Category Archives: Lifestyle

France, Lifestyle, Paris

Power Walking down to Concorde

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Just power walked down to Concorde and back through the Tuileries Gardens but grossly underestimated the temperature. The thermometer says 9.5° but I forgot about the wind factor. Next time, I’ll wear my cap with ear flaps (hoping I don’t meet anyone I know, Black Cat in particular) and my inferior Australian suede gloves (because I still haven’t got my new rabbit-fur ones from Italy). Or I could just use my exercise bike and watch a movie at the same time (if I can get the technology to work).

But if I did that, I’d miss the pianist on Place du Palais Royal and the guy with the giant bubble ring that all the kids love. I wouldn’t see the glass pyramids of the Louvre or the pink marble Carrousel Arch with its gold figures and green horses. I would miss the sun setting over the Eiffel Tower and the giant Ferris wheel looking so out-of-place with the Obelisk peaking out behind, mocking my fear of heights. I wouldn’t see the kids sailing their boats on the pond and looking like an Impressionist painting (except for their jeans and anoraks) nor hoping for a ride on the Olde Worlde carousel.

Neither would I be reminded on seeing the Orangerie that I haven’t been back since renovation to visit the wonderful oval rooms with Monet’s waterlilies (shame on me). I wouldn’t see the seagulls calling and screeching over the fountain. I wouldn’t have that stunning view of the Louvre spread out before me as I power walk my way back. I’d miss the man who hires out the sail boats pushing his boat-laden trolley home at the end of the day.

 I wouldn’t see the lovers kissing on benches (they don’t have cold ears) or the foreign tourists having their cheese and wine picnics (and ignoring the cold). I wouldn’t see Henry (and not the more strait-laced Thomas) Moore’s Reclining Figure at the foot of the Orangerie or the 18 Maillol statues down the other end. I would miss the open-mouthed fish at the bottom of the lamp posts next to the Decorative Arts Museum. Not to mention the giant monkey leaning out the window!

I wouldn’t be treated to the welcoming smell of roast chestnuts as I come out onto Rue de Rivoli. Neither would I go past the Comédie Française where Molière died in his chair or see the Night Revellers’ Kiosk. I wouldn’t see all the kids playing among the Buren columns and proudly wearing their crowns (they had the galette des rois today). I wouldn’t see all the people crowded into Miss Bibi’s tiny jewellery shop nor would I have the pleasure of feeling my ears get warmer as I walk up the stairs to my apartment.

But, more than anything else, I might forget just how lucky I am to actually live in the Palais Royal, right in the centre of the City of Light!

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Dieting, Food, Lifestyle, Wine

The Natural Skinnies and Us

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At my wedding in 1998

We all know there are two types of people in the world when it comes to weight – the natural skinnies and us. The natural skinnies, including Black Cat, appear to be able to eat enormous amounts of food, and never budge a gram, while we seem to put on weight just looking at a high calorie morsel. It doesn’t really work that way of course. The natural skinnies do have a different metabolism, but they also seem to be more attracted to less fatty foods, or so I’ve noticed over the years. Black Cat wouldn’t eat meat for the first six years of her life and when she did, she’d take off all the fatty bits. She never ate the chicken skin either.

Leonardo, like me, didn’t do anything of the sort. We both have the same sort of morphology. I have chocolate junkie friends who are natural skinnies and I couldn’t work out how they did it. Black Cat is not an example because she doesn’t like chocolate of any shape or kind. But careful observation has shown that either they exercise a lot or they don’t eat fatty foods. I like good chocolates from time to time but I don’t ever crave them, unlike Relationnel.

When natural skinnies are stressed, they lose weight, and when they’re happy, they lose it too! We obviously put on weight in both cases. So keeping my weight down when I was young was always an effort and always much easier when I had control over what I ate on an everyday basis. I also had a reasonable amount of regular exercise, playing volley ball and squash and swimming.

Then I came to France and discovered a whole new way of eating. I just loved the baguettes and pastries and wine. Once I set up house, though, I switched to Asian cooking – mainly because I didn’t want to compete with the French – and kept my weight down that way until I was pregnant with Leonardo. I suddenly started craving bread and vegemite, milk and lamb cutlets. The weight piled on of course and it wasn’t until Leonardo was 8 months old and I cut out the 2 litres of milk a day that I lost weight again.

