Just oiling cogs.

Here I go. It almost feels embarrassing to write anything. Three months of silence makes me feel like I have to write something really amazing, like it’s been worth the wait. Alas, this is not to be the case. But if I don’t write something right now, this very evening, I will never write again, ever.

They say once you hit 40, if you stop doing something you might never be able to do it again, so you have to never stop doing anything, or in other words, keep doing everything, which seems like a lot of things to do in a day. My day is technically over as it is half past midnight. But I’m still determined to write a snippet of something, just to oil the old writing cogs and get things going again. Also, I have something disturbing to share with you.

Léonie, my 3 year old daughter, has been threatening me. If I don’t do what she wants, or if I ask her to do what she doesn’t want to do, she gets mean. Really mean. Her latest threat is, “Mummy, I take your teeth out and put them in my mouth!” This is frightening. Not least because I don’t have dentures, which means the taking-the-teeth-out bit would involve a painful and bloody operation. And the putting-the-teeth-in-her-mouth bit doesn’t even bear thinking about. As a result, I have to do everything she asks of me, keeping my mouth tightly shut.

Another unsettling thing she says is “Ow! Mummy! My back is cracked!”. This cracking of her back happens on a daily basis. And when she can’t get up the stairs to the front door she complains that her leg bones have fallen out. Just like Jennifer Saunders, but I don’t think Léonie has seen that particular French and Saunders sketch. 

There, that’s it. Cogs oiled. Hopefully they’ll be working more smoothly tomorrow. That would be good, as I have some juicy things to write about. 


Four times a year.

“WHAT?” you are thinking, “Four times a year?! She only does it FOUR TIMES A YEAR?” Yes. Statistically speaking, I am now down to four times a year. The last time I did it was the 3rd of June. Exactly 4 months ago. This is not good.

And the last time I did it, not many people were involved. I clearly don’t have the pulling power I used to have. They say that when you do it often, you get better and better at it, so people remain interested and keep coming back for more. Regularity keeps the cogs oiled and the wheels turning. My cogs and wheels are now so rusty it will take a harsh iron brush and a pint of WD40 to get things moving again. Maybe I should just throw in the towel and admit defeat: I am not cut out for writing a blog.

“Oh, she’s talking about writing a blog? WE thought she was on about… you know… doing it.”

Look, I can’t help it if my readers are a bunch of depraved, sex-obsessed wierdos, although I quite like the idea that you are. It rather inspires me to keep going, but to re-angle this blog into a daily, depraved collection of sex-obsessed stories for wierdos. Maybe that is the way forward. So I shall try it out here and now, as this afternoon I did reach a sort of climax, and it did indeed involve a washing machine.

(And no, it’s not the old cliché of housewives sitting on their machine during the spin cycle.)

There I was, alone, in the cellar of an old stone French house, wearing nothing but a pair of hugely sexy tracksuit bottoms, wondering how I was going to tackle the hulk of a machine in front of me. In my hands, “la carte electronique”, the soon-to-be new brain centre of my friend and lover, Arthur Martin (model AM1200). I tentatively dipped my right hand into Arthur, taking him from the top, and gently caressed the eight zillion coloured wires trailing from his upper body. Without hesitation, I grasped one of the thicker braids of wires, felt for the plug at the end, and eased it gently into place. It fitted perfectly into the electronic card and I felt Arthur Martin groan with pleasure. I felt for another plug and rammed it in harder. Then another, then another. I hoped each one was in the right place, that nothing was forced or uncomfortable (I hadn’t used any lubrification) but it was too late to turn back now. I then slid the card into the top of Arthur’s body and screwed it as hard as I could; my boyfriend had previously warned me to screw hard, in case the vibrations of the spin cycle loosened things up too much. Arthur didn’t seem to mind. I was encouraged. I slammed the lid on his head and plugged him hard into a socket. That turned him on. He lit up, I grabbed his dial and twisted it to “30 minute Flash”, and then stood back to watch him operate on his own. It was pure pleasure to see him juddering and shuddering, to listen to the rush of water and the ejection of his waste fluids, to watch him spin into a frenzy and then collapse in a heap, to hear the BEEP BEEP BEEP of the end of the wash cycle, and to know that at last, my washing machine was bloody working again. Dear Arthur Martin, how I have missed you. You do a spin job like no-one I know.


