Day 393: I Start Packing

This Saturday morning I shall fly to Paris, where I will (perhaps) find a jetlagged French Canadian pathologist somewhere in the RER station in Terminal 2 of Charles de Gaulle airport (also known as CDG or - for the REAL "cognoscenti"! - Roissy). From there, we shall travel to the Gare de Montparnasse, and thence to Angouleme (on the TGV), where my parents - Monkeymother and Monkeyfather - will be waiting.

By the time we arrive, Monkeymother will have stuck her elegantly-clad shoe out and tripped up at least ten ghastly British people* from Surrey**. Monkeyfather will - as ever - be making excuses, which will include the words "absinthe", "too much sugar" and "I'm awfully sorry" (in French).

After some days spent with my parents and three members of a Genesis tribute band, the pathologist and I shall travel around France for a while. He will be mistaken for a German, and me for a Parisian. We will eat dinners and visit dioramas; eavesdrop on tourists and take photographs of other peoples' hats.

And so I must pack! But so far, I can only think of two things: my favourite bag, and my favourite necklace. They were presents from my friend V who I have not known for long but like very much. They are two of the best presents I have ever had. It is nothing to do with the fact that they were generous-with-money type generous presents; it is to do with the fact that they are both to my taste, practical, beautiful and designed by V with her very own hands and eyes.

First there is the carpet bag, which (so far - but who knows what will happen tomorrow!) about 20 people have asked me about, including a lady on the till in M&S in Liverpool, the owner of the nicest clothes shop in Amsterdam and complete strangers (with good hair) on the street. It makes me feel like Mary Poppins crossed with a fashionable lady, all in one.(Practical, yet of-the-moment!) Here it is, in part:






















And this is my charm necklace. Most of the excellent things upon it were chosen by V; I added the beaver and the monkey, although both remain overshadowed by the silver moose, which was part of the original jewel. (I have included close-ups of the silver animals in question, should you wish to see them in more detail.)




































I wear it every day, and every day someone compliments me upon it. In some cases, complete strangers have been known to touch it (and with it my neck), without being formally introduced.

But in addition to and on top of its aesthetic value, my necklace has also provided me with a hobby. Every time I go outside my eyes roll about the place, looking here and there for charms to add on to it (top of the list is a rough piece of aquamarine). Birthday and Christmas presents are now made easy for my many thousands of friends. And to add to the excitement, I shake with anticipation almost constantly, looking forward to the day when the pathologist produces a small carefully-wrapped package from the top pocket of his labcoat (a silver microscope, perhaps? Or maybe I can dream of something more romantic?), and hangs it about my neck with a tender sign.

And as to you, dear readers: which charm do you think should be added? Let me know, and I shall buy it with the money I shall make from my new book, Who Owns The Yes?.


* The type of English people who moved to France, refused to learn French and now spend all day watching English television with other English people whilst their imported English workmen build conservatories on their ruined French houses. At the weekend, they shop from the special English shelves in the local supermarket, and then drive 100km to get a copy of yesterday's Daily Mail, which they dribble over whilst drinking imported PG Tips and "smearing" their "French Sticks" with Oxford English Marmalade. Then they go online using their shitty HP PC and write a cock-awful newsletter for their shit-awful "English Society", and rub their trousers with half-witted glee at their "way with words", which - in their private moments - they will compare favourably with Jeffrey Archer. Then the doorbell will ring. They will get up and open the front door and it will be me! I will be there but they will not know it is me, because before they can register my monkey features, I will have poked them in the eyes with my tiny little monkey hands, before effecting a swift getaway on my scooter.

** Populated by social climbers and fools: a suburb with pretensions. It is full of people who wish they hadn't had to be told which knife and fork to use, and who say "pardon" endlessly and without cease. They have conversations with their ghastly friends in the golf club, whilst sucking on "gin and Schweppes" and comparing notes on last weekend's Rotary meeting. They send their children to minor public schools and talk about how their "youngest" enjoys "horseriding" and how well their "eldest" is doing on their business degree at Loughborough. This group are the slightly richer version of the group I describe above, which means they move to Marbella instead of France and play golf all day while their "ladywives" lie about the place going leathery and ogling the poolboy. (I almost exclude the bits of Surrey that are on the tube, e.g. Richmond and Kew, as they a bit silly and certainly slightly pretentious, but not in the same way.)