I was fine until I became pregnant with Black Cat and the same thing happened again. But life was not easy so I kept the weight on a bit longer. By the time she was 18 months old, though, I was actually slim again but unhappy so it gradually came back on because I started binging. Then, a couple of years later, when I turned 36, I had an epiphany and decided I was going to take my life (and weight) in hand. By the next year, I had lost 17 kilos. It just seemed to fall off by itself as my divorce approached.

In 2004

I maintained a weight I was very happy with until I met Relationnel. Our eating habits changed and we ate out a lot. We also started our « wine-tasting » holidays where we’d spend a week in a wine-growing area of France visiting a couple of vineyards each day. I acquired a penchant for foie gras and started eating bread with my meals, which I had never done. We’d grill large amounts of meat on the open fire or barbecue every day.

It was no surprise to discover I was putting on weight! Relationnel was too, but to a lesser extent. Although he’s not a natural skinny he still benefits from all the gymnastics he did in his youth and sporadic intensive exercise. I can remember coming home from three weeks’ holiday in Italy and not being able to fit into my clothes any more. Relationnel was amazed. Despite the fact that we had eaten virtually the same food the whole time, I was the one who had put on weight. He thought my excess weight was due to snacking between meals which I virtually never do.

So, 13 years after we first met, I was over 20 kilos heavier! Next time I’ll tell you how I lost all those kilos.

You might also like to read:
The Natural Skinnies and Us
How I lost 20 kilos after 50 – for good: Part 1
How I lost 20 kilos after 50 – for good: Part 2
How I lost 20 kilos after 50 – for good: Part 3
How I lost 20 kilos after 50 – for good: Part 4
How I lost 20 kilos after 50 – for good: Part 5
How I lost 20 kilos after 50 – for good: Part 6
How I lost 20 kilos after 50 – for good (well almost): Part 7
Where do all those extra kilos come from?
Appetite suppressants anyone? Some natural solutions
Intermittent fasting – for better health and less fat
Fast and feast and still lose weight
The 5:2 fast diet on holidays
Intermittent fasting or 5:2 fast diet after 5 months
 

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France, Lifestyle

Je chine, tu chines, nous chinons

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There’s actually a verb in French – chiner – for poking around in junk and antique shops looking for treasures! Now that we have a house in view, we’ve started doing the rounds of “brocantes”, “dépôts ventes” and “antiquaires” though I think we might have to give the last one a miss because of the high prices. A “brocante”, Relationnel tells me, is always out of town and everything is just piled higgledy-piggedly and you have to really root around. The “dépôt vente” is a place to which you take something you want to sell i.e. you “deposit” it, and the seller takes a commission. The prices are usually very reasonable, particularly for large items of furniture that are too big for most apartments and houses. We went to one in Nogent sur Marne last weekend and saw lots of things that would be great for the new house, once they’ve been spruced up a little, but we don’t have anywhere to store them. Antique shops, on the other hand, particularly in Normandy where we’re staying until Christmas, are more upmarket. 

At the moment, we’re looking for plaques de cheminée (firebacks), chenêts (fire dogs, isn’t that a neat name?) and other sundry utensils for the four fireplaces in our new house in Blois, only three of which we’ll be using. The other’s in the bedroom, which would be a bit messy because of the carpet. We all ready have one set of utensils that we have bought over the years to take with us in winter when we rent houses with fireplaces because they aren’t usually properly equipped. It seems that people get off with the pokers and tongs and break the belows. So we have our own pair of bellows, a shovel, brush, poker, large rake affair and a meat grill. We also have a chestnut pan (with holes in the bottom). 

The only problem with this type of activity in winter is that the places are never heated. I was positively frozen through after the third one. So we’ve decided to change tactics. There is a website called “Le Bon Coin” (The Right Corner) that Relationnel has been checking out. It even has an iPhone app! So we looked up plaque de cheminée and came up with a long list. We ruled out the ones that said “à débattre” which I always thought meant the seller was ready to knock the price down but it seems that it actually means they sell to the highest taker. We finally narrowed our choice down to three. The first was already sold, the second wasn’t answering so we left a message and the third said someone else had already contacted him and it would be “first in first served”. He was 50 minutes away, on the other side of Rouen. 

We put the firescreen in front of the fire, put our shoes and coats on and arrived on his doorstep 50 minutes later. The other buyer didn’t have a chance. Relationnel told me he had spoken to a “couple in their thirties”, but the man who opened the door was a spry 70! He took us down to a lean-to at the bottom of the garden and there was the fireback, a pair of firedogs, a log-holder (no doubt there’s a real name in English) and a firescreen. It seems they used to have a fireplace but something happened to it and they got a wood stove instead. He bought the fireback in 1976 from a foundry in Cousances that dates back to 1553 and uses traditional designs. We actually have a “certificate of authenticity” and our fireback is numbered!

