On the morning of my wedding I went with La Belle Belle Fille to the hairdressers. They had double booked the appointment. Instead of apologising, they made it plain - in the way only Parisians can - they thought this was my fault. After much huffing and tutting, the hairdresser snatched the flowers the florist had prepared for my hair and scolded me that they were not prepared properly. My fault again. She then set a hapless trainee to work on my head and went into raptures over La Belle Belle Fille promising to create the most wonderful, original, knock-out coiffure for her. I wanted to say: "Excuse me, it's ME who's getting married", but I was very, very stressed and worried if I opened my mouth I would cry. That was a few years ago and the hair turned out fine in the end. The wedding too.
This scene flashed back today when I sparked up the computer and discovered what is interesting (the) three readers of this blog, my blog, is not me, my week, my hopes and fears and feelings. No. They want to know about my meeting earlier this week with Jaywalker. "What's she like? What's she like?" squawk the emails. "What's she like?"
Well sorry. I have three minutes and 20 seconds to find a recipe for Chocolate Cornflake Cakes to make and sell for La Fille's school's 'solidarity fund' so you're just going to have to wait...!