Category: Caro’s Minute by minute

During our holidays in the mountains, we played “beret”. It’s a sort of dodge ball but without ball and without dodge. No one knows that game except for former scouts actually.  I have to admit that explaining the rules is exhausting only by the thought of it but basically at one point you have to RUN. Usually, I am clever enough to be “busy” during those parental joy and group emulation moments. But that day, I don’t know, a blank, an invisible stroke or planets misalignment, I heard myself yelling: “wait for me, I’m playing too”

As a result, the best members of the group made up my team but we lost and not only did I humiliate myself trying to catch up with a six years old girl but I also fell flat like a shit while trying (no other less rude comparison comes to my mind right now). I don’t know what was the most degrading, falling heavily after running two meters or my panicked kids’ attentiveness, they treated me for the two following days like a 80 years old with anemia. “Are you alright mum?”, “Are you sure?”, “What about your bum?”.

Anyway, that day, I said to myself something that didn’t cross my mind since… since never actually: a bit of sport would do me good.

And once back in Paris, I took advantage of the fact that my children stayed with their grandparents to throw myself into a daily jogging routine.

Wanna read about it?

08h00: After investigating all available options for physical exercise and eliminating the gym (already tested twice), swimming pool (done too) and curling (my true passion, together with nail art, but it is difficult to practice in Paris), I find at the bottom of my wardrobe, well hidden, those lazy bitches of running shoes, which I bought on one of those days when full of hope you fall for a too small by two sizes pair of jeans AND the shoes that might enable you to fit in it after two years.

08h02: I inform the Churros that I am going to run.

08h03: The Churros reminds me that it’s not a school day today so I am not late to take Rose to school, “no need to rush”, I can even go back to bed.

08h04: « Running like in jogging », I precise.

08h05: « That’s great, but do you think it’s fine for your bum? ».

08h06: I tell the Churros that, strangely, he was not that worried for my sacrum last night when it was obviously much more loaded than during a jogging.

08h08: The Churros tells me that he gets excited thinking about last night.

08h10: I quiet him down directly, I will need all my energy. I don’t want to scare him but I read that athletes, after a while, are less interested in sex for they have such a blast during exercise (or maybe that’s Buddhist monks, I am not quite sure).

08h11: The Churros thinks it’s not nice to have a sporty wife. I tell him I’ll become a bombshell and he will surely like it. The Churros replies that he doesn’t care that I’m a bombshell if he can’t touch.

08h12: I am wondering if I should eat before or after running.

08h13: The Churros thinks it would be unreasonable to go with an empty stomach. He is smiling weirdly when saying this.

08h14: I call my friend Zaz to ask her if I should eat before or after running.

08h15: My friend Zaz doesn’t know, however she is worried for my knees, « jogging is very bad for joints ».

08h16: I call my friend Laetitia, she is in the cinema business, these people know.

08h17: « Fuck, we said we would never ever start jogging », this is what my friend Laetitia answers. For that eating before or after thing, she thinks it doesn’t matter.

08h19: My friend Chloé is extremely worried about me wanting to run, she proposes to take a day off so that we can talk together. She pronounces each word one after the other, articulating as if I suffered from cognitive issues.

08h20: My friend Julien is of the opinion that it’s better to eat before. On the other hand, he is categorical – he was in my team for the “beret” game – I must start slowly. Slowly meaning “twenty minutes max during the first week”. “Otherwise your body will give way”.

08h22: I’m starting to wonder if my close relations really want me to be a bombshell.

08h23: I’m tempted to call my friend Fanny who just finished a marathon in less than 4h, but I fear she will suggest I do it with her. I mean, my friend Fanny feels a bit low around the thirtieth kilometer. I still have in mind my friend Julien’s 20 minutes.

08h24: I decide to run on an empty stomach.

08h25: Now that the breakfast issue is sorted out, I am left with the place where to run. “Are you going to Bois de Vincennes [1]?” asks The Churros.

08h26: I reckon that Bois de Vincennes is too far for a 20 minutes run, I had in mind the little park outside our building rather.

08h27: The Churros thinks I will look like a hamster after two rounds.

08h28: I find The Churros has a tendency to minimize the area of the park. This habit of finding everything’s smaller than it really is, it’s typically French and where does it take us?

