Running in Paris has hit a stumbling block. All races require a doctors note before they let you take part. Before I left for Paris I visited my GP who gave me a ten-second diagnosis that consisted of 'are you a smoker? no. that's ok then' but unfortunately he still hasn't posted my bill of good health to me.  Still, running in my area is quite fascinating- where else can you run past a geode (like in the crystal maze) and an abandoned nuclear submarine? I also have to confess that I've regressed to running with an MP3 player- which slowly cooks you from within. Then it gets stuck on Kylie Minogue and I suddenly don't feel like running any more...

 

I'm not saying Parisians are rude, but they have no idea how to queue. At the supermarché yesterday their queue-jumping was so blatant, I was temporarily paralysed with shock. And another thing, a police force should not just be a load of 12 year olds with sticks, and surely only Aussie cops wear baseball caps? And they can't play cricket....bastards...

There's a game you play here called 'SPOT HOW MANY SCARY MEN YOU SEE IN A DAY'. Drunks, flashers, stoners, smelly geezers...the city is full of them...all rubbing shoulders with Christian Dior and Jean-Paul Goateeyaay- it's quite bizarrre...

 

Have a cool term anyway - keep Andy('s) Tongue away from the lady freshers and don't let Pete Davis down a pint of his own urine without getting it on video.

I'm off the benefit office-free money! Vive la France...