Home run

My time in Europe has been filled with babies, it seems.

First there was my cousin's huge baby bump, although perhaps that doesn't count as a baby, as such. Then, after another few days of culinary magic at my parents', I met baby Victor, who was all smiles and engaged the hormone bomb that has now made me desperate to start a family.

I had taken the TGV up to Paris to meet up with Krusty for his office party, which, by the way, was pants. The venue was beautiful - it took place in the Maison des Ingénieurs, in the 8th arrondissement, just behind the Musée d'Orsay - and I felt privileged to see it, as I am clearly never going to be an engineer, and I doubt those doors would ever be open to me in normal circumstances...

Anyway, apart from the beautiful plaster mouldings, the party left much to be desired. As we arrived, we stood in front of the bar sipping a mini glass of bad quality champagne as a very loud jazz band played to an unappreciative audience, and then waited a full 45 minutes before we could get another one. The bottles were only being opened two by two it seemed. There were 220 of us. I thought engineers were supposed to be good at maths...

Meanwhile, a tray of tiny croque monsieurs passed us by, with no other food entering our field of vision for the next 2.30 hours... I mean, after the Michelin starred event last year, I was very, very disappointed. So after one and a half glasses of champagne and at least 25 people saying "Hmmm, that's an interesting shoe", we left to find our room at the Lutetia.

Listen to me, a free flight to Paris and a night at the Lutetia, and I still find the courage to complain...

Anyway, the next day we travelled back down to the Ile de Ré, where I managed to tie up a lot of loose ends concerning the wedding, Krusty managed to say "How much does it cost?" a lot, and many a spreadsheet-induced argument ensued. We still had a great time, sampling our wedding menu on my birthday, celebrating fake xmas on Sam's birthday, knitting strange, cartoonish characters by the fire with my grandmother, and even catching a STUNNING sunset on the beach. I love the Ile de Ré in winter - there are close to no tourists, the air is pure and pinching, and yet the sky is blue and beautiful and the empty beaches are misty and poetic. It's a shame it's quite cold, otherwise we might have chosen December to get married instead of June.

And so, after seven days of more scrumptious food and silly dancing, we flew the worst airline in the history of aviation back to London. Those of you who have had the pleasure of flying Ryanair will have recognised which company I was referring to, as the mélange of infuriating service, maddening music and unrealistic weight restrictions leave an indelible mark on any traveller's psyche. I have never been so angry. Especially as while I was transferring weight to my hand luggage I managed to drop my bag on my toes, breaking them yet AGAIN! (That's three times now... I'm starting to think I will be wearing my sexy Manolo Pas-chics to my wedding...)

We arrived in London despite the horrible journey, though, and as we drove back to Krusty's parents house, including a trip over Tower Bridge, all of the memories of our first encounter came flooding back, and the nostalgia kicked in big time. A few roast dinners later and I was truly longing to come back. We met up with our friends who had just had twin girls, the couple who were there the day we met, and even Babymomma and her brilliant, beautiful brood, and suddenly London looked as appealing as a giant Quality Street. The purple one. With the nut inside.

And yet the day soon came when we had to leave, and on to the next cheap airline we went, scrabbling with our fellow travellers, who were as much the victims of the free seating policy as we were, even if I did have a crazy boot to prove that I needed some space, time and a guarantee no one would step on my foot. But we had no time for precaution, our flight was late and we had only minutes to make the connection for our flight from Paris to Hong Kong. Minutes were all we needed to spot my ex-boyfriend, though, who had oddly chosen the day we were flying back to Hong Kong for his big move to... Hong Kong!

I didn't find out about the move from him though - as I slowed down to say hello, he actually RAN away from me! Yes, a man I spent three years living with, including one year in Tokyo, actually ran away from me rather than say hello... But then he must have been in a hurry to grab his new wife, as they soon passed us again, and this time he threw me a smile which I could only interpret as victorious. He was proud to have found solace in the arms of a Chinese porcelain doll. And good for him.

We didn't have time to talk to him anyway, as most of Krusty's office was on the plane with us, and we therefore had to do the whole chatty sociable thing that I hate doing on planes. As I am sure everyone else does. I suppose we should just all ignore each other in transit, and be honest about not wanting to make small talk on board...