That really is quite depraved and definitely for wierdos. And very possible written by one. I can’t put this on Facebook or send it to family as I will be immediately cut out of any wills I was still in and never again be invited to parties and barbecues. If I rule out readers who are friends and family that means maybe 3 people in the entire world will read this, and only because they were on internet searching for info on how to change the electronic card of an Arthur Martin Electrolux washing machine. But at least I’ve managed to keep up my rate of 4 times a year.

NB: I am not (yet) sponsored by Electrolux.


Ten Easy Steps…

Well. I have discovered a totally new way to thoroughly depress oneself…

… Work on a solo show for small children, entirely on your own, in a barn.

This breaks down into small steps, each of which efficiently beaks your spirit until you are nothing but a gibbering wreck lying in the foetal position on the cold floor.

1/ hole oneself up in your barn for a few hours a day, on ones own, with no real direction, just a pair of huge green flippers, some jam jars and some water.

2/ find some stuff you think could be good, or potentially good, ie. some mini-scenes to develop, based on music, rhythm, funny fish/frog dances.

3/ go round in circles with your mini-scenes and wonder what made you think they were any good in the first place. Start to think it’s all just a big pile of poo.

4/ make sure nobody in your close circle of family/friends is even vaguely interested and/or shows the slightest bit of encouragement and/or asks any questions whatsoever.

5/ go and look at websites of other shows for small children. Especially this site which has a selection of beautiful little shows, most of them as duets.

6/ long to work with someone else, not all on your own.

7/ go back to your (now damp, cos it’s been raining) ‘rehearsal room’, on your own and go over what you’ve been ‘working’ on for the last few days.

8/ realise it is total and utter shit and not at all adapted for tiny children in the first place.

9/ decide you should start all over again but then hear your toddler waking up (NB: you are slightly relieved as this is a good excuse not to battle on with your pile of shit).

10/ Try to talk about this situation in which you are forced to create your own little show for kids with an insensitive partner who has nothing to say on the matter except “all your friends in the theatre world couldn’t care less otherwise they’d have offered you some work by now”. When you sarcastically (and shakily) try to defend yourself with “maybe I’m not such a great actress then”, your partner replies “maybe”.

There you go. Ten Easy Steps to Deep Depression and a Broken Spirit. I have tried and tested them. They definitely work.

Back to the green flippers and jam jars of water. Gosh, how original of me.

The Greatest Gift in the World…

… is a holiday. At least, it is at the moment, for me. I am utterly exhausted, wiped out, end-of-tethered, squishmazzled. It is even official. Medically certified. I saw a doctor on Friday who confirmed that I am not going crazy for feeling so knackered, that it is normal for a mother of two little non-sleepers/big-breast-feeders (as in, big on feeding, not big breasts, although once upon a time they were indeed quite big… sniff) to feel this way and that I am probably anaemic, de-mineralised, lacking in vitamins and oligo-elements and losing brain cells fast. The latter is almost certainly true as I recently noticed I can no longer do basic addition whereas I used to be a whizz at maths. 77 + 77? I came up with 144. The Post Office lady looked at me with pity. I pretended it was a language thing and that I was merely on holiday here in France, not a full-time inhabitant and garlic obsessive since 1995. But anyway, my entire body and brain is worn out and I need a break. Not the sort of break when you go away with your children and end up doing pretty much what you do at home but with the added danger of drowning, sunstroke and not having the right sort if breakfast cereal, no, I mean a real break from round-the-clock childcare, child protection and child entertainment. One where you get up when you want, go to bed when you want and fill your days with just doing what you want, generally involving a lot of lying horizontally, swimming, reading books, eating good food and messing about with friends you’ve known long enough to not care what you look like.
And this, Dear Reader, is exactly the sort of holiday I’m about to have.

About a month ago L’Homme announced that he had changed my summer plans. “Look on the fridge” he said, which was not down to his dodgy English but because our calendar is on the fridge. Pencilled across the 21st of August was “Claire – Italie”. Return date : the 28th. He had borrowed some money and booked plane tickets for Puglia where we holidayed last year. my heart leapt with excitement and then plummeted straight back down as panic struck me at the idea of being away from Léonie for a whole week. I mumbled “erm, without Léonie?”. I was worried I might not seem very grateful nor appreciative of his generous, thoughtful gesture. “No Léonie. Just you.” he replied, “tu as besoin des vraies vacances.” Oh. A real holiday. Just me. With friends. In one of my favourite places in the world.