French customs, Lifestyle

Beds I Have Known

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I’ve already told you about my obsession with showers. I’m probably just as obsessed, if not more obsessed, with beds. Not as easy to do something about though. I don’t think I’ve always been this fussy. It’s probably developed with age.

The worst are the ones that sag in the middle, particularly when there are two of you. Now this shouldn’t be a problem – it’s not when you’re young anyway. That’s why I think age has something to do with it. Inner spring mattresses are often the culprit here. They can also cause hard lumps, particularly if they happen to be the beds you jumped on as a child.

Bed in a hotel in Innsbruck

I have horrible memories of terrible beds in French hotels and rental homes in the past. They’ve improved considerably over the years, partly because we can afford to stay in more expensive accommodation, I assume, but also because hotel owners and Gîtes de France have now realised that foreigners (like me!) don’t like awful beds. We’ve never had the problem in the Netherlands, Germany, Austria , Luxembourg or Switzerland  because double beds always consist of two single beds joined together. They even have separate covers most of the time, usually dooners. Now, I think that is very strange. There is something I don’t understand. I still haven’t worked out the logistics. How do you sleep at night (and otherwise use the bed) with two separate mattresses and two separate covers? In Italy, you usually have a double bed which is rightly called a « letto matrimonial » and is generally comfortable. The country hasn’t gained its reputation as the land of the Latin lover for nothing.

Speaking of dooners, that is something I have a problem with as well. When I first moved to France, I loved them. I bought a very expensive one made of goose and duck down and used it for years. Then I guess I got used to the cooler weather so that now, even when the heating is not very high, I absolutely roast with a dooner and have gone back to using a woollen blanket. However, dooners have become standard equipment in rental homes so we usually take our own!

In the last place we lived, we had a small bedroom so we had a small bed (140 cm). When we moved into Paris though, we decided to get a BIG bed, meaning a queen size. However, I didn’t realise it would have two separate bases joined together, nor that that would pose a problem. However, instead of sagging in the middle, it gradually developed a hump in the centre which forced us to sleep on the outer edges. Now the reason for the two bases is that it is otherwise impossible to get a queen size bed up to the fourth floor without a lift. This, it seems, is a recurring problem in Paris.

We eventually decided to get a new bed and went to a local store. The salesperson said we could claim on our warranty and get the other one replaced. I hadn’t thought of that! So we went to back to the original shop and organised to have the mattress replaced. I was relieved because despite my obsession with good beds, I find it nearly impossible to lie down on a bed in a shop and decide if it’s the right mattress or not. Some are very treacherous. You think they’re fine and they turn out to be too hard or too soft. And it’s a bit difficult to take them back. What’s that saying? If you make your own bed, you must lie in it?

Angelus at Le Clos Postel

Since we’ve been going to B&Bs, which have really upgraded in the last ten years in more ways than one, we haven’t had any more bed problems. Our first and all-time-favourite B&B in the Cotentin in Normandy, Le Clos Postel, has the most wonderful bed imaginable. First, the bed itself is not too hard and not too soft. Then it has this luxurious down cover between the mattress and the sheet that doesn’t generates just the right amount of warmth and is oh so soft.  I couldn’t wait to have one myself so we got all the details from our hostess Lydie. Now we have one of our own and that, together with our electric blanket in winter, makes our bed the best place in the world to be!

B&B Le Clos Postel : http://www.clospostel.com/, though it is probably a big mistake sharing the link because if you all take my adivce, there will never be any room for us!
Lifestyle, Paris

3 iPhone Apps for Paris and WiFi

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Black Cat told me about the most wonderful iPhone App called What’s App. You can send text messages for free throughout the world to anyone with an iPhone and What’s App. Wish I’d known about it last summer when I clocked up a nice little bill texting Black Cat from the 9 different countries we went to in Europe! It’s a pity Relationnel has that Bathtub because it could be very useful when we’re both outside France and need to connect up. The app costs 79 euro cents which is about one Aussie dollar I guess.

Now the next app that I also used for the first time yesterday is Mobiletag. This one’s free. You can use it to scan the QR codes at the bus stops in Paris (you know, those little black and white square things that are everywhere these days) to find out when the next bus is coming. There was someone else waiting for the bus as well so I proudly told her, “The bus is coming in 3 minutes”. “Oh, really, mine says 4 minutes. I hope it comes soon. I’m running late but I really hate the metro at peak hour”. I explained it was the first time I was using the app and she said she used it all the time. A real Parisian, obviously.

