Vive la France!

And so it has come to pass that French ceases to be. At least for this steadfastly monolingual miss. For what is supposed to be the language of love (or is that Italian? Or Spanish? Well, they're all sex mad on the continent) it has, alas, inspired nothing but scorn and an insatiable habit of cursing within me. Perhaps our paths will cross again in happier cicumstances, or maybe I shall be content to merely order cafe au lait whilst sitting sunning myself on a Parisian terrace, chic and cultured beyond comprehension. Sans doute, une bonne idee.
Thus one foreign language is exchanged for another, with a wholeheartedly more fluent parlance the order of the day as the next exam is approached without a backward glance at the shambolic disaster of this morning that shall henceforth be known as... 'le matin de merde'. Metonyms, hyperbole, anaphora, sibilance, prolepsis, enjambment, assonance, ceasura, juxtaposition, lexus, bla bla bla, etc etc. Much more my cup of tea (and how's that for a metaphor?).A good few spatterings of these and I'll be laughing. The bits in between needn't even make sense.

Unfortunately the time has come to tackle the vast yukness that is my room. I know, I know, but I have been pushed into it against my will, finally succumbing to the endless hints, suggestions and downright objections to the ghastly state of it. There is even (of which I am particularly proud of) a rather attractive urine-coloured streak of cat sick stain on entering the boudoir of Anna. It's always nice to know there is a little haven to escape to. I may have lost the battle this time round, but the war against cleanliness is not yet over. It is perfectly plausable that I will end up one of those weird cat women: old, cabbage smelling, animal fur-strewn, and quite, quite mad. Tins of half eaten cat food will litter a poky flat, and dead mice will be found half decomposed at the back of cupboards. But, hell, if I'm happy...