I am sitting in Orly airport, just outside Paris. I have spent the last few weeks looking forward to this. I have also spent the last few weeks agonising over the thought of leaving Léonie, and even Tommy, for 8 whole days. A few days ago I felt so guilty about going that I went a bit mad and angrily declared that I would NOT leave my baby girl and would be booking her onto the flight with me. I sulked with everyone that day and breastfed Léonie whenever she signed ‘milk’ at me, which meant every 30 minutes. I slept in her room and consequently was woken up twice and then far too early. In the morning I was a wreck. I did the maths: 2 x 9 months of pregnancy + 18 months of breastfeeding Tommy + 20 months of breastfeeding Léonie + nearly 4 years of broken sleep In the last 5 years = mother’s body and mind totally and utterly frazzled. I’m surprised I can even write this. In fact, I’m going to stop, buy myself a coffee and go back to my book. My holiday has already started and I’m going to make the most of each second. The kids are perfectly fine with L’Homme, I’m not indispensable to their survival, this week is going to be good for all of us. So off I fly, with just one bag, a phone full of photos of the kids and the reassuring knowledge that a week away doesn’t mean the end of breastfeeding… unless Léonie doesn’t ask when I get back. This time tomorrow I will be covered in sea salt from my morning swim in the Adriatic sea, full of lunch and Italian coffee, asleep in the hammock.



Stop the bloodshed.

I arrived home from Paris late last night. I hadn’t seen my 5 year old boy and my 18-month old girl for three days. This morning I was rewarded with two warm bundles in my bed – a small one, baby-signing “milk” at me with big eyes and a huge grin, and a bigger bundle smothering me in kisses and cuddles and stories of his adventures at school.

On the other side of the world, in Syria’s central Homs province, 49 warm bundles of joy and fun and wide-eyed grins are no more. They are now 49 cold bundles. They were killed one by one, shot and stabbed in their houses. This is from Wednesday’s Times:

‘The children of Houla were not killed by random shelling. The UN yesterday revealed that they were murdered one by one. The militia came in the night armed with knives and guns, and the young victims were executed with a bullet to the head or a knife to the throat.’

There are virtually no eyewitnesses of the massacre as anyone who saw what was happening was then slaughtered. One 11-year old boy survived. He watched his parents, sisters and brothers killed and then smothered himself in his brother’s blood and pretended to be dead. Here is his story. I had to fight against my instinct to shrink away from such gruesome, bloody news and I forced myself to read it. Part of me wants to hide from this horrific nightmare. But the families out there in Houla can’t hide from it. For them it’s not just a nightmare. It’s reality. Their reality. And they must be wondering why the rest of the world isn’t doing something to stop it.

Today thousands of bloggers are writing about what’s happening out there in syria. I am far from the most informed. But I wanted to join in this cry for help. To stop the violence and the bloodshed.  If you want to join in too, you can …

  • By signing the petition from Save the Children.
  • By signing the petition from Amnesty.
  • By blogging about it, tweeting about it, sharing links on Facebook.
  • By ReTweeting tweets you see using the hashtags #tippingpoint #syria #stopthekilling.
I wasn’t sure whether I should add a photo of some of the children, but I have decided to do so. It was when I saw the photos that the extent of the horror really hit me. I have, however, chosen one of the less graphic ones.

Paris, I love/hate you.

Oh Paris, I love you and I hate you. You are beautiful and busy, exciting and excessive, rich and creamy, full of things to do and friends to see. You are also stinky, filthy, rough, tacky, rude and full of shit. Dog shit, pigeon shit, rat shit and quite a lot of people pee. In the space of two and a half days here, piss has been a very strong and frequently recurring odour. As soon as I walk anywhere vaguely gloomy, underground or concrete (staircases, metro corridors, the bus exits by stations etc.) it smells of pee. And is littered with cigarette ends, coffee cups and beer cans.

This morning I loved you as I came out of the metro at Denfert-Rochereau, walked along that leafy avenue to the recording studio and bought a really good pain-aux-raisins at the boulangerie. I hated you five hours later when one of the Fat Controllers at the Gare de Lyon (which is in Paris, just to confuse matters) had refused to let me on an earlier train than my ticket said and I found myself walking along the pissy-smelling side of the station, dragging my suitcase behind me, wondering how to kill 4 hours of waiting time. I didn’t want to be with you, in you, anywhere near you. I wanted to be home in the Ardèche with my family, breathing countryside air and listening to birdsong instead of parping horns and wailing sirens.