Then again, who am I to talk about being sociable, when I have written more here about being on the plane than being in the cities we were visiting? What does that say about me?!

I suppose the insane jet lag that has hit us both has a lot to do with my obsession with the flights. But as tired as I am (this time jet lag feels like having the flu), I am still happy. After spending three weeks staying in other people's houses, I feel completely at ease. Sitting smugly on MY sofa, watching MY television, next to MY dinner table, knitting quietly with a huge smile on my face...

So very sorry, parents, I miss you loads, but right now, I love being where I am.

OK, pictures of the lovely babies...

My cousin's giant bump, nicknamed Lucienne until she comes out



Marvelous Victor, in Paris



The adorable twins, Ana and Inès




Last but not least, the perfect Felix and Jasmine, aka Squealix and Jam-beans




And, for good measure, a baby Krusty...



Now who wouldn't want to have babies after that?!

Stomach seduction

After a few croissants/slices of comte/glasses of wine, I am reconciled with France. They really have the tools to make you forget, well, everything!

Travels with my poncho

On the day of my departure to France, I woke up to the sound of Hong Kong serenading me lest I forget its beautiful voice on my travels. The song went a little like this: "And then I go and spoil it all, by saying something stupid like BANG BANG BANG."

Thus I willingly made my way to the airport, wrapped in my wonderful cashmere poncho, bought in Beijing for the occasion. But despite my best limping efforts, I didn't get upgraded, and in fact I was punished for even thinking I could be...

First the plane was delayed by two hours because of a technical problem. I don't really like getting on planes at the best of times, but when I know it has a fault that might kill me, well... We got on to find that the ventilation was broken, so it was boiling hot and almost impossible to breathe. The cashmere poncho quickly came off to make room for air...

Then, when the plane (which must have been 40 years old) rattled off, we were told that the lights were broken, and that therefore there would be no hot service for health and safety reasons.

And so I spent the flight in the dark, at the back of the plane (because when a person asks for a upgrade because two of their toes are broken, that's where you put them - right at the back, so that they have to hobble all the way down the aisle...) wrapped in a Z shape around an armrest that wouldn't go up.

We arrived two hours late in Paris, where the walkway was broken, and we waited in the dark while they fixed it. The flight attendants, meanwhile, thought it might be a good idea to flash pocketlights in our face to complete the feeling of a terrorist hijack.

The queue to get out of the plane lasted a long while too, as just one woman was checking everyone's passport. A long hobble later I grabbed my bag, made my way to the taxi queue, where I was told the traffic was too bad to get me to the train on time, so I jumped in the metro, which slowly filled up until I was told I was being very inconsiderate bringing a suitcase into rush hour pandemonium. As a woman pushed my case onto my broken toes, I couldn't have agreed more.

I bumped past another hundred people on their way to work, got to Montparnasse, dragged my case into the lift, where I managed to have a big argument with a guy in a wheelchair who after tutting, I couldn't resist asking what his problem was. He told me I had no right to use the lift and that my silly invalid boot didn't mean I was handicapped...

I limped down the platform, where I saw the train master smile at me as the door closed and he sarcastically said "Oh it's closed, what a shame". I had to buy another ticket for 100 euros, because of course that's the price for last minute bookings. Right then, I HATED Paris.

Desperate, I ran to the toilet only to find it was exceptionally closed that day for renovation, and desperate for a cheer up, I called my parents. My dad's reply to the situation: "you should have planned better."

I burst out in tears, and as I cried by the phone, a homeless man came up to me, said "Don't cry miss" and hugged me as I worried about the hundreds of diseases he was passing on to me.

I kindly dismissed him, got called a liar by a beggar who I'd told I had no money after she asked me for change three times (each time as she saw me buy a magazine, a hot chocolate, and a croissant), and then got told off by a waiter who said that the table I had chosen to wait at for the next train incovenienced him.

I have no idea how I could have lived in Paris and not gone crazy. It's true what they say - Paris is the best city in the world, it's just a shame it contains so many Parisians...