08h29: Anyway I’ve made my decision, for a first time I prefer to stay close to home. I know myself, I’ll give all I have and probably draw on my reserves. I’ll be too happy not to take the metro after one hour of sport.

08h30: I am preparing a playlist, I read it’s half of the work, to have good music.

08h45: I have 25 tracks which rock in my Iphone, it really is a pain to have only a 20 minute run.

08h47: I am hesitating on the first song of my playlist, I feel it will be decisive. Beyonce, Rihanna or a good old Dalida?

08h49: The Churros thinks “Mourir sur scene” [2] totally fits the purpose.

08h50: The Churros is officially deprived of blowjobs for the next six months.

08h51: I call back all my friends and my mother to warn them that despite receiving no support at all from them, I am about to go for the first jogging of a long series. We’ll see who the fool is when I am a bombshell.

08h52: There’s no pocket in my legging to hold my Iphone.

08h53: I wonder if it wouldn’t be wiser to first buy proper equipment and energy gel like my friend Fanny used during her marathon. I am putting the cart before the horse a bit and we know it’s the best way to get in troubles. Sport is serious business.

08h54: The Churros just dug up an old waist pack to put my Iphone in. He says that anyway at this time of the day the park will be empty so I won’t meet anyone.

08h55: I just remembered that my friend Fanny told me that some people shit themselves during marathon.

08h56: I am not so sure anymore that being a bombshell is that important. After all Photoshop is there to be used.

08h57: I want a cigarette.

08h58: I receive an SMS from my daugther: “Mum I’m so proud of you”.

08h59: I put my cigarettes away, close my waist pack, put my headphones on, check the time and let’s go Dalida, If I don’t do it for me, I do it for my kids.

09h00: 20 minutes it’s five songs MAXIMUM, it will be fine.

09h01: five songs if you don’t count Dalida. What a chatterbox. Seriously, are these twelve chorus mandatory or what?

09h02: Let her dance once and for all so that we can move to the next one, with this pace         this is going to be long!

09h03: I have a stitch in my side. Learning the hard way. It might be that I am already a bombshell.

09h04: Good news is Dalida is now done dying on stage.

09h05: A good old Abba and off I go.

09h06: I wouldn’t want to get carried away but I think I’m getting hooked on sport. I mean, I feel that if I don’t do sport tomorrow. I’ll miss it.

09h07: I am getting caught in a fucking system maybe. My family life will suffer even though I chose to become free-lance to be more available. Just try to be available when you run marathons all over the world.

09h08: When I think that Julien believe I’m not able to run for more than 20 minutes. I haven’t checked the time but taking into account Dalida’s logorrhea I must be almost there.

09h09: NINE MINUTES. What.the.hell.is.happening?

09h09: Fanny never told me about the nine minutes wall.

09h09: Is this a joke and the tenth minute is jerking me around?

09h09: We are in a spatiotemporal drift, it’s the only possible explanation. It could be that I will run for the rest of my life, stuck at 9h09.

09h09: Is it possible in this case to finally experience the famous moment of pleasure all those who run talk about? That thing which give the impression they’re having a vaginal orgasm with each stride?

09h10: I don’t recall exactly what Julien said, for sure I heard 20 minutes yet he said 10. Which would mean I’m done now.

09h10: The more I think about it, the surer I get. And if I can trust someone, it must be Julien. He doesn’t joke with this kind of things.

09h10: Here we go, time stopped again. Apple product are shitty, I understand why kids swear only by Samsung.

09h10: Dalida’d better keep her mouth shut or I’ll make her eat her hair. I can’t stand her anymore. Neither her, nor Abba, nor Michel Delpech. Damn underground playlist.

09h10: Go on, have fun eleventh minute, in the meantime I am shaping up.

09h10: I am not categorical but I might just have felt something that could the famous pleasure. Welcome ladies endorphins, I’ve been waiting for you for 40 years, bitches, NO NEED TO RUSH RIGHT?

09h11: or maybe these are gas.

09h12: Fanny didn’t mention gas, but for sure I’m that close to shit myself.

09h13: or to throw up.

09h14: I’m that close to a whole lot of nice stuff, that’s for sure, however I am not breathing anymore.

09h14: When Julien said « your body will give way », I didn’t get that it was meant literally.

09h14: There’s an old lady in front of me, she is running too. I don’t know yet the runners’ honor code, will she take it the wrong way if I overtake?

