Parisian Bits.

I just watched a portmanteau film called Paris, je t’aime. It was quite delightful, by and large, but I found it a bit wearing having to constantly switch from one plot arc to another – all eighteen of them – for nearly two hours.

Still, I was glad to see that Natalie Portman was still the spit of my old actress friend, Katy Stephens, and I liked something Bob Hoskins said while arguing with his wife (who was the proprietor of a sex emporium): You don’t know what it’s like being a man when everything’s gone. I can’t feel anything any more. Well now… Oh, and the vampire episode was very sweet.

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I should have gone to Paris once, when I was fifteen. The rest of the class went on a trip there during the summer holiday but my stepfather wouldn’t pay for me to go. On the first day back at school everybody was full of talk about their French adventure, except me. And nobody cared that I was the odd one out.

That’s something I’ve noticed about me, you know. I’ve never been the sort to evoke sympathy. I suppose it’s one area of life in which I can claim some rare measure of success.