Paris too far.

So I should be in Paris right now. Out dancing or drinking in a bar or jumping up and down in a concert. Flirting and laughing and toying with the option of doing something very naughty no doubt. Alas, my cotton-wool head and piles of antibiotics have kept me home in the Ardèche, have kept me home being a good girl, being a deliciously perfect Mummy, taking Tommy to the farm (again), making him omelettes and tofu dinners, sleeping with him when he has his nap, reading another fantastic novel before I go to bed. Thank god, in a manner of speaking, for fantastic novels. But I dream of Paris, I dream of the lights at nightime, of the bars and bistros, of my friends and of strangers who might become friends, of the excitement of being part of Paris. I especially dream of being back onstage. And backstage too, with all the fun and complicity that involves being in a troupe. And yet at the same time I get a strange, deep, warm satisfaction from being here in the middle of the countryside with my little boy, just spending my time playing with him, looking after him, watching him grow and learn and flourish and turn into a confident, loving little person. Intelligent, funny, observant, friendly. He really is one of the nicest people I have ever met. I call him Angel a lot of the time and he is 16 months old today. And when I think about it, although Paris is calling to me, and raciness and naughtiness are tempting me out there, maybe for the time being this is where I am meant to be.

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