09h15: On the other hand granny’s in shape, of course she must be only starting her jogging – and she is not a victim of a spatiotemporal plot (or she has a Samsung Galaxy) – but I’m struggling to catch up.

09h15: That’s why I will keep running, having this much energy at that age is priceless.

09h15: Come on, another small stride and I overtake, it’s a spirits lifter. When I think it is said that jogging is a lonely sport. Whereas not at all. Bonds are created, quiet maybe, but I think that’s it, I just joined the runners brotherhood, it could make me cry. This or the lack of oxygen.

09h16: One last effort and I am in front of h…

09h15: Oh but, it’s an equipment from the playground

09h16: It’s an equipment from the playground which is thus immobile.

09h16: And which I’ve tried to overtake for the past three minutes (18 for those who have a Samsung)

09h17: Which means I am actually standing still.

09h18: Or dead.

09h18: Or both.

09h18: I get an abominable coughing fit.

09h18: I’m going to puke my coccyx.

09h19: Hey Dalida, if you think that I give a damn that you’ve put gold in your hair to openly go fuck a teenager, let me tell you you’re barking up the wrong tree.

09h20: I just saw my reflection on the entrance door and I’m anything but a bombshell. Or maybe it’s because of the waist pack.

09h21: I open my front door while running.

09h22: I know what I mean.

09h23: For now I’m not sure I’ll miss it, the idea of not running again tomorrow.

Edit: The legs in the pix could have been mine if I hadn’t dropped my marathon runner career after one week. These are Zaz’s, that tart who NEVER runs (or once a year).

Edit2: Fanny, since this experience, I have no word to describe the admiration aroused in me by your 3h45 on Paris marathon.

So we were talking about our arrival in Stockholm, a few hours before the feared interview of Björn, songwriter for ABBA. Before going on with my story, which will be, you have no doubt about it, neither excessive nor voluntarily catastrophist, I am keen to precise that those two days (barely) have been filled with laughter, emotions and friendship. I knew Will (not that much) and just like I imagined, harmony has been confirmed (euphemism). But there was also JB, the cameraman and film editor, patient and never directive, Jeremy, journalist for Télé 7 Jours[1] who joined us and with who we giggled so much and finally Jojo, nanny for stars, a figure on her own who would deserve her own series (she SPEAKS to the plane before getting on) (we found crazier than me). On the other hand, Björn Ulvaeus is a living proof that you can be an international star, sitting on a (deserved) pile of gold, and simply stay a good man (well my analysis is based on the hour we spent together but he would have had reason to sigh believe me).

Shall we move on?

11h45: We land in Stockholm. Through the window, I can see only snow, forests and small lost red houses. I love when the first impression of a place I don’t know meets perfectly what I had pictured in my mind.

11h48: after custom gates, we are face to face with a 5×12 meter poster of ABBA. I take another Immodium.

11h53: Will asks me if I know at least which one of the two men I going to meet. I point at Benny, of course. Will pulls a strange face, as if he was realizing he brought Forrest Gump to Stockholm.

12h30: Arrival at Rival hotel, owned by Benny, Björn’s career partner and friend (for the girls, it is less clear, the two couples exploded in flight which triggered the group separation). Björn was with Agneta, so Will explains. « OK so Björn is straight, that’s an interesting information », I reply (and I mentally cross out my question about how difficult it is to be gay in Sweden). Will hesitates slightly before laughing and strangely does not mention anymore that he’s a fan. I sense our harmony is getting loose.

12h32: Rival hotel is impressive. The design is totally 70s, with a touch of Swedish chic (we’re in Ikea’s country, aren’t we?). The press agent, Ann-Sofi, is 22 and could be Agneta’s daughter. She warns us right away that we can forget about autograph, song for our mummy and all other inopportune love demonstration

12h33: I hide away the picture of Violette I brought especially for an autograph and kiss goodbye my proposal of an improvised duet in tribute to my grandmother. “It will give us extra time for questions”, Will pleads. That guy, always looking on the bright side of life. Gets on my nerves.

12h36: Will suggests we rehearse a bit. He’ll be Björn and I Forrest, basically. Ok, I say. (Freaking out).

12h38: Will loses his composure as I mumble my questions. The fact that I was not badly speaking English on purpose is now reaching his mind, I can see it. I can feel this kind of things.