The third app is My Airport which, despite the name, is in French. It gives flight times and useful information about Charles de Gaulle airport to help you negotiate what a CNN survey said recently is the worst airport in the world. Although it’s in French, the vocab’s pretty basic : Horaires Vols Départ (departure times – vol means “flight”), Horaire Vols Arrivée (arrival times), Compagnies (airlines), Formalités (you can guess that one), Services pratiques (ditto), Services Affaires (business services), Accès (that’s a challenge) and Parking. Don’t forget to download a French/English dictionary before you go too.

But you have to be able to use all these apps, of course. Fortunately Paris has set up a free wifi system with about 400 hotspots: in town halls (one in each of the 20 arrondissements), public gardens, libraries and state-owned museums from 7 am to 11 pm. There’s an interactive map on http://plan.paris.fr/. Just click on the W icon up in the tool bar.  Don’t be phased by the fact that wifi access screen is entirely in French. Just follow the instructions at the end of this post.

There are also lots of cafes with free wifi access in Paris. You’ll find them on http://www.cafes-wifi.com/. Once again it’s in French, but you can use the  interactive map.

You can find other suggestions for iPhone aps for Paris on liligo.com

How to connect to Paris Wi-Fi

1. Municipal buildings and gardens with a wi-fi access have an easily identifiable sign that says “Zone Wifi”.

2. Turn on your laptop or smart phone and select Wi-Fi ORANGE.

3. Open your usual web browser and enter the address of any website. You’ll be automatically sent to the free wifi access page. You then select “SELECTIONNEZ VOTRE PASS” in the orange box on the right.

4. Fill in the form, accept the general conditions of use by ticking the box and click on [me connecter]. If you’ve already signed in before, use the box “Vous avez déjà vos codes d’accès” (you’ve already got and ID and password (mot de passe).

5. The Paris Wi-Fi home page will reload and you’ll get a message saying you are connected and how long your session will last.  Make sure you leave the window open because it indicates the remaining time. Each session lasts 2 hours. You can renew it simply by repeating the connection process.

Lifestyle

Outdoor swimming at 4°C in Normandy

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‘Twas the day before Christmas and the ground in Normandy was covered in snow. So we decided to try the outdoor pool in Rouen. We had a lot of trouble finding it, despite the Tom-Tom because it was in the middle of an enormous housing estate. We picked our way carefully along the path from the car, making sure we didn’t break our legs on the ice and slush before we got to the pool.

Inside, there was a 25-metre pool and a smaller children’s pool. The 50-metre was outside. You got to it by going down into a pool on one side then swimming through one of those plastic strip curtains out to the other side where you could see the steam rising off the water. Relationnel, who’s happier walking up mountains than swimming, remained inside to “warm up”. When the cold air struck my head despite my swimming cap, I started swimming energetically. After about 300 metres, I decided to go indoors. Every time I took my head or a limb out of the water, I was cold despite the fact that the water was 28°. And the snow-laden fir trees I’d somehow imagined as a backdrop were missing. Just urban suburban.

I met Relationnel on my way back through the strip curtains but he only did about a half a lap before scuttling back inside. I was much happier doing my laps out of the cold I can tell you.

Suzanne Berlioux Pool

I usually swim in the Suzanne Berlioux pool in Les Halles in the middle of Paris. I discovered recently when taking some Aussie friends for a walk in the area that you can actually look down on the swimmers from above. It was a bit eerie. When you’re swimming, you can’t imagine it. In any case, you’re so busy making sure that you don’t get drowned by people (mainly men – why aren’t they swimming in the fast lane?) pounding their way past you that you don’t have time to notice your surroundings. I’ve finally discovered a time when it’s reasonably safe – Tuesday afternoons. I once suggested to one of the monitors that they should have a special lane for brutes. She replied that they would need too many!

I find it difficult to imagine how you can be breastroking away and someone actually backstrokes into you. And how they can bang into you when you’re backstroking and they’re breaststroking is even more incomprehensible. I was swimming away the other day perfectly happily on the right side of the lane (as I should have been) when I saw someone coming towards me at a fast crawl (ha! ha!) in MY LANE for no apparent reason. It was difficult to know where to go but they swerved back at the last moment thank god.

