piece. This was far from my biggest problem. They say food is the way to the heart, however my faith in the truth of this theory was severely shaken when witnessing thirty fifteen year olds running to the bin and spitting ferociously...Merry Christmas guys...
Despite this minor setback, I’m feeling rather festive. Having just packed for Disneyland Paris, I’m sitting with a hot chocolate bopping along to ‘It’s a Small World’ and trying to contain my excitement for the coming few days. The anticipation reached new levels yesterday when my fellow English assistants and I actually spent an entire evening making customised Disneyland t-shirts, complete with the slogan ‘Good Girls go to Heaven, Bad Girls go to Disneyland’ (I wonder who’s idea that was...) and individual nicknames. And so it is that tomorrow night; J-Dawg, Dino, Asen-tial, Ley-tex and Dove-step (tagline: ‘Call me CinderELLA, not CruELLA’) will be heading off on a magical journey to celebrate the Christmas season in style. If Asena’s ‘I’ll make dreams come true’ slogan doesn’t get us kicked out for inappropriate behaviour, that is.
Last weekend, I headed to central Paris to visit some Southampton buds; Charlotte Osbourne, Ruth Walker and Sylvia Middup, and we had a fab time checking out the Christmas markets at La Défense and along the Champs-Elysees, spotting some bargain 1 euro chocolate-covered marshmallows as well as some extremely bizarre (but quite cool) gift ideas, such as a kit for making candles out of water, food colouring and cooking oil, an entire stall dedicated to amber-coloured jewellery, and a collection of cuddly toy gingerbread men. Despite missing my train and having to wait three hours for the next one, I had an absolutely lovely weekend. And I got to watch ‘Enchanted’ in bed on Saturday night. Who needs Parisian nightlife with a treat like that!
J
Following that theme, a friend of mine recently read the following quote in ‘Be’ magazine: ‘Que faire pour rigoler un samedi soir au Havre? Légalement? Pas grand-chose’. Or in other words, ‘what is there to do that’s fun on Saturday night in Le Havre? Legally? Not a lot’. As my previous blogs have shown, Le Havre is underestimated when it comes to the clubbing scene. Granted, it is a complete ghost town most nights (and days) of the week, but what it comes down to is knowing where to look. I’ll tell you where not to look- ‘Le Club’. Not that I’ve ever been there, but I pass it on the bus almost every day, and each time am notably thankful that my motivation for finding a good night out has not yet reached such dire levels. Not much is given away from the name, but all that needs to be seen are the blacked out windows and loopy white handwriting proclaiming its dubious status as a ‘club privé’ for one to assess the nature of such an establishment. So ‘privé’, in fact, that I even failed to find a picture on Google Images. Think I’ll stick to faux-Edith Piaf and her belting karaoke.
Le Havre really does have an appalling reputation. The town is permanently war torn in some way; whether from real war carnage or the not-so-simple construction of a tramway. The weather is consistently terrible, which leaves me to wonder whether the fact there is a beach there is some kind of other-worldly joke. The oldies hack up a phlegmy-sounding ‘bahhhh’ before every single sentence, and the youth are well-known as hoodie-wearing yobs (Kent, anyone?) whose idea of a merry night out is slashing the tyres of all the ‘midnight’ (alias, 22.15) buses or 3am moped drag-racing right outside my window. Rockers. And yet, rather like with an ugly child, I will defend Le Havre to the last. I’ve met some amazing people, the view from the cliffs at Sainte-Addresse is breathtaking when the sun sets, and the concrete giant which is the Hotel de Ville actually looks rather pretty all lit up at night.
Then again, ‘tis the season to be jolly.
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