Plastered of Paris

So we turn up at Gare du Nord armed only with crisps and tea, which counts more as an aid mission than an invasion to be honest. Catherine on the far side of the gate, who takes us home to Batignolles where we are to sleep on a giant lilo and be fed pain au chocolat and saucisson etc.

Actually, and shockingly, even Romain the Proper Frenchman doesn't know the names of all the various patisseries on offer downstairs at the bakehouse. This morning the shopfrauen n'ont plus de pain au chocolat so we got some pistachio and choccie drop turnover things which were a delight. But no one knew what it was called (except in the shop, where we were too discombobulated to ask). Then there's something called a Salammbo, which bears no relation to the rude novel by Flaubert, and lots of poppyseed stuff from the Jewish bakery in the Marais - where they also sold Yiddish sandwiches, which confuses me because I want to eat a sandwich, not talk to it.

So you may be asking why we're in Paris and not, as the below suggests, in Benin. Well you see to get to Francophone West Africa you need to go via France unless you want to remortgage the house or sell a kidney etc, therefore to get to Benin we needed to aller au Eurostar and take advantage of our friends. Which, given that I'm a Brit who has had a popular spare room in Sydney for two-and-a-half years, is an advantage I think I'm owed.

Last night we sat around quaffing martinis while Romain made regular sorties to the kitchen to rustle gyoza, croquette things, saucisson, gherkins, and those poppyseed jobbies. Then walnuts from the holiday home in the Loire, my goodness. All of us become a bit drunk, a bit happy, a bit exhausted, therefore bed. There is a photograph of a lipstick-stained martini glass and a rubble of walnut shells, which I might post some time.

Tomorrow we might make it to a cemetery, hopefully just for a walk. Though if we eat any more buttery boulangerie, a more permanent move wouldn't be out of the question.