Only now I see grey-blue-purple. as I make a note to myself about this, the grey purple has transformed itself into green and yellow grey. Jesus, woman, make up your mind!

My counter revolution: be ugly.

In France I once lived in a 45 000 inhabitants sleepy French town, south west, at the foot hills of the Pyrénées, not far from Spain, from renowned posh Biarritz and Toulouse .

Well, for such a little town with nothing to do daytime or night time, women are adamant at dressing killer fashion: tall leather boots that make them look like horse riders, long black and brown fur coats, glittery jewels, everything they wear is no older than a week, and the hair is painfully accurate. indeed, it is long fringe fashion - alas for me, I like having a fringe, but a messy one, apparently I came back from Britain looking very English, a local at the bar told me - and all females from 12 to 50 years old have dark long fringes just cropped above black eyes (in such a remote place, it is amazing how easy it is to spot the local anatomical print: people look very similar in hair and bone structure) with goth-like make up.

You' d think that as a Paris born woman who' s also lived in London, and wasted 15 years in the highly competing world of goth nightclubs with its insecure fashion followers, I would make it a point to look off limits, or at least make an effort .wearing the bleach blond "French bob" wig again(there is nothing French about the bob, by the way), the laced little low waist corset  the suspenders and opaque white hold up tights, and walk proud in this 18h century French Royal hooker style very much adored outfit, in the streets, NO! you'd get stoned by the locals -if you're lucky- after 1 minute of this brave but suicidal live street performance.

I have been wondering what was the motivation for all these ladies in shiny leather boots and full make up at any hour of the day, looking like they're heading for the Festival de Cannes, to go to such trouble looking bright and sexy when there is not half of a man in town I would feel like bedding, even if I was injected with an overdose of viagra.

No male goal, and no night life either. and no, they dont do wine orgies at home, I wished. So that's it. the never ending French (or Mediterranean) absurdity in an average French woman' s life: parading pretty, with no reward at night or at week ends other than arousing Their man's desire . oh, sweet jesus. the tyrany of seduction, of beauty.

I have found a way of surviving this lunacy. I go every week to the cinema in my pyjamas. Of course, I still wear a jacket over the top, but I find I get some unexpected pleasure in having freshly showered couples standing behind me in the queue glaring at my green pyjama trousers. I know that from here, it can only get better for me, as next week I will go wearing my slippers too.

 I cant wait til next week!

I still dont get it, though, when a man stares hard into my eyes , and for quite some lenght of time too, in the street, since I try hard to let myself go and I start looking like my gran now. I do say something when the heavy boxes and shopping bags I am carrying start falling, and the bloke is still eyeing my legs, looking back as he is walking. I remind him he can help, not just fkxxx stare.

the Good Hairdresser

Did I tell you, among other whining, about the provincial French business talent?

The appointment was to be the week after, but I wanted to drop by at the hairdresser, with my Japanese friend, to ask how much a bleach blond head would cost. Might as well have the cut and the new hair colour done at the same time. I have dark brown hair. The hairdresser just opened her salon two months ago, she is young and trendy (that's why I chose her for it, she ought to be wilder than the other hairdressers used to paint housewives' hair with yellow stripes: the big fashion here - awful).

My whim was to get this real class lady's hair (Blondie):

She tells me while shampooing her client "No. It is not possible. Dark brown is your natural colour, isnt' it? There would be too much damage, because the bleaching 'd have to be extreme and it won't suit you anyway".

There was a lot to comment on, in this reply. I chose to make it clear that I was determined to do it and knew about the damage "dont assume I dont know about hair colouring, I had pink and purple hair for many years ...I want to have bleached hair, and am no talking about yellow haircolour but real scandinavian look". The wind could have been blowing while I talked as she didnt seem to have heard me at all and went on " You wont feel better about yourself by changing your look".

O, beauty. That sentence summed up the marvellous backward thinking I had decided a decade ago to say goodbye to, for good. Had I been remembering another France, during all those years spent abroad and longing for a return to my spiritually beautiful homeland? Had I deleted these many typical experiences from my memories?

Anyway, appointment cancelled. That was to be on my birthday and you dont want to have a 22 year old sadist ruining the last bits of optimism you had in you, on your birthday, as well as dying your hair yellow.

Mr the President

I belong to a community art group you may not have heard of yet

I pause.
O yes:

along this letter you willl very probably have received the thousands petitions (note to myself: start petitioning soon in toulouse)

Pause again. right, basically the message here is:

So HOPEFULLY, hopefully,

French music will be banned.

First of all, all non rock music.

all french bred docile smiling pretty female singers who add 5 minutes of ahhh and ahhiee ou at the end of their pleading lines.

all boring male singers who sing about what-the-fuck-do-we-care-pretty ladies or about their own bad temper; what do we care. someone tells me.

all rap, hip hop, and other national disasters.

and I know she isnt French but she is doing my head in...Celine Dion HAS to be banned.

looking through water

Why use punctuation?

dots coma and all that

there is no longer the need for it

there is no punctuation in my life    people are not what they seem   relationships are open-ended questions   A suspended sentence  yes   that's what it is all about

Someday   no doubt   I will use punctuation   again   A full dot   a coma   maybe a bracket or even   yes lets be wild   a hyphen

And I will decide what is being said   I will drive these nonsense relationships MY way

ecstasy

my skull is being lifted, a thrill travels trough my skin

you take me up there and keep me

waiting

here

lifted

suspended

in ecstasy

but there is more to come

a second wave of pleasure

and ravishing shock

overpowers me

unable to move even my face

my hands

my heart and my breathing have stopped a while ago

but there is more

to come

a third wave of pleasure

of spiritual awakening

oooh

I just know you as White Rose Movement song number six, I must find your title.

and in the car

 I scream in ecstasy

google it

select

copy

paste

select

copy

paste

select

copy

paste

O bugger

I have pasted over 7 men in my bedroom

it is getting so crowded here that we are now leaning against the wall  and it feels like we are taking the tube.