But I loved you again when I found a tiny toy shop and bought a little guitar for Tommy and a daisy-painted recorder for Léonie. I kept loving you as I strolled along ‘La Coulée Verte’, a disused rail track above the streets, now transformed into a luscious, green, rose-abundant walkway (although all the staircases accessing it absolutely stank of piss). And I loved you even more so when I sat in a little outdoors red sofa at Café Viaduc, surrounded by olive trees, drinking coffee and a cheeky glass of Chardonnay with my best mate from university, @Rosbif, who started this blog up for me when I was Lost In Early Motherhood.

However, I didn’t feel any pangs of sadness when I got in my train and it pulled away from the station. I know you will always be there for me and that I can come back whenever I need to see you. But I doubt I will ever stay with you for very long. Unless I have a fantastic show to rehearse/perform (like the one I saw last night which was bloody brilliant – ‘Cercles & Fictions’ by Joel Pommerat), and unless you clean up your act, have a proper wash every morning and stop peeing in your pants.

See you soon, Paris. I love you.


Blogging for Madeleine

There have already been hundreds of bloggers writing about Madeleine McCann today, and writing far more touching, emotional posts than mine. I can barely remember the story – I had left England years back and in France the story was barely covered, if at all. I think I heard about it a year later when visiting the UK. Madeleine was taken in the middle of the night, from the house her family were holidaying in, in Portugal. Today is the 12th of May. She is nine today. But she won’t be celebrating her birthday with her parents and family. She might not be celebrating it at all. She was three at the time, she wouldn’t know what day she was born. Her story breaks my heart. I cannot imagine how her parents must feel.   I cannot think how I would manage to go on with life if one of my kids were taken away from me in the middle of the night. I imagine I would do absolutely everything I could to find them, to spread the message, to keep my hopes alive. Which is what Madeleine’s parents are doing and what this is all about.  The #Blogging4Madeleine campaign was set up by A Mummy’s View and Tea & Biscotti. I hope it helps find Madeleine.

Metropolitan Police have released the following age-progression image of Madeleine. It is a guide as to what she may look like now, age 9.

Madeleine as she would look now, age 9.

If you have any information that could help the authorities with their investigation, please contact your local police force immediately and ‘Operation Grange’ on 0207 321 9251
or Operation.Grange@met.pnn.police.uk
or Crimestoppers (in confidence) on 0800 555111

Madeleine, I hope you are still out there and are being looked after and loved. I also hope your parents will find you soon.

Interview, tick… next step: The Audition.

The title of this post rather gives away my latest news. Which means this will be another short post – yippee for me and my new decision to be in bed by half past nine every evening until Léonie starts bloody well sleeping through the night.

I dropped Tommy off at school at half past eight Wednesday morning just in time for him to bundle himself into a coach with his suitcase and wave goodbye to me through a steamed-up window; one of 40 little noses pressed up against the coach windows. It was his first school trip, his first time away from home for two nights without being able to phone Mummy or Daddy, and he was perfectly happy about it all. I had spent the night before writing T.O.M.M.Y. on his clothes/shoes/toothbrush/Dog & Donkey and tagging up his various bags with mini postcards of his grinning face. It took absolutely ages – precious time I should have been using to a/ prepare myself for the interview, and b/ sleep. But it meant Tommy left equipped to the hilt, and I didn’t get any of those stomach-lurching jolts when you realise, “oh damn, I forgot to pack him any pants.” I had been planning to drive down to Marseille later that morning, but having slept just 5 hours in bits the night before with a poorly-yet-wriggly baby in my bed, I went home and straight back to bed as Léonie crashed out in my arms. We ended up driving to Marseille late in the afternoon with me wondering how my exhausted brain was going to react in an interview the next day. Slowly, probably. Stupidly, no doubt.