12h44: I’m done with the run-through. I can hold on for six minutes. “OK listen, just focus on the pleasure you’ll have, it will be a blast. Worst case, we do post-prod. You’ll come to the studio to say you sentences again if pronunciation… well you see what I mean, don’t you?” Will reassures me with a flat voice. After that he runs to the toilets and makes a weird noise which does sound like a sob.

12h45: To relieve the pressure, I decide to do a few mindfulness exercises. To think only of  my breathing and nothing else than my breathing which is, admittedly, very random. Not visualize the moment I will REALLY sit in front of Björn with, all in all, nothing else than a Chinese portrait and my basic English.

12h46: My first question is looping in my head. It will be key. If it comes out of my mouth clearly, then I’ll be more confident and the rest will unfold just like the final scene in Billy Eliot. Or in Flash Dance. Or in Dirty Dancing. Come on, if that silly of Baby is capable of turning into a sensual bombshell, I don’t see why I couldn’t be in a sort of trance during which I would speak English fluently. It seems we use only 5% of our brain. There’s for sure a Robert & Collins hidden somewhere in the 95% left. I simply need to find it basically. As well as the key.

12h47: “Hello, Björn. At first, I wanted to say you very sincerely: Thank you for the music“[2]. This is a good introduction. Then I engage on: “If I feel sad, I put your disks and I feel better. If a party is a little gloomy, we just have to listen one of your hits and everyone is dancing. Are you aware of that, Björn?”

12h48: All is fine up to now. It got this under control. Let’s do a bit more mindfulness. Air goes in my trachea, I follow its path to my lungs. My chest lifts, slowly. I feel oxygen entering my blood vessels. Chilled out, that’s how oxygen is. Not stressed at all, cushy. While I mentally accompany my breathing in, I take note of my thoughts and put them away in a corner. Theeeere we go. All is but quiet and deli…

12h49: I’m chocking. Help. Air went in but does not come out. I’m going to die of hyperventilation. I’m drowning guys. Nine one one.

12h53: The press agent wave to us, we can go. I get up with a sort unsynchronized movement. I am actually going through this, it is a nightmare. Rose, now you can cry your eyes out so that I wake up. I promise I will not say anything even if it’s four in the morning. Me too I want a hug anyways.

12h54: No sign from Rose. I am ACTUALLY that close from interviewing of the biggest star of pop music.

12h55: In the lift, we’re not overconfident. William wipes his tears discreetly. I don’t know if he is moved or thinking of Marne la Coquette retirement house.

12h56: We enter the suite and see him. He is slim and looks 10 years younger than he really is. Suited suit, thin tie and sparkling blue eye. I am excited. Sexually I mean. That’s all I needed. Run Forrest, run.

12h57: Will introduces me while JB set up the equipment. There will be THREE cameras. No chance my inanity will go unnoticed thanks to an unfortunate technical issue

12h58: “She has a blog”, Will tells Björn.

12h59: “Yes”, I answer. Extremely well prononced my “Yes”, I need to point out.

13h00: Björn is astonished by the fact that I have a blog

13h02: I am astonished that Björn is astonished.

13h04: “Is it not a lot of pressure?”, he asks, looking straight into my eyes.

13h06: “Yes, it’s a lot of pressure”, I answer.

13h07: I think I have the solution, I’ll agree and repeat the last words. Clever. As a result, I am more confident. Björn confides he also wants to start a blog.

13h08: “Oh, great, but be careful, you know, as you said, it’s a lot of pressure, I mean, ten thousands of people read me every day. Before opening your blog, you have to be sure to be able to manage that”, I explain.

13h10: Will is stunned. It’s not as if Björn didn’t sell 460 million albums in 10 years and fill something like a hundred Stade de France[3]. “It might be a good idea to calm down on the pressure story…” I can read in his eyes. I need to get out of this impasse before to need to use a defibrillator on Will. I directly engage on my first question: “Björn, I wanted to thank you, very sincerely. I mean, you gave me such happiness and positive energy…”

13h12: Will wave at me just when I am about blast it with “Thank you for the music”. “Caro, we didn’t start rolling!”, he whines.

13h13: Hell. I just played my only card, my only sentence that was more or less grammatically correct and it was not filmed.

13h14: Please someone finishes me off. I will not come back after such an ordeal, that’s for sure. I’ll stay stuck there for my whole life, repeating “thank you for the music”. I’ll be sort of embodying Stockholm syndrome.

