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A Paddy in Paris

• Kim Lenaghan
• 6 Jun 07, 02:16 PM

Yes, I am back once more from several days filming with the canine delinquents and one of my regular visits to ¡®mon cheri a Paris¡¯ ¨C hence the absence of blog. Actually I did try to post something when I was away, I even had a photograph taken on the Pont Neuf to add a little authenticity, but I just couldn¡¯t get the damn thing to work. Now, I could put that down to a technical fault or I could be entirely honest and admit that it was almost certainly because I am completely hopeless with all forms of technology. Indeed, if left to my own devices a quill pen and parchment would be my communication tools of choice. But forgive me, I digress and talk drivel ¨C nothing new there I hear you say - so back to my point which is my growing fondness for all things French.

I have long been an ardent devotee of ¡®la dolce vita¡¯ but I think it may be about to be replaced in my affections by ¡®la vie en rose¡¯. I never thought I would prefer Parisian hauteur to Italian earthiness; indeed I have always been extremely nervous of being on the receiving end of that legendary Gallic rudeness. This fear was intensified as I watched in horror the unfortunate treatment of Carrie Bradshaw when the Sex and the City scriptwriters sent her to Paris. She started off all starry eyed and excited but in no time at all she was being ignored, despised, ridiculed and made to feel like a complete outsider. I was certain the same fate would await me as I put in my days while ¡®mon cheri¡¯ was earning our daily bread. But then I had forgotten the one very important difference between Kimmie and Carrie ¨C no, not the fact that she is a size zero, but that she is American and I am from Northern Ireland. Oh yes, in just about every country in the world playing the ¡®Irish¡¯ card works like a ¡®Royal Flush¡¯ time after time. My French is rubbish ¨C an ¡®o¡¯ level taken more years ago than I care to calculate ¨C but I¡¯m always forgiven and told that my halting linguistic attempts are excellent because I invariably start with the line ¡°I¡¯m sorry I don¡¯t speak a lot of French¡­I¡¯m Irish¡±. That instantly does the trick as it seems ¡®paddy¡¯ equates to ¡®party¡¯ in any language, and even in the capital of chic they like a bit of the old charm and blarney.

Of course even with that there are still down sides to ¡®la vie Parisian¡¯. French women are soooo skinny that it is impossible to get clothes much into double figures. I remember reading that book a few years ago ¡®Why French Women Don¡¯t Get Fat¡¯ and it was a very smug explanation about balance and portion sizes and not too many carbs. It¡¯s all nonsense! I can tell you in a sentence why they don¡¯t get fat. It¡¯s because women in Paris do not eat they only smoke ¨C before, during and after pushing their gorgeous looking dinners around their plates. Now, having been brought up here in a traditional ¡®waste not, want not¡¯ household, being extremely keen on good food, and a vehement anti-smoker, I haven¡¯t got a chance. Indeed, I wish to report that even after a week I found the seatbelt on the plane on the way home much tighter than it was on the journey out. Another interesting point is that apparently French women don¡¯t go to the gym. They don¡¯t like all that inelegant sweating and smudged make up ¨C well who does. Anyway, why on earth would you need to pay to work out when at every metro station there are hundreds of steps up and down with no lifts and no escalators.

So to look and act like a real Parisian this summer I will need to stop eating almost entirely, take up chain smoking and spend the day riding the metro. Alternatively I could write the definitive book ¡°Why Irish Women Get Fat in Paris¡±.

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