I need two more...nope, I'm NOT deleting any, I take binge boy shopping very seriously.

try and match these associations

it is about foreign languages

sex will come right after this so scroll down the page if you re just looking for sx

a) French

b) Hungarian

c) German

d)Italian

e)English

match:

1 - like you ve drunk expressos all day. for about 4 hours you are re examining why you ever doubted about your social talents: you ARE the best company someone could ever dream of having, dazzling looks and cracking jokes, look, you are even wearing mesmerizing shoes! time is too slow for you, you are close to flying, and kissing and getting creative, and talking and talking ....It is at the 5th hour of expresso digestion that the Cinderella’ spell gets broken. You feel edgy. shaky. stressed. annoyed. everybody seems to do their best to speak too loud and, omg, those laughing teens right beside you on the bus you swear you could just ...

2 - like you are diving your hands in the hot bath to stir and mix the bath oil you bought from the Posh Rip You Off Heath Fancy Shop, all organic and exotic. but the sensuous indecent jasmine and orange essential oil breaks up into a thousand little bubbles that just wont disintegrate and blend with the hot water. you insist. you mix, you whisk, you splash, faster, faster, ...sod it, you decide, I will have my bath anyway. now. you get yourself out of the bath 10 minutes later like a fast forward brutal birthing, with pricks all along the back of your thighs and an inflammed bum. so much for the wild love night that was planned.

3 - like you were wearing your most beloved top on when you feel welcro-ed -caught in- to the wall rough surface: those bloody small plaster spikes got your see-through black top and there are holes now and threads hanging down .. rough rough wall.

4 - like you are juggling with pink fluffy fur balls. it is hard for a while to catch them but it gets addictive and o so fresh and funny

5 - like you ’re diving into a hot bubbling lake at night and there is underwater kung fu music. weird, but I’m definitely coming back.

well, that s what these languages sound like for me after hearing them during the whole day.

SX.

I think every woman over 30 should get a young chap for a free trial night for each birthday, and every 40 something woman should get two, and every 50 something woman should...well, get as many as she can.

A woman reaches her sexual (and self confidence) peak at 35-40 on average, a man, it is said, at 20. It is science. so why is society all twisted and has it the other way round: old men with underaged ladies?? revolting.

 (answers:
1 - Italian
2 - French
3 - German
4 - Englsih
5 - Hungarian)

yin yang and water

opposite forces head butting each other

yin giving yang a goog kicking and some well-aimed punches (girl power)

my life

paradoxes, excess, selective random pattern. makes no sense, you say? well, welcome, this is my journey through the mess we call Life

an absurd dream, the best joke ever, Life

o I am not sobbing, o no, no gloom here, no need to be afraid, would you mind coming back please and not turning your back to me when I am talking to you! how rude

so I was saying, the joke of yin & yang yes & no surely maybe started

when I was 13

13 years old: breasts starting to grow.

O a Marmaid, at least a Goddess I was to become, promises promises

a normal girl would have been good enough

but no, after 10 month of normal puberty magic, breasts said "no" and I was endowed with the body of a 17 year old boy...until I eventually grow old and grey and noone wonders anymore which sex I really belong to.

yin yang I love the sun the light not wearing much and feeling the touch of sun on my skin, winter cold is my worst enemy yet my heart stayed up north in the foggy wet country and I dream of Scandinavian nights

yin yang

excess and nothingness excess and celibacy and dreams of having a new lover for each new moon

other Scorpios told me "you will be addicted to sex, like us, it is in your blood, you are a Scorpio" (+ ascendant Scoprio; am fucking doomed) well I feel I am more the reincarnation of a mystical visionnary nun - save the visions, still waiting for them, mind you the cidar does bring back past life images - celibacy and cannibalism, thats more like it. No that was silly.

Celibacy Excess broken only by nights of forbidden mute & mutual worshipping . worshipping

in the convent's cold dark bathroom

pleasing, pleading, adore me.

Am not addicted to sex

I hardly know what it means anyway I have always needed to be re explained what the whole fuss is about and then

as I hear about the mecanics of sex

it comes as a shock

QUOI? you wanna do WHAT to ME?

gross, obscene, horrifying, totally out of context

Hors de question

who was the alcoholic perv who designed the Sex business, bet you it was a man, had to be . Men getting off on visuals and women on feeling they live something out of the ordinary. Images here and concepts and hopes over there. Pictures versus cinéma.

totally absurd, laughable even, all this panting rubbing rubbing o so much exercise and aerobics to do, while you have to keep a serious and even more annoying, a sexy face - come on.

you're starting to weight terribly HEAVY on me anyway get the hell out of here

Japanese say men are dogs and women are cats

cats like a clean cosy warm bed to themselves, they dont like being bounced about,

So dont disturb me, I am traveling light with eyes shut while enjoying the hot bed under my naked body

I may be Scorpio but I love my comfort more than anything else and if you hope to invade me it better happen in a state of semi consciousness so that when I wake up

I am straight UP THERE moaning in heaven

cause am not taking the stairs

no, a cool, glam, retro Art Nouveau style Elevator for me

am not climbing any stairs.

I think I dont like to be awake

all pleasant all delightful all ravishing things are in the underwater narcotic kingdom

no gravity, moving my arms makes me slide and float, turn around and drift

well to me, happiness laughter sex and love are:

a motionless, an effortless swim

the caress of water on my body

drifting

Mother's Womb, you are probably my ultimate love

they got me

I forgot that part of the mid-life crisis ride is you getting fired from your job

but Kevin Spacey did it royal : filed a sexual harassment case against his boss and got some 300 000 dollars package.