13h15: Björn is in stitches. He says we always should start before cameras roll, it would be more spontaneous (eat my pussy, Björn, let’s get this over with, I’m hot to trot right now). He also says that journalists always put themselves under too much pressure, they want to ask the most unusual question but it isn’t really anyways. Worst are the ones who proudly let out “thank you for the music” looking like they think they are the first to have that idea.

13h16: I laugh (too) loudly. Come on, “Asshole of journalist”, I say, “completely silly” to dare the “thank you for the music”. Fuck. (What the fuck)

13h18: Mum, come pick me up.

13h19: Damn it, JB, start your fucking camera right now or I’ll make you eat it. Let’s get this over with. I CANNOT chitchat AND make the interview. I am that close to use my Chinese portrait, right now, see. So you say “action” or I leave.

13h22: Silence, action. Don’t care, I repeat my introduction sentence, I have nothing else for back up. Forget spontaneity.

13h23: “Björn, I wanted to thank you. Not for the music (hu hu hu) but for this happiness you gave me”.

13h24: Björn has manners. He acts as if I didn’t tell him the exact same thing 2 minutes ago and answer that he is moved every time he hears this kind of thanks. He says the idea of being a fountain of joy makes him happy, still today. I ask a question about the musical Mama-mia. Time flies, thank god he is a chatterbox. Sometimes I throw a “Yes?” or a “Yes!” or, more refined, a “Really?”.

13h45: Chinese portrait. Björn goes along. He is stuck on “if you were a movie”. He says it’s a very good question. Move it, Claire Chazal [4], it’s now up to me. He can’t find an adequate answer and asks me to keep it in mind, he will answer at the end.

13h46:  This was my last question. Houston, we have a problem.

13h47: I can’t let him know it was my last question when he is stuck with that stupid movie thing. I humiliate him, I abandon him with a failure.

13h48: “What do you look at first when you see a woman?”, I ask in despair.

13h49: Well done, Forrest, well done. Best case he finds it retarded, worst case he thinks I’m hitting on him. Will makes a weird rough sound, we’re losing him.

13h50: Björn looks at me for a long time with half a smile and answers “Her eyes”.

13h51: Björn you’re a liar but it doesn’t matter I am all yours.

13h52: Carried away by enthusiasm, I finish him off with: “Do you have any regrets?“

13h53: Again long silence, again fixed gaze in my eyes, again wet panties: “I’ve done a lot of stupid things, you know. But I think that one of my biggest regrets is my divorce. It’s so much pain, when love’s ending…”.

13h55: Will cries like a young baby.

13h56: Björn’s eyes are wet. We are all aware something strong just happened. Leave us now please. I have a man to comfort. And no worries, I have all the required vocabulary, no need for a dictionary, believe me.

Last Thursday my friend Maud sent me a text: “What about a Thai massage despite this crappy weather?”

I say, you have the friends you deserve. The kind you haven’t seen for two years because of the notorious “We’re really too stupid” and the frequent “Our lives are so crazy” but who calls you just like that to suggest a Thai massage.

So, of course, I replied just like any normal woman would do.

“I’m totally in”.

Then, I had to calm the churros down as he didn’t really know where to start in terms of his fantasies. Will the therapist touch my boobs? Will I touch Maud’s? Or will I touch mine while watching the therapist touch Maud’s? Or… Ok.

Long story short, I left, lighthearted to see my friend again and very excited with the prospect of being pampered for one hour in an apparently acclaimed spa.

The rest is slightly… tougher.

18h: I arrive in front of Ban Sabai. In the 16th arrondissement, say what you like but it smells money so much that one could think it grows on trees.

18h02: My friend Maud arrives. I’d like to understand how come some woman still grow after legal age.

18h05: After a big hug, we walk inside the spa. It smells oils and luxury. A dozen of superb women welcome us with deference and greet “Miss Maud”. I love the idea to be with a regular. The way she chooses her friends defines a woman. Already you feel respected.

18h06: “We’ll start the massages straight away, kindly follow-us”, Ling and Ping (names have been changed) explain.

18h08: We settle in a room made of teak, bamboo and candles. Two king size beds are next to each other. I’m filled with emotion thinking of what the churros is missing. Especially now that Maud is already wearing only her panties.

