This has been a strange week. There were some nice moments (my induction into the bendy world of pilates, courtesy of Houston Hottie; meeting a fellow blogger over a lovely Korean meal) but also a lot of really painful ones (Death and The Boy: should be a play title, or maybe a Schubert symphony).
All in all I'm glad I made it through in one piece. More or less. Next week should be better: Legal Soldier is coming back from Afghanistan on leave, and I might pick up some plane tickets to an Italian reunion. Wipe the slate clean on this shitty week and start a new one.
This evening was rather special, though. While I had pretty much decided I would be spending the evening in a foetal position on my sofa, listening to the sounds of the wedding party from the restaurant below, my dear Ozzie friend managed to rouse me from my stupor and drag me to.... Paris Plage. It may come as a shock but I had in fact never been to Paris Plage before, having always felt too busy to go visit what I assumed was some kind of over-crowded, dingy tourist trap. And a lot of it probably is. But we managed to grab dinner at an ad hoc crêperie, our little table snuggled right up against the river with an amazing view of the sun setting over the Ile de la Cité.
So my choices were topping off a miserable week by crying myself to sleep, or drinking rosé with a friend on the river. I think I made the right choice. There's a lesson in there somewhere.