The people I dislike the most are the ones that swing up and down like monkeys from the ring at the end of the pool. It’s OK it you’re doing breaststroke or freestyle but if you’re doing backstroke you can be walloped in the head by their rear end as they swing back.

What I’d really like is to have the pool to myself.

Lifestyle

iPhone Thieves in Paris

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Of course, the problem about iPhones is that other people want them too.

When I had lunch at Vilalys in the Palais Royal gardens with my German friend Chris just after I got my iPhone, I naturally had to demonstrate all its wonderful features, particularly since the last time I saw her, I only had my Palm Pilot, cool I must admit but nothing like an iPhone. After lunch, Relationnel and I left for a long weekend and it was not until we were a couple of hours out of Paris that I realised I no longer had my iPhone.  A weekend of anguish. The first thing I did when I got back was to go and see them and, wow, was I lucky! The waitress found it on the table when I left and gave it to the manager. I was so grateful that I bought them all Lotto (lottery) tickets in true Australian style. They were most surprised as it’s an unheard of “thank you” in France.

Recently however, Black Cat phoned me when she got to work, most upset. She had been listening to music on her iPhone in a crowded metro when the music cut out. Her iPhone had disappeared at the same time of course … The only good thing was that she was able to buy an iPhone 4. Now she has less recognisable black earbuds instead of the characteristic white ones and never gets her iPhone out in the metro.

I was careful about mine for a while but I gradually got blasé again and the next time I saw Chris, we had lunch on the terrace of the Autobus Impérial, which, by the way, I can highly recommend, unlike Vilalys which, despite the honesty of its staff, has become a victim of its success. It used to be very good, but last time I went, the salmon was overcooked and the other things on the Vilalys Platter were not up to scratch.

Anyway, I had put my iPhone on the table next to me to show Chris some photos when an unkempt-looking Spaniard came up and threw a sheet of paper on the table, begging. I waved him away and so did the waiter. He picked up the paper and left. It was only then that I realised he had taken my beloved iPhone with him! Chris was most upset, convinced it was her fault. I assured her however it was entirely due to my own carelessness. I used her mobile to phone Orange to cancel the account, which took quite some time as they asked for my “confidential code” which the recorded message said was on my phone bill. Not exactly something you carry around, is it? Fortunately Relationnel was home for lunch and was able to give it to me. It turned out to be my pin code. Why didn’t they just say so for god’s sake?

After an excellent lunch which included the best entrecôte I’ve eaten in a long time, Chris and I went to the Orange boutique nearby. We were looked after by a very nice girl (surprising for Orange) who organised a new iPhone but in the meantime, the old one had been cancelled which meant I had to go to another boutique at Madeleine. To cut a long story short, despite the price of the iPhone, the damage wasn’t too disastrous. I was able to reduce my call plan and get unlimited SMS, a most definite advantage as I was constantly going above my 30 per month limit. A couple of weeks later, I spent an annoying two hours at the local police station making a declaration so that the phone itself could be disabled (see link below). Good thing I had my iPhone with me!

Apparently, the paper trick is well-known. Our real estate agent in Blois said that she’d only had her iPhone one day when a customer came in, sat down and asked about a place to rent. He, too, put a piece of paper on the table and when he left, there was no more iPhone!

This ever happened to you ?

L’Autobus Impérial: in a small street in the Châtelet Les Halles area,  midday menu at 13.50 euros for main course + café gourmand or 15.50 euros including an entrée + main course or main course + dessert + wine + coffee.

How to disable your iPhone and why: http://forums.macrumors.com/showthread.php?t=426564

 

 

Lifestyle

iPhone Crazy

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I love my iPhone. Sounds like some corny commercial doesn’t it? But I really do. I used to have an uncool Sony mobile with bluetooth and a cool Palm Pilot. That was before Black Cat dropped her phone in the Seine on the first day of her first real job when she went out onto the gang plank to make a private call. She could see the phone lying on the bottom of the river sinking further into the mud each day until it finally disappeared. But it was a good excuse to get an iPhone.

When she showed me what it could do, I couldn’t wait to have one of my own, particularly as my Palm was no longer performing very well. There was the added bonus that she would be able to explain it all to me. I reckon I’m pretty gadget-literate for my generation but the thought of learning how to work yet another one was a little overwhelming.

Relationnel has a Blackberry which I personally find totally useless. He came home from work one day with this little black thing and told me the others called it a “baignoire”. Why on earth would anyone call a phone a “bathtub”? He thought it might be the shape. Then it suddenly dawned on me. What they were really saying was “baie noire”, the literal translation of Blackberry, which is actually “mûre”. It’s become a standard joke in our house!