18h09: My friend Maud’s put her massage kimono on in three seconds. You can see she’s a pro.

18h11: I just realised the bottom is actually the top. I’ve put it on the wrong way round.

18h13: Not sure if the style of David Douillet[1] would make the churros fantasize actually.

18h14: Here come our therapists. Mine must be 1m55 and weight as much as one of my thighs. Somehow I feel better especially as Maud just told me innocently that Thai massages are like no others. “It’s a bit as if somebody was gyming on your behalf, you see?”

18h15: I’m not so sure I see but the idea of gyming by proxy sounds appealing.

18h16: Ling asks if I’m used to Thai massages and if I want the pressure to be light, medium or strong.

18h17: “Do as usual”, I answer. My friend Maud just asked for strong and I’d rather die than look like a sissy. Especially as, without meaning to brag, I’m quite tough. No merit, it’s a matter of personality. Some resist pain better than others. No, I wouldn’t go as far as courage, but that said…

18h18: Ling interrupts my thoughts with a weird little laugh and she says she’s not sure she should do as usual if it’s my first time.

18h19: If I were of the suspicious kind, I would say she’s pulling my leg. And I’m actually of the suspicious kind. Come on Ling, show me what you’re capable of. In case you didn’t notice, you don’t even come up to my waist line. And it took me 14h, 7 of which without epidural, to laboriously reach a dilation of 9cm. And then it stopped so that I can enjoy two childbirths in one: vaginal delivery AND emergency c-section. Since that time, NOTHING scares me sweetie.

18h20: Ling begins with washing my feet. I thank god I came with new shoes.

18h21: Ling wipes my feet. Vigorously.

18h22: Ling might be THE solution for smelly feet. Even if ripping off your feet soles could be a bit drastic.

18h23: My friend Maud has a weird smile.

18h24: A question comes to my mind. Why already didn’t we see each other for two years?

18h25: Ling warns me she’s about to start. I actually thought we’ve already got to the heart of the matter.

18h26: She cracks my toes.

18h27: Ling seems to take personally the fact that my big toe refuses to crack.

18h28: Ling gets to grips with my calves. That are definitely not erogenous zones.

18h29: Ling digs her fingers behind my left knee and says she’s taking it easy because she can feel my resistance.

18h30: The fact that taking it easy means for Ling grabbing my knee cap from the back of my knee doesn’t sound good to me.

18h31: Ling pulls my leg with a snap and let it fall back on the bed. She does it thrice. I am not 100% sure, but she seems upset that my leg is still linked to the rest of my body.

18h32: Anyway, it’s the only explanation I see for the fact that my right foot is now behind my left ear and my knee against my shoulder blade. I start right away a mindfulness exercise and visualize my pain.

18h33: I’m making incredible progress with mindfulness. I can see my pain so precisely. I could cry. I fact I’m crying.

18h34: I’d like to ask Ling where she studied osteopathy but something holds me back.

18h35: Her foot, precisely. That is right now crushing my plexus, making each breath problematic.

18h36: All those things we say on the fact that it is impossible for a human being to touch its bum with its nose are totally wrong. However, it comes with a few uncomfortable sensations. On the other hand, if I were a man I would be doing myself a blowjob. Or even…

18h37: While I execute – against my will – a figure that reminds me of a Kamasutra position. Maud moans slightly from pleasure. Ping is gently touching her neck and it looks really enjoyable.

18h38: Now I remember. 1995, Paul and Béa’s wedding. A kenzo scarf. I think I never gave it back to her. I clearly underestimated her attachment for that scarf. That’s how you end up fifteen year later brought down by the love child of Mike Tyson and Jackie Chan.

18h39: I solemnly promise myself I will never reply « Yes » to an SMS coming from someone I haven’t seen in more than two years.

18h40: Ling puts me on my back, spreads my legs, crouches next to my perineum and is about to massage my tummy.

18h41: I feel that torture is over, now she will only energetically stroke my abdomen. That might stimulate my lazy bowel movement. Good news, in any case, is that there are no joint to crack in the belly.

18h42: Bad news is that there are vital organs to crush.

18h43: Let’s hope it was my gold bladder, which she moved by a good ten centimeters. I’m almost sure you can live without a gold bladder.

18h45: I never thought I could feel like I’m about to puke my IUD.