I got nothing.

well, I got a man.

good looking, tattooed, soft and mad in bed, Que Demande le Peuple?

o and funny and he has this teenager s Anger, like he threw all the food on a supermarket's floor because its date had gone beyond its sale-by-date. o, and he opened his car window and shouted abuse at the driver of a massive polluting car because the guy had thrown some litter onto the pavement. isnt that impressive? (ok, in a 13 years old kind of way. but).
 
yea, we play Natural Born Killers on our lunch break. well, we did cause since 2 pm I am natural jobless.

still, life is staring at me and is asking "So. What re you gonna do with your life now? move onto another lame job that only students want?"

maybe I will.

maybe this is the secret to eternal youth and happiness. refuse ambition. be ambitious at 20 and give it all away past 30. to start it all over again.
 

Wait! Noel Fielding (the bee u ty Ful punk comedian) will find me, and with his mates we will start a new tv comedy and we will be dead famous and a smile will be permanently tattooed on our face.

Noel if you read this, dont marry Dee (although I bow in devotion to master Robots in Disguise), try me instead! just for one day and one night. ok, just for one day. ok, what about just going for a coffee? Na? tea? water? well go fuck yourself arrogant twart!

ah non mais.

(Noel F.: I was just kidding)

spiritual high:

because I need so much more

the best liquor

on shelf

has

to be

you.

hang over. dizziness . swirling confused thoughts . . cant stay awake for too long . I am going back . want it again . cant stay out of the water for too long . have lost all speech ability .

the trick is

to enjoy the music you usually hate, putting your whole heart in it

waving arms jumping high and fast

losing any trace of intellectual activity

then when your music comes

it is christmas all over again and you 're 11, mum said it is ok to stay up late and dance through the night

the trick is

to yell louder each time

for this i play my favourite song too loud for safe driving

and when she shouts her raw falling and rising passion,

exasperation

I scream louder and louder

it never fails, going mad makes the face muscles go numb, kind of high actually

as if face, hair and skull, feet, ankles and arms were puppet body parts

it takes you so high

you dont come down for at least a few hours following the flight

a blissful simpleton you are, thanksful and content

reality is a painting emerging before your eyes, the sky, the clouds, the light, the air, they merge in and out

the trick is

to get your boss

to become your lover

and your lover

your handyman, your housework consultant and o thanks goddess,

your cook

must teach him

not to argue and to listen patiently

must teach him

the art of blissful surrender

how strange it is to work in the same office than your lover.
we texted dirty exciting almost romantic messages to each other the whole day. i could see him reading the texts as I sent them. big smiles on his face. quite a good writer he is actually.

The day after was similar. honestly, this could have been the last day of my life and I would have said "thank you god" cause even if i wasnt actually in love it was dead exciting dead forbidden and dead cool. and he was dead awesome. always saying the one thing that called to mind some crucial detail from the night before, while others were oblivious to everything. dear dirty bad boy.

feeling so so so young famous and wanted by the whole world, I did

but when he kneeled down next to the woman he had previously confessed finding really attractive...and there in the office, took a slow deep voice with her, right next to my desk, i suddenly stopped finding him cute! bastard! already moving on, and right in front of me!

the best was to come

He texted me if I fancied a night together after his concert that day

I replied in a rush, way too happy, a big YES (still have to learn about flirty text rules: wait!) one single evening without the hint of unpredictable joy became a unthinkable.

I wanted to EAT THE WORLD, drive with blasting White Stripes music through Toulouse - which am doing anyway, didnt wait for him to do that!

dead glam and wanted

one man worships your body in bed and it is like all men want you! ah, that is real feel good therapy am telling you

the drug addict pretty dude became an open window for many more wild forbidden fun nights to come, like running drunken and stoned in Toulouse streets babbling nonsense

but

I made myself pretty o so dead glam that night,a ceremonial preparation of Night-no-2-with-J.; body, hair and make up. down to the shoes. I mean wearing shoes in my own flat driving my downstairs neighbour up the wall.every passing minute adding more bubbles in my belly.
he even texted me he couldnt wait

then

as I called him at about midnight after 2 hours of projecting on the walls and ceilings of my flat various extreme scenes that explored his lateness and illustrated his soon-to-come death , he answered in an angry voice: "am tired, going home to sleep - talk to you later bye!"

am telling you

just what i needed to go 100% lesbian from now and

if I touch a french man again

god help him

I only hope on his coming trekking in the African desert he gets kidnapped by the local Taliban and spends many a nights in a dark place gagged and tied up, replaying every second of the fucking lucky times he had in Toulouse!

cant wait for tomorrow!

we women want two one-night-stands, not just one, like you bastards.

If I only stick to one it is because it was a BIG mistake in the first place! and if it clearly wasnt a mistake (as for me it is really-good or not-at-all, rarely in the middle) then of course there is a second night.

Thats why J. you are an insult to the female spirit and you are gonna pay for it

1) am gonna print those pics I took of you naked in my bed and stick them on the white board in the office tomorrow with some info for other potential targets of yours

2) dont you snob me tomorrow cause you dont know me, Hell Has No Furry Like A Woman Scorned

3) just what I needed to move onto my fav o so young pretty italian with blue eyes boy! easy, he is sitting daily right in front of me in the office and his eyes seem to rest on one place only : me me me! so Ab Fav

4) you want me you know it and you will break eventually and plead on your knees so save me the tv soap opera and say it right: you re sorry and you have to have another night with me

5) if for some incomprehensible irrational surreal reason you found you preferred to give it a break and enjoy your memories of us instead of living another night like it was the last night we were alive, I cant even think of what to tell your mom because you are in hospital

6) on a sober note, avoid texting all day "you re my Fav" "You are so sexy" "sweet hot kisses everywhere" if it is to embody with perfection the French Pig a few hours later shouting at me!!