But back to the iPhone. I went to the bookshop and bought myself “iPhone pour LES NULS” because it never hurts to be a dummy even though Leonardo scoffed at me. That way I didn’t have to rely on Black Cat totally, particularly as I only see her once or twice a week which is not very often when you get a new gadget. Once I got the hang of the Apps, there was no holding me back. Now I can look up the dictionary or check out something on google whenever I want. I can find out what the weather will be like next day or next week. I can do my banking and take the bus instead of the metro (like a real Parisian) because I don’t have to try and decipher that awful bus map.

I can play WordWarp in the metro or standing in a queue. I can look up the yellow pages and give people directions in the street (instead of sending them in the wrong direction the way I did one night when a lady was looking for the theatre – never ask a foreigner for directions!). I can look up words in foreign languages. I can find out where the traffic jams are and save someone’s life with my Red Cross App (haven’t tried this out for real yet). I can listen to meditation exercises when I can’t go to sleep. I can measure the length of a room (how come I didn’t think of that the other day when we were visiting our new house ?).

I can jot down ideas for my blog and identify unknown mushrooms in the forest (and not be poisoned). I can talk to Leonardo on skype. I can consult my Paris tourist guide or the TV programme (not that there’s ever anything on) and best of all, I can take photos ALL THE TIME. Then post them on Facebook!

You may have noticed that I haven’t mentioned actually talking to people on the phone. It does happen, occasionally, and that’s where having earphones is wonderful. I can talk to Black Cat while I’m making dinner or hanging out the washing or doing some other boring thing. I can consult my emails whenever and wherever I like. And I can flick the screen and make it all big enough to see. And do you know something really strange – it took me two years to realise than when I swap languages from French to English, the keyboard switches from azerty to qwerty!!!

So, tell me, why do you love your iPhone?

Lifestyle

From tropical Queensland to Parisian winter

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I hate it when the leaves fall off the trees and the temperatures go down and the days grow shorter. I’m not made for the Parisian winter. I was born and bred in the tropics.

I don’t think I’ll ever get used to having to wear shoes every day for months on end instead of going barefoot. And I can remember knitting and wearing my first pair of gloves when I was at uni in North Queensland. It certainly wasn’t cold enough for the thick pullover I knitted to go with them. Or even for the gloves for that matter. It’s so funny when I go back there during the winter and everybody complains that it’s “freezing”. But it’s really only because they leave the windows open all the time, even when it’s 10°C outside. Not that it oftens gets that cold. So I suggest, “how about you close the windows?” “Close the windows? We’ll suffocate! You have to have fresh air mate!” You can’t close a lot of the windows anyway. Most of them seem to be stuck open.

Now, that’s not what happens in Paris, I can tell you. I have to make this big effort during winter to open the windows for a quarter of an hour every day to let the fresh air in. But to do so, you have to turn the heating off because otherwise the thermostat goes crazy trying to increase the temperature to make up for the genuinely freezing air that pours in. If I forget to do it after I first get up, I have to find a strategic moment during the day when I don’t mind being cold for an hour afterwards. That is one of the reasons why I don’t like winter.

The next one is having to get up when it’s still pitch black outside. It means having the light on half the day because not only does it get light late, forcing you to stay in bed in the morning, but it gets dark again by 5 o’clock. You read about these people who get depressed if you don’t have enough light. Well, I think I’m one of them. I don’t ever remember getting up in the dark at home in Townsville and I certainly didn’t come home from school in the dark. I used to feel so sorry for my kids when they were at school here.

But the worst is having to get dressed and undressed every time you set foot outside. You have to put on  your socks and boots and a jumper or a jacket, then a coat and a scarf and a hat and your rabbit-lined gloves because they’re the only ones that stop your fingers going numb with the cold. I was so pleased when I found my first pair. They are soft and silky and WARM.  Of course, there is no way you can keep them for more than a couple of winters. One inevitably escapes when you’re on the metro or in a restaurant or even sometimes in the street because you can’t use an iPhone with gloves on. Well, I can’t anyway. And then the only shops that sell them in Paris must have millionnaires for customers. But I finally found an Italian website that keeps me stocked.

I have Australian friends that actually LIKE coming here in the winter. They say it’s “welcome relief from the heat”. I do not understand them.

It’s amazing how you can’t even remember what being hot is like in the dead of winter.

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