18h46: Come on Ling, enjoy my floating ribs. We’re close to pneumothorax, that said. No offence, right!

18h48: Ling asks me to sit up.

18h49: That’s my call, Ling, my call.

18h50: I sit up and try to show her that my body could be under her influence despite how tiny she is but that I kept my free will. But not my motor functions. Ling has to help me rise.

18h51: My friend Maud says she is a bit cold.

18h52: Poor thing. Fuck, let Ling take care of you for five minutes and you’ll never be cold, believe me. Neither hot actually. Nor hungry, nor thirsty. Right, I can’t feel my tongue anymore and I’m not sure I didn’t soil myself.

18h53: My friend Maud finds the heater is too noisy, it disturbs her relaxation.

18h54: I send tearful looks to my friend Maud for her to stop provoking these two mad Asians.

18h55: I’m wasting my time. Right when she asks for a blanket and for the heater to be turned off, Ling lifts me from behind and throws me literally two meters above the bed.

18h56: Ok, where is that fucking camera?

18h57: I swear Maud, I never EVER meant to STEAL your scarf.

18h58: “Relax, if you don’t relax, the manipulation I’m about to do can be dangerous”.

18h59: I shouldn’t have told her before she started that my neck is fragile.

19h00: It’s a basic rule. Don’t reveal your weak points to your persecutor, under no circumstances.

19h01: Have mercy, I beg you, leave me alone [2], I moan. I have a saving account, I add in a pathetic attempt to wheedle her.

19h02: Obviously I just broke her honor code. Thais take bribing stuff very seriously. Lings looks as determined as ever. She comes behind me, place her arms below mine and turn my chest by 90° with a span.

19h03: In the heat of the action, a slat of the bed just broke, it made such a huge “crack” noise. In your face, Ling, I will personally make sure it is taken from your salary.

19h04: Ah, it seems that in reality the noise was my third vertebra breaking. I am paralyzed from the chin downwards.

19h05: “Your body still needs massage” says Ling, with an irrevocable tone.

19h07: The only thing my body needs is a stretcher. Or even, a coffin.

19h08: The session is almost over, we finish with face modeling.

19h09: I’m beyond fear. I don’t want to end up with circumflex brows after a manip gone wrong.

19h10: It appears that if you press a specific point on someone’s temples, you can kill with one finger.

19h11: I had never imagined that my being in labor would look like a walk in the park thanks to a Thai massage.

19h12: “They also do waxing and a whole lot of treatments” Maud tells me while Ling tries to drawn me with liters of aloe vera cream.

19h14: There must be something else than this scarf stuff. But what?

19h15: Ling and Ping announce that they are done and leave, obviously pleased with their work. Maud is disappointed by Ping, she founds her too soft.

19h16: I wish I could reply but I’m falling apart. I cry like a newborn.

19h18: Maud gives me hug and we touch our boobs.

19h21: I can feel my boobs. All is not lost. With some luck, I can still control my sphincters.

19h45: After a strong mojito, I manage to finally pronounce a proper sentence. And by some miracle, I feel totally and unconditionally relax.

23h09: My friend Maud drops me off if front of my place. We promise we’ll see each other soon. Maud mentions an amazing Thai-chi class in Neuilly.

23h12: I go home in double-quick time claiming I need the loo and rush to my closet. I HAVE TO find that fucking scarf. My LIFE is at stake.

Edit: in reality, this spa is awesome and makes you want to live there permanently. Still, it seems my therapist was slightly on edge. And I should have asked her to take it easy. In reality too, my friend Maud is not mad with me for anything. Well… I think. And I want to thank her from the bottom of my heart for this thoughtful gesture. However, next time, we go to a hammam. No exfoliation, no massage. Thanks.

Edit2: My friend Maud is the kind who organises, together with my friend Chloé, my bachelorette party. And she managed to put on a table everything that makes me reach seventh heaven in life. I also like the fact that there always are mint leaves in her water carafe. And a whole lot of other stuffs that make her a role model for me. Except for massages however.

Edit3: Did you really think I was going to put a picture of me doing the Ukrainian wheelbarrow in a kimono?

So, where were we? I realised my laptop wasn’t in my hand luggage. But like not there at all. All this while stewards were busy doing their useless safety demo as if it will be useful to know where the emergency exit is or how to use a life jacket in case of crash.