Ah non mais..

talk about a fight.

I decided I was desperate enough for human fusion with a pretty dude so I agreed to meet the macho overconfident but o so attractive boss about 7 years younger than me...for a drink at the pub. when I agreed I thought he meant us and the rest of the office crowd, in fact he meant just US.

well I tried to put my distrust of the sex obsessed overconfident boss aside and thought "go for it girl, he is so handsome".

he arrived nearly an hour late to our meeting, having texted me at some point saying he had been stopped and searched by the police...well it did put pepper in my libido and I started to like-fancy him a bit more-despite the delay, cause in real honesty, I didnt care much for his peronna!

the evening surprised me so much. we actually talked for 4 hours, he entertained me, was funny, honest, cute, well mannered and listened to all my stories. the restaurant was followed by a bar and at one critical point he mentionned having a gay relationship in the past, I mean a long term realtionship and that made Bang in my head and stomach. Suddenly J. got 10 more points in my EuroSexVision, he was way up the list, how cool, I definitely wanted to bed him, call me perv or superficial. it was as if he opened a totally new dimension to his personna.

it wasnt going very far sex/flirt-wise with J. in the bar so feeling that the end of the night was close and I wasnt mentally prepared for sleeping on my own so I lied and told him I was too drunk to drive home -ah! he had to drive me to my place to ensure my safety. sweet lies!

why should I feel bad about manipulating a macho pretty guy to get him into my bedroom?!

well, only slept one hour that night. was damn good. his skin made me feel like I was ice skating, had goose bumps all over for many hours.

plenty fish round!

Fountain I will never drink your water. for 15 years I stick to principles and live like a Jeovahs Witness a pure life (organic food, no hair dye, judge everybody round me for being corrupted and superficial). so French and so Cold Analytical, I am RIGHT, and about everything. All mind, no heart, all adult.

then one day I just stuff the very Water i despised down my throat and over abuse it. for the rest of my life. breaking rules. I am PAris Hilton , all party, driving with music missing red lights,getting lost, tested by the Police, shopping and enjoying the office gossip: I am a brainless superficial bimbo (except i dont really have the body, nevermind).thats how they see me. o Thank you, genuinely.

Was a model wife for years

ate organic food

wanted to adopt all Laos orphans and have a big Anjelina Jolie style family (but where is Brad??)

lived life through a politically correct lens: wooden organic house in Cornwal. reproachless life. no car, have always hated cars: noisy ugly dangerous polluting.

then BAM

people die round you, people leave you you re fucking alone

you think the rest of my life is about to get even more boring than the first half

give me the pistol now

and before you know it

you ve become Kevin Spacey in American Beauty flirting with same sex teenagers and buying dope from them

I quite enjoy my mid life crisis. I hope I ll get a new one every 5 years from now on cause I ve never felt so fucking alive. drinking in a pub ends up in me being almost barred from it as I insist on paying the Australian waiter (NOT my style, all muscles but here you are again, ultimate kicks: go for the ones who are NOT your type and you feel you are 13 again and everything to discover, cramps of excitement in the stomach) with my body, did eye-sex with about 5 different blokes. They all left unconvinced but hey,

lets be positive

they all considered me at one point in the night! I exist.

Vickie's Diary. 4th January.

Right.

I drank only one coffee this morning, but I feel like I drank about 5. I am a mess, scattered mind and edgy movements, I keep bumping in furnitures, door corners, and making everything fall. That must be my finest Tourette-Alzeihmer performance ever in the office. I have to ask people to repeat everything they say and the third time they do so, I nod, pretending it went through but the plain truth is, I 'm not here. I've stopped understanding French, English or anything else. I didn't sleep more than 4 hours, I was so excited and scared all night. A secret photo shoot of Mr. De Jung!

Maybe the idea of starting with my mobile phone, thinking its size was an advantage for discretion, wasnt Ze best... 

He speed-walked down the stairs, still soundless, and there! Gotcha! I pointed the phone at him, hidden a bit by the big plant, and pressed "ok".

And it went "TCHHHUWWA", the old-effect camera release shutter thing, you know. And in the quiet morning office, it just sounded like the fire alarm. I froze. He stopped dead in his feet, and turned around:

"Are you taking a picture of me?"

Vickie's Diary. 3rd January 2009

God I would do anything. Anything to see him again. Soon. I've got to see him as soon as possible, or I am going to go mad.

I pick the phone up and dial my boss' direct line. My heart is pounding and I've got sweaty hands, calling my boss feels like calling him.

I'll think up of a reason to… "Hello! Hello Jean, it's Vickie calling". God there is this awful pause during which I am sure he is going to put the phone down.

"Good morning Vickie. Everything alright?"

"Yes! Absolutely fine! You know, I'm working on a book, researching something that has always interested me and…I was wondering, would there be any possibility at all I could come and say, do some volunteering work? You know, I would keep off everybody's way and be very discreet and …"

"Actually there is something I'd like to talk to you about, Vickie, but I'm not sure you would say yes".

O god. O please. Say it. Say it. Say it. Let me come back.

"Would you like to come into my office tomorrow at 10?"

Yes! I'm back! Back into Stefan De Jung's world!

4th January 2009

I've done my hair with the hot irons, I am wearing my special lucky heels, I'm feeling like on my Baccalauréat (A Level) day. I'll say yes to anything he suggests, as long as I'm back.

