Today's theme: prune. And not because of the shoe store (my wallet breathes a sigh of relief).
But first, let's start with yesterday.
Yesterday, I doubled my collection of books-dedicated-to-me-by-actual-real-live-published-authors. To two. Indeed, after Elizabeth Bard's delightful Lunch in Paris talk (complete with home-baked financiers and spot-on NY humour), I was treated to Stephen Clarke and his very much more British repartée. So thank you to Elizabeth, Stephen (sorry for the pointed question - Anglo-French relations just get me going) and WH Smith for organizing! Also, thank you to the rain for making it just dramatic enough, but not completely impossible, to actually get myself to the rue de Rivoli yesterday.
Tomorrow, my aim is to bring the total to a mighty 3, with hopefully a live encounter with Paul Auster at the Salon du Livre!
Anyways, now back to today. Prune day.
This morning I had yet another delightful flab removal session at the beauty salon (only slightly less related to my fledgling novelist career than the book salon...) This one actually wasn't so bad, as I got to lounge in a hot tub for 40 minutes in indestructible, moisture-resistant paper undies. If you can close your eyes and ignore the fact that someone with a giant jet-cleaner thing (for you French politicos, think karcher...) is making everything wobble, it's actually quite pleasant. But of course, when I left, I looked distinctly - prune-ish.
Fortunately, my next stop was a much-needed hug and lunch with Supermom to iron out the grumps and feast on a tajine of poulet aux pruneaux (ta da!) at the gorgeous Grande Mosquée restaurant (perhaps deserving of a future entry in Res Ipsa's Paris?) God I love North African mint tea.
Once we were adequately fed and minted, off we scampered into the hammam across the hall (you're sensing the third prune reference here, aren't you?) Granted, it took us a while to figure out how things worked (note to self: bring towel and scrubby glove thing next time), we queued for what felt like a very damp million years for our scrub-down, we got yelled at by a scary, old Moroccan woman, and we ran out of time before we got to the massages, but we still had a fabulous time.
Which just goes to show that comforting company and a good bout of pampering can go a long way.
And now I need to pack. Because after the Paul Auster sighting, I will be once more taking the road in my trusty old Twingo (that poor girl isn't getting any younger) and heading south. First, for a little Easter celebrating (more chocolate and wine than mass and, well, wine). Then, for two to three long weeks all by my lonesome, so I can FINALLY get some serious writing done.
I'm counting on you to hold me to it, dear readers! I'm on Chapter 14 now (which is off to an ominous start) and I must, absolutely MUST, have hit Chapter 22 by the time I get back.
Do we have a deal?
Don't go soft on me now, folks, I need you!