I slept at a friend’s house. With Léonie in my bed again. And thus, another five hours of broken sleep, a 6:30 am start, and a double shot of paracetamol with 3 expressos. The interview was at 3 o’clock. I dropped Léonie off with another friend who was meant to be painting her workshop but was quite happy to have an excuse to take a break and push a baby around Marseille in the sunshine. I got the tram to the children’s hospital and was amazed at how huge it was. It is gigantic. I found my way in through the A&E entrance and got into one of four big lifts. I looked at the buttons. 16 floors. I pressed 9 and got out on the orthopaedics floor. I wandered out, looking for the meeting room and ended up doing a circuit of the ward. Again, enormous. I am used to small town hospitals with cosy little children’s wards. This was all long, long corridors and neon strip lighting. It was too hot. Or maybe that was just me sweating in anticipation of the looming interview. I found the salle de réunion and just then the door opened and a very smart, tall, bald man in a white suit and a pink shirt came out, grinning. Another candidate for the job. He looked like a very professional actor with perfect qualities for playing a clown. Damn. And he was grinning. His interview had gone well. Double damn. But then Caroline Simonds came out and gave me a wide, welcoming smile. “Ah, you must be the very lovely, very British ‘Teapot’!”

“Erm, yes.”I stammered.

“My, did you put those big blue eyes on to match your t-shirt?” she asked. I was so nervous my sense of wit failed me , and I just blurted out, “erm, no, I mean, yes, I mean …” but she saved me, by explaining they needed a few minutes to make notes about the last bloke, so did I mind waiting? “Don’t get lost!” she called. So I didn’t go far. I just went a bit further along the corridor so I couldn’t hear them talking. I listened to the noises in the ward : various footsteps, a bleeping machine, a child crying out “Maman, Maaaamaaaaan” over and over again, two nurses exchanging notes, a small family chattering as they walked down to a room at the end of the corridor. I looked out through one of the bedrooms which was empty, and gazed at the view – Marseille rooves and behind them, rocky hills topped with blue sky. I smiled at a couple of nurses and visitors who came past. It was hot. I wondered if I wanted to work here.

Then the door to the meeting room opened again and Jean-Louis welcomed me in. I sat down with my bag on my lap as protection but didn’t actually need any protection, as the two of them immediately made me feel very comfortable. It didn’t feel like an interview, it felt like chatting with a couple of people who you happen to find yourself traveling with. We talked about all sorts of things, not just work and CV’s. It felt like they wanted to know who I am, not what I have done. The conversation was natural and fun and funny. “You’re wearing the same t-shirt as in your CV photo” Caroline said. “Oh no! Am, I?” She whipped the photo out – one I had taken a couple of months ago, very unprofessionally – standing in front of the stone wall on our terrace. “Oh no, now you’ll remember me as the girl with only one t-shirt in her wardrobe … I did actually have a purple one on this morning, but my baby girl wiped snot all over the shoulder, so I put on a black one and it got the same treatment. I’m down to my last t-shirt. Honest.” By the end of the interview we said goodbye as if we were friends. And quite sincerely, if I don’t get to work with her this time round, I hope we get to be friends. This woman has a huge heart. And a wicked sense of humour. And the biggest eyes I have ever seen. She thought I had the bluest eyes she had ever seen.  I think it was the t-shirt that did it.

As I left she said, “we’ll be in touch, Butterfly”. I assume this was to do with my current haircut which sticks out on either side of my ears a bit like wings. It was quite nice to go for an interview and to know that looking a bit odd was probably a plus, seeing as they are hiring clowns.

On my drive home the next afternoon, Jean-Louis phoned me to tell me they want me to audition. HOORAH! But now I’m nervous. The auditions take place IN the hospital, WITH the children patients. I’ll be with two experienced Rire Médecin clowns, but still. I just need to stay calm, stay alert, improvise with my partners, be as Teapot as Teapot can be, and focus on each child. It’s going to be quite a day.

It is half past ten. Whoops. And this is not a short post. I am wrong about nearly everything these days. I’ll take that as a good sign.


L’Homme is home. That is, he’s not away touring for an entire week, but every other day he does a training course down in Montélimar. He gets home around 5pm, to the joy of all three of us. Ah, that good ole’ Daddy energy. Unshackled by the repetitiveness of our daily routine and yet another meal to wipe off the high-chair, he bowls on in and swoops us all off our feet, creating massive destruction, noise and untidiness but oh such fun and larks. He has had enough of eating out in restaurants and enjoying lush 4-star hotel breakfasts (aahh, poor him) and instead wants to cook, cook and cook again. Thick vegetable soups and purées and sausages and apple pies. He even cleans the kitchen up afterwards. It positively sparkles. He has missed changing Léonie’s pooey nappies, so leaps up whenever the occasion arises and whisks her off to the bathroom. He even de-snots her nose; something he never dared do when Tommy was a baby for fear of sucking his brain out of his nostrils. He is SuperDaddy. He is such a SuperDaddy that that is all Léonie says now he’s home.