10:30:            I'm leaving Jean Lartigue's office not quite sure what to think. Ok. I'm back, but I am walking towards the Reception area, going behind the Reception counter, and sit down where the Receptionist usually sits. I am a Receptionist. Not a journalist anymore. This was the offer. And I accepted.

O well. There is no stupid job and pride only gets you hurt in the end so I'll be philosophical.

11:55:            I've got no bloody clue how to issue special visit badges, even if I've been shown twice how to do it, actually doing it doesn't quite resemble anything in my training.

12: 40:           Where the hell is he? He usually leaves by 12.20 and there still is his Fiat in the car park so he can't have left yet.

Eh! Hold on, I've got a genius idea! Check this out: the Reception computer is a security pc so I'm going on his personal file, and ta-da-da! O God, there's even a picture of him. I click on it and it spreads to the whole screen. He looks stunning. He is staring right into my eyes. My stomach gives a flip, I am shaking slightly as I open my mobile phone and points it at the screen. CLICK. Stefan De Jung, I've got your picture now. You look fab...

Right, useful info. I click on "information" and…ok: address: 15 Rue Jules de Gêpes. Noted. Date of Birth: 06.10.1979. What star sign is that? Does it get on with scorpios? 1979? Gosh, he's a baby, if anything should happen between him and I, I'll be the old one. Not too happy about that. Place of Birth: Tjorg. Where the hell is that? I open my diary's map and look closely at the map of Norway. That town doesn't even exist. And he renewed his passport there too, meaning he's still got strong family links in Norway otherwise why would a Norwegian man living in France need to travel all the way to Norway to get a new passport a few months ago? Right. Family. Probably a lake-side château and a whole village wearing his family name…yes, look for "De Jung" on the map actually, you might find something, I tell myself. No, nothing. Shame it doesn't say what studies he did and what perfume he likes and if he is in love with the woman I saw him with at the cinema, and what his music tastes are and if he has a good sense of humour.

12:55:            What is he doing now? I'm walking in the entrance hall peeling a Clementine, thinking every second it is he, walking down the stairs. I can't sit down, I can't concentrate.

13:05:            Well. I might sit down, open my book, read and start relaxing. He isn't going to go out for lunch now, it's too late. Suddenly my heart jumps. Of course! He's having lunch in his office, a sandwich or something. For the first time. Because. Because he's cancelled his lunch with his "girlfriend". He has splited up with her, for me. He knew I was coming back. O god, I'm feeling jumpy gain.

14:15:            right, this is really boring. I'm slouched on the chair, almost in a horizontal position, with books, magazine, cups of coffee, perfume and biscuits all scattered on my desk. I've got two body positions since I started this job: slouched back moulded to the contours of the chair, or slumped forward, my whole body like an arch over the desk with my face in my hands…I haven't had an upright straight back for hours.

The phone is ringing. It says "security office" on it. O bugger off! Leave me alone, can't you see I'm busy? Right, just to drive me insane, now there are organized gangs of visitors ringing the main door's bell and I have to press the door release switch each bloody single time. There isn't five minutes of peace. Someone is always coming up and…Katie Pullman. The last person on earth I want to see.

And she gives me a little "Ah!", delighted with the surprise of seeing me behind the Reception Desk. I'm not looking at her, she can forget about me acknowledging her and being polite, I bend down on the floor pretending I'm looking for something. She'll think I've just come to the Reception to look for something and that I'm back in business writing articles.

15:20:            Knocking on the door. Faces up against the window trying to peer inside, people have the nerve to gesture at me. What? What do you want from me again? I didn't think the Reception could get so busy. I've just had 30 minutes of peace when I could read my book but now it is chaos again. Gosh, I wish those faces could just go away. Stop persecuting me and get a life.

15:30:            just as I was deeply engrossed in my reading – he never makes any sound at all when he walks down the stairs, spooky – he appears before my eyes. O God. I'm going to die now.

He actually somehow – I don't know anymore because I've stopped looking at him and I'm just looking at the desk, totally terrorized – hovers around.

O please.

He comes towards me, so beautifully dressed by the way, and as I realize he is going to talk to me FOR THE FIRST TIME, simultaneously thinking he does look like a painting, a Dutch painting (or Scandinavian, the ones with fair hair people and rosy cheeks and immaculate fine skin) I've stopped breathing.

"Errr…Bonrjour. Seraitt-il possibl de ouvrirrr mon burreau sil vou plaite? »

O My God. I've been waiting my entire life for him to ask me to open his office.

He is talking slowly, politely and has the sexiest most amazing Scandinavian, or English as a matter of fact, accent I've ever heard. He doesn't speak French like a French man! So exotic! And his sentence is gently monotonous, some soft under-stated self-restraint. Respect. It's all about the Northen sense of respect. Not like the way French people shout and exaggerate every syllable, punching every word in case you haven't understood the meaning.

I'm beside myself. "Bien sûr. Aucun problème. »

« Aucun problème. »

God, perfect, now I cant stop repeating every word I say.

"It's because my colleague shut it earlier on and…"

"Aucun problème" I reply. Can I say anything else? What's wrong with me?

We walk up the stairs side by side. "which offiz is it?" I courageously try. Gosh my English sounds all squashed, I'm overloaded with too many emotions. I so want to talk to him in English! Show him!

He seems puzzled, so I ask the same question in French. He says "1030" and we arrive on the landing and I kind of follow him and enjoy every half second of this miracle. He seems unsure of where his actual office is. Weird. Then there it is, too soon, and I turn the key and hope he doesn't notice my shaking.

And that's it. Look up at him in the eyes, I know I may never have another chance so close to him ever again, and say "Voilà." And he thanks me, with that expressionless neutral, business-like face only Northen people have the secret of…And I walk away. I open the stairs' door and I collapse on the wall.

My hands are wet, my heart is loud in my chest, my breathing is irregular and my face is hot.

I can't do that every day or I'll just die prematurely.

O he is beautiful, in every little movement, every word, every blink…

O this is agony. Sitting here waiting for Charming Prince to come and go just to catch a glimpse of him. I suddenly feel like I am 12. This cannot carry on. I've got to do something about it. Sabotage or succeed, but end the agony.

17:14:                      I've been invited to the "pot" or in-office party for a leaving colleague, I don't even know the name of.

This is it. I'm grabbing one glass of champagne. Two. I have a third one and a glass of sherry in the corridor.

I'm babbling nonsensical words and nod in agreement with a Spanish colleague.

Where is he?

17:35:                      I think I m drunk. I just think I am because I did the most forbidden thing. I dialled his office number, aware of my flaming hot cheeks (gosh I must look like a beetroot) and waited in the most excruciating excited joy ever for him to pick up the phone and he did! He said "Hello, De Jung's Office" and I panicked and put the phone down!

Thanks god this was anonymous and he will never know it was me…

My phone rings. Horror. It says "De Jung" on it. O no. I realize my call must have come up with "Reception" written on the screen…

"Yes?"

"Err...sorry but I think you just tried to call me." Self-control and cool he is, always.

"No. Ok, yes. We are testing phones, we are doing a security test. Your phone seems to be working ok. Have you noticed any problem with it?" - Where did I get this natural lying talent?

"Err...no."

"Right. thank you for calling me back. Good evening"


 

God I've totally fucked up, haven't I?

I'm driving home and playing today's madness in my mind. I'm coming to a conclusion. I need to be serious from now on.

I've reached a decision stage. Let's play it safe. Be professional. Just very quickly and discreetly take a few pics of him and, o god, even a movie of him walking and everything.

And live on this, it will be my Stefan De Jung's memorablia.

bring the camera tomorrow.

I'm sober with my new honest and mature resolutions and driving home singing the, yes again, Ting Tings happy melodies.

(ok, when I mean Scandinavian painting glamour, I mean it. This is by Hugo Salmson, I love this painter's work and the peasant girl could be an ancestral sister of Stefan)

Vickie's Diary. 30th December

O God. I think I'm in love.

I went to the cinema in town today with a colleague – in fact, the only colleague who has stood by me since the incident, the day my boss told me to not bother coming to work and instead stay at home for two months – and guess who I saw buying jelly beans and popcorns, all décontracté?

Him.

Stefan.

Stefan De Jung.

O my God.

There is no doubt about it now, it's not a crush I'm having, it is an acute psychotic obsession.

Still unaware of him, I was stamping my way through the crowd with my masculine laugh, in cascading asymmetrical steps that accelerate into a final crashing on the sweets and drinks counter. I'm readjusting my black mini skirt and my satin bra so that it is visible, and am about to shout some joke at the young man serving customers when…

Here He is. Jean-Lacroix-Dior-Vivian-Westwood in the flesh.

A moving and thinking art masterpiece.

The same sideway scanner eyes, same angel face, the same elegance that makes me, in comparison with him, look like an overweight drunken Russian car park security guard.

And he gives me the look, that discreet but target-defined look. Ooooh..I am melting down and heating up, suddenly stripped off 30 odd years of self-confidence. He is so beautiful, so unique, so gentleman-like, so in control with his environment, with smooth movements, with…

Hang on a minute.

WHAT'S-THAT-WOMAN-DOING-TALKING-TO-HIM-IN-HIS-EAR?

I spend the next hour and a half looking in their direction – god, it hurts just to think it, the plural form – in the dark cinema room. I'm totally missing the film, which is now just a sequence of noisy action scenes with strangers I don't even want to look at, colliding with each other.

He's got a girlfriend.

He's got a wife.

Liar.

Cheater.

Pretending to be gay, parading in his green mini bloody Fiat, airily climbing stairs like a ballerina, teasing me, seducing me with well-calculated indifference. I bet you he's pretty experienced at that game. I mean, everybody knows Norwegian men are just charm-and-lies on 2 legs. Well drop the attitude, boy, I could tell your lady a few things…like…like, the way you've been silently sending me hot mind messages every single morning and afternoon our eyes met in the office. And that day you wore that gorgeous black suit, just for me.

His peaceful self-confidence, well more exactly: naturalness, the numerous one-hour-and-thirty-five-minutes long lunches, the crisp, fresh and classy clothes he is always wearing, it was screaming the obvious in my face but I didn't hear it: there's another woman.

And all this time I was thinking he was single or some hesitant gay. All this time I was sure in my heart the only living woman he found attractive in the 21^st century was Me. That he had converted to Saint Vickie. That he had financed the building of Saint Vickie Cathedral in Toulouse, that he would fall asleep every night curling up and call me in his soul, getting goose bumps all over as he recalled my face and silhouette, and smiling as my voice came back to him, that…

Faker. Actor. Liar. Cheating on me!

What do I care, I don't even like men anyway.

Vickie's Diary . 29th December 08

09:29:   Waking up.

Ok. It could be worse. For 4 months, before I got the journalist trainee job (and before getting fired) I could never manage to get up before midday so this is not bad at all.

Considering I was up until 2 am last night, I'm doing rather well. Ok, my body is a broken shell, my legs are heavy and refuse to move and my folded arms seem like broken wings under my chest. And I'm loving it. The warmth, the cocoon I am hidding in, the voluptuous contact of the sheets on my skin. This is heaven.

"Miaow". My cat.

"Weedy, shup up!" I shout but my mouth is obstructed by the pillow as I'm lying face down so it comes out as: "Vodoo Sha Da!"