She uses it to call him, to call me, Tommy, Baloo the dog, and whatever is on the telly or on her spoon. But mostly to call her Daddy. DAAAAAAA DEEEEEEEEE! Her vague mumblings of Mamammamamama or YAYEEY! (which is what she calls me – pardon – what she used to call me) are no longer. The only word she says now – loudly – is DAAAAA DEEEEEEEEEE. And it is driving me mad.

WHO does 95% of all the loving, cuddling, changing, bathing, dressing, undressing, cooking, feeding, playing, comforting, kissing, reading, walking, carrying, soothing, singing, putting to bed and getting up in the night? Not to mention 100% of the breast-feeding? ME. MUMMY. NOT DADDY. MUMMY. And I am beginning to feel quite miffed about the fact that I am clearly not as interesting as Daddy.

Yesterday I was sick. Literally. Some sort of tummy bug that knocked me out for the day and left me lying in bed with parched lips and a blue washing-up bowl by my bed. As I lay there shivering and hating the entire world I could hear Léonie calling out over and over again DAA DEEE! DAAAAAA DEEEEEEEEE! And SuperDaddy would reply “Oui! J’arrive, ma belle.” And I felt quite redundant. The kids had barely noticed I wasn’t around, they were having such fun with SuperDaddy. The cold weather broke and the sun came out so they all went out to play in the garden, for the first time in 2 weeks, whooping and laughing together. The smell of sausages wafted up into our bedroom and made me feel even worse. I wondered when, and if,  Léonie would want to see me. Having spent the last 2 weeks hankering for some ‘me’ time, I now had it but was too ill to enjoy it, plus I wanted my little baby girl to come and see me. She did eventually miss me – just around naptime – so we had a cuddle and I gave her a feed and she was out for the count. “Great” I thought. “So I’m a milk bar. She only wants to see me for her milk fix. That’s all I am. A milky, comfort thing.”

It always amazes me how bleak things look when I am ill.

Today I am better, if a bit wobbly and only capable of eating small bits of toast. L’Homme is away on his training course. Léonie has called me “Yayyeee” a couple of times and she is very affectionate, but as SOON as L’Homme walks back through the door I can bet what little I have in my bank account that she will be shouting DAAAAA DEEEEEEEE all evening. I am not sure how to deal with my jealousy. Because that’s what it is, if I’m honest, sheer jealousy that I am not Number One ALL the time, like I was with Tommy. L’Homme reckons it’s the father-daughter relationship phenomenon. Yeah, yeah, whatever. I am loathed to accept that even though I do so much of the parenting, he should reap more of the rewards.  Quite frankly, it’s just not fair. I know I am being childish. I know that Léonie loves me. I WOULD JUST LIKE HER TO SAY MUMMY.

Ah, I can hear her waking up. Off I go. I am going to repeat Mummymummymummymummymummymummymummymummy non-stop all afternoon until she is brainwashed.

Cheese dealer

I have a new vocation. Cheese dealer. I have just ordered 75 kilos of Comté cheese which I will be picking up on a motorway exit on Sunday night from my supplier. I will then bring the cheese home, weigh it, cut it, wrap it in neat triangular packages and sell it to the local cheese zombies, the Ardèche space cadets – all of whom are my close friends, so they can count on me to be pushing only the best stuff. I’m what they call a thoroughbred. A high class cheese dealer. I am at the moment filing their cheques and counting the banknotes which I have collected over the past two weeks. I won’t be making any money on this deal – it’s purely for the love of cheese. On Monday I shall do my delivery round and by the evening everyone will be totally cheese blitzed. Totally off their faces, with little salty cheese crumbs around their mouths. I’m feeling pretty out of it just thinking about 75 kilos of the stuff. Or is that just 14 months of sleep deprivation combined with an extreme coffee/chilli pepper habit? Whatever. In France do as the French do. So I’m dealing cheese. And yes, I have used the word cheese an inordinate number of times in this post. Well, we are talking about SEVENTY FIVE KILOS of cheese. Of cheese! Cheese cheese cheese cheese cheese cheese CHEESE CHEESE CHEESE.

it's just too good.