I'm turning on my back and slowly rising to consciousness when Weedy stamps me in the face. "O for Fack' sake!"

10:35:   Ready! Not too bad at all. Ok I agree, maybe I could have gotten up real early like say 7 am and by now have finished a whole Anthology of Poems. But the point is to be positive, not self-castrating.

Today, I will be serious and have about 10 poems written and printed. I'll start in a sec.

I've had breakfast, I'm dressed, I've called three time the M6 Channel Morning TV program's Hotline and yelled each time "Micheal Jackson!" (the game is to recognize a celeb face) into the phone but I was simultaneously brushing my teeth and with the toothpaste foam it got converted into -God, today is Articulation Day - "Maqua Jigsaw!" and I was told by stupid-face man: "O missed again! Sorry Vickie but it is not the name we are expecting, it's not Maqua..Maqua whatever you say. Good luck to you and please do call again another day!"

"Ish not Maqua Jigsaw bud Macky Jagzon!" I am now spitting toohtpaste all over the phone...

O well.

Suddenly my eyes come to rest on the unopened letter from yesterday (I never open any letter after 7pm, to reduce stress risks). It looks like a bank statement. I'm opening it and surpriiiise! It is my bank statement.

What? 8 pages long? Right, they must have changed the format of their statements so that it is easier to read. It is covered in ancient Egyptian script. Numbers, letters, codes, abbreviations, more numbers. 8 pages to decipher. Ok, let' sit down with a cup of tea and do the bloody accounts. That makes me wonder: when was the last time I did my accounts? No idea. I don't think there exist a more tedious and boring punishment in the world. Sigh...I grab the card receipts lining the bottom of my handbag. I display them all in front of me.

Let's focus. This will be a good start of the day. Actually, the more sacrifices I do before getting to real work (the poems!), the more relaxed and free I will feel.

Page one. "Account balance", it says...What? Well, if it starts with a negative "solde" or "balance" how do they expect me to keep on reading! Don't they ever think about people with a fragile heart condition or asthma? What if I just ...died reading my bank statement? I'd sue them!...

Ok, it belongs to the past. There is no point being negative here just for the sake of it. Let's move onto the actual bank transactions.

I'm reading the first line with careful attention, the second line with equal attention, the third one..I pay slightly less attention and I cant help my eyes from just slipping down the rest of the dense black list, my mind secretely wandering off elsewhere like, maybe, maybe they'll have their new collection over at Morgan? Well I doubt so, it's not January yet and I still have to wait for the big sales...

Sigh...I try to focus hard again, back on the data compilation. Gosh, one single entry into the "Credit" column and 8 pages of entries into the "Debit" column. Talk about staying optimistic and not be too affected by Global Economic Recession.

Eh! Hold on! HOLD ON! It's right there in front of my eyes. I cannot believe it. "PAU. Visa payment. 11.11.2008....12 euros". O My God. Someone's used my Visa card.

I haven't been to Pau since...since 2007. So there cant be any doubt, I am the victim of card use fraud. O my god, bet you they took my internet details: password and they are probably buying a yatch, or even buildings in Asia and I'm just sitting here at my desk! Where is the police or whatever phone number?

Come to think of it now, I bet you 100 euros it was those weird people my friend brought along with her at my place that night; my birthday night. I bet you that while I was having a shower in the morning one of them just went through my handbag...or my bank statement, I mean you just need the card number and a name, don't you? God, you cant trust anybody on this planet, you constantly have to suspect everyone, don't you? And then people give you the usual speech "You 're too paranoid and think evil of everyone you meet". Ah! See what's happened now? Just because I was generous and unsuspicious?

PAU. O shit. O good! Of course, PAU stands for "Paul", the chain of bakeries I buy my lunches from! So why can't they spell it whole? Are they trying to save paper or is it to keep you distracted from your finances and get you in the red so as to charge you loads of overdraft interest rates? I bet you so. Evil banks.

Then something occurs to me. Why don't I do online banking? This way I can really control my finances. Yes, every day I will check out everything and I'll know exactly how much I've got in the bank.

I log onto the bank website and register and I'm being asked for my Password. I already have about 8 different password for emails, blogs access, personal sites, ebay, amazon, FNAC, internet access, even my computer acces.

Ok. let's create a password I will remember and associate with banking. Easy. Hum...what about "mybankisshit"? OK. let's enter it.

"your password is weak", the warning is flashing at me in orange letters.

What do you mean weak? Weak yourself! Ok, let's add some numbers, capital letter and punctuation just to be on the safe side. A totally uniquely spy-proof password.

"!mybAnK158?iSsh:it92"  . Ah! Who is weak now? Get that, you stupid bank web site.

I'm standing up in a sudden rush, unable to control myself. God. I'v  done it! I've done my homework! I'm free!I deserve a treat. I look out of the window and the sun is shining...O I feel like getting out of this flat...

I'm driving past Movida, the local Gym Club. With no warning I just turn around and zoom into its car park while other drivers are furiously sounding their horns. Sudden inspiration. Female intuition. Faith is guiding me to Movida.

I've overindulged myself recently. Well, since 1998 to be honest. Time to pay for all the chocolate and laziness and sweat! Also time to think about my approaching TV talk; I want to look absolutely fabulous.

After a short very pleasant talk with one of the cute ladies, a signature and giving her my bank account details, I'm jumping into the jacuzzi!

O my god. There cant be anywhere else anything else better than here and now. I am being massaged by hot bubbles, floating and boucing naked around the bath, listening to Karma music and looking entranced at pink indian pine-smelling candles. O my god! If you actually put your head under the water, you can hear some music! Like the Daila lama' singing! I had no idea you hear music tunderwater.

11.20:   Completely and joyously wasted, I step out of the jacuzzi. Let's have a Power Shower.
God, maybe I should live here. This is just my dream, my every fantasies. Jacuzzi without your bikini, totally naked is a must-do experience...and as I'm about to get into the shower my heart stops.

There is a man. A man goggling at me with a big smile, through the sauna's window. At my naked body. O. My. God. What the fuck is a man doing here, in the Ladies-only...? Ok. I had assumed that like in the UK most resting places have women-only and men-only sessions and I had thought when I came in and saw a woman...O dear god help me. Right. Relax, I am strong. Dont let him become the superior game player. Keep walking and think you are Swedish.

And never come back. Well, on Fridays afternoons. On any afternoon, better to be safe than sorry. Just come in in the morning, any day but Friday.

I'm grabbing quite tensely my towel and wrap it round me like a shroud. I knew I should have taken the big towel, why do I always play it mean and pick the smallest stuff when I have to pack things? So I 'm trying to strech my tea towel round my hips and with the other free arm cover my breast. And walk proud.

"Ladies Changing Rooms" / "Vestiaires". Thanks God. Saved! Open the locker get my stuff out dress and leave.

The lock. The padlock. The key. O no. no more killing stress. Where is my fucking key? In panick I loot through my stuff, well not much: a plastic bag, a shower liquid and a shampoo. And no key. Think. Quick! I went to the sauna. Then, shower. Then the jacuzzi...I am NOT going back in there to look on the floor for my missing key, that bloke is going to think I'm sending him messages and that I got naked on purpose and that my towel fell off on-purpose-by-accident. This is France, remember, not paying attention to a man is already taken as an invitation to be harassed, so you can forget about going back in there. What am going to do?

There's only one choice. Walk up to the Reception and tell them I cant find my key and they'll be understanding and really nice and offer me a big towel and coffee, all for free, to keep me warm because I've given them...well, I wont say, but lots of money.

I'm walking in the hall, freezing and dripping water, and starting to regret not having put my bikini back on and, two tennis players stop in mid-air about to serve and smile...well, actually giggle and stare and I can hear one saying "What is she hiding? She's got nothing on her chest, poor girl !" ahhah". Ignore the ignorants is my motto. Proud and strong.

I walk up the stairs and cross the gym hall where a few panting men with huge chests and lycra shorts are pedalling mad. They stare. Keep on cycling, Shrek, or I'm gonna lose it! Gosh, you'd have to pay me a million to make me cycle one of those sadistic bikes.

The receptionist is obviously loving it, I've been waiting for about 10 freezing minutes and the darling lady who sold me the subscription package has vanished. I'm waiting for the receptionist who keeps calling me "tu", the French  familiar noun you use for pets and children. I'm shaking all over. Pleeeease. There! She comes out again at last with pliers in her hand and we walk down again.

In the changing rooms, she asks which lock it is and I show her and without a word whe breaks it open, turns around and leaves. Gosh, the French unfailing heart-warming sisterhood will never cease to amaze me.

As I'm driving away from the gym, I'm wondering wether going for the 12 months subscription was such a wise idea. Well, I didnt think it to be "wise" one hour ago. I thought the funny blond lady was fantastic and the Relaxing Room looked just like heaven and I didnt care anymore what I was doing.

It's going to be another waste of money, isn't it? Am I ever, let's face it, going to come back? O my god, a full month of salary will be taken away from my account in three days.

13:15:   back home. Time for lunch and modest money-free pleasures! I'll get all my somptuous food from the freezer and have a comforting lunch. There's no point being all regretful and reproachful for what I did this morning, I cant undo thing. I open the fridge and...where is my food?  Damn. I need good food if I want to be coming up with incredible poems this afternoon. How can a talented poet work on peas and frozen carrots lunches?

As if by miracle, I remember that the new local supermarket has opened a great-looking brasserie where it said on the menu outside you can have starter+main course like "chèvre chaud on toast and salad"+dessert for only 10 euros! Sorted! And before I can think up of any annoying reasons for not going, I'm jumping on the car seat and sing aloud every word The Ting Tings are saying. God, there's nothing like freedom is there? My ex boyfriend's hologram appears in the corner of my eyes and I see him frowning and saying" This is not the way things should be done. You keep on spending money you haven't got and wasting time to avoid doing any actual work. You're a tourist". How dare he! A tourist! Just because I'm lucky enough to not be working. Just jealous. Anyway, I'm laughing at him " you're an illusion, Scottie!". Besides, I've done my accounts and I've drawn a budget and it's not a little lunch that will torpeed my bank account, is it? and I'm speeding to the Brasserie.

13:28:   I'm running into the Brasserie's entrance. I am so dreading the waitress will send me away saying they've stopped serving people and that it is too late.

Take it from me, you've got to be pretty organized to live in France. Shopping must be done between 10 and 12 am. Or 1 pm and 6-ish pm. Lunch out: 12 - 1.30 pm. Any later and you're screwed.

And die on a sunday cause everything is closed and dead.

14:23:   "Another coffee pleease!" I'm telling the waitress beaming with pleasure. Coffee always makes me so instantly happy. Before the 6-hours-long edginess and heart beats.

15:10:    well, there's no point actually starting any work now, the day is almost over. I mean, I am not going to do some night work, am I? I haven't moved to France to become a slave to work. This is the nation of one and a half hour lunch and 45 holidays days.So, I'm not going to feel stressed.

And what if there was suddenly an earthquake? I'd be one of the many victims swallowed by the earth but instead of having a full stop to my life in the middle of precious joyful moments, I'd be another grey individual typing work at a computer? Well, I'm different. I am not everybody and I'm proud to say I've always believed myself to be a bit of an excentric. How could I be a poet otherwise?

And to prove my point, I am going to run myself a bath.