Let’s go back to the unfolding of this crazy departure…

7h56: Sorry miss, can I just check my bag, just two seconds 1, thank’s.  There we gooooo, I open my luggage, slip my hand inside and notice that…

7h57: that I want my mummy.

7h58: And my daddy too.

7h59: But mainly I want my laptop. That most certainly is somewhere, but not in my luggage. Nor in my pocket. Neither in my hand bag. Neither in my bra. And the plane takes off in three minutes.

8h01: This is a nightmare, I’m going to wake up, there’s no question, I KNOW I took back that fucking laptop after customs check. After putting my shoes back. And getting my hand bag. As well as my cell phone. And my transparent toilet bag. And… Fuck, and nothing, I forgot all about the laptop, now I remember.

8h02: I don’t care I’ll tell my boss, it was stolen from me in the street and that’s it. No witness, foreign country, language barrier, he will understand.

Or not.

Moreover, it’s the second time in three years that I deplore the loss of a work laptop. The first was REALLY stolen from me but you know how fast a reputation is created.

8h03: Furthermore, my husband will soon be unemployed.

8h04: All those notes taken during the conference are in that vermin of a laptop. Or how to come back without your equipment and no material for a potential article.

Either I find a way to go fetch it or a whole family will discover insecurity.

8h05: I put my nicest smile on my face (= right now the worst grin ever) and explain with a stodgy gibberish (stress doesn’t have a positive effect on the so-called “Read, spoken, written English” you find on my resume) that it is a life or death situation and I MUST go back to the customs check point where I forgot, triple jerk that I am, my laptop.

8h06: the steward warns me that the check point is very very very far from gate E72 (I KNEW this lack of number 3 was a bad sign) and he can’t guaranty the plane will still be there when I come back.

8h07: Challenge accepted. I will get my fucking bastard of computer 1 back AND manage to catch the plane, what a fucker motheeeeeer 1.

Damn it.

8h08: Just like in a movie, I rush out of the plane and start running like hell. Ok from the outside it most probably is a slow motion movie. But I am running. Which didn’t happen since 1987 more or less.

8h09: I realise during this frantic race that a) Madrid’s airport is as spread as Oregon, b) I’m not 100% sure I know where the check-point is, c) I left the plane without my ID, credit cards, phone  BUT with my Carte Vitale. Best case scenario, if I find my laptop, I have twelve minute left on the battery (the cable is in my luggage, that won’t get me too far, why didn’t I forget the cable, instead on the laptop, a mystery of human brain) to send out an international call for help. And then I will need to find a psychiatrist who accepts the Carte Vitale.

8h10: I might spend the rest of my life in the international area of Madrid’s airport. I could become a sort of wild beast, we’ll do reports on that weird woman who holds on to an old laptop without power cable and lives in a trolley.

8h11: I’m half way through and, a priori, only one tenth of my lungs is still working. My tights are at the level of my knees and one of my breasts seems to want to arrive to the check point before me.

8h12: Do we know when the end is near? Cause now I have a sort of intuition that my life is going to pass before my eyes.

8h13: Against all odds, I reach the check-point. In a last rattle, I mumble that I’m here to fetch my computer forgotten a few minutes ago 1. A guy from customs confirms that they’ve got one but he needs to fetch the key of the cupboard where they’ve put it. There he goes, whistling.

Easy Peasy.

 “I AM IN A HURRRRRRRY!!!!!!” 1 I shout, staking all, aware that it will either wake him up or convince him I am dangerously mad and thus good for slammer.

8h14: Apparently he chooses option one. He shows me the laptop which is indeed mine. At the same time, there are no other laptops in the cupboard. It confirms that I’m the kind of drag that doesn’t proliferate everywhere. Reassuring for the rest of humankind. Not for me.

8h15: I’m about to start running again – even if right now I’d like to really be in a movie so that we go directly to the following scene where I’m all sweaty, in the plane I managed to catch, next to Georges Clooney who would be in transit between Spain and France and who would fall in love with me and the sweat drops that would drip on my breast because of the chase in the airport. Instead, speedy customs man is blocking my way telling me I need to open and start the laptop and then type my password to make sure its mine.

8h16: What do you get in Spain for murder? No but do I look clever enough to have plotted the whole thing, like I’m going to pretend to run like hell across the airport, bet that a silly goose has forgotten her laptop and pretend it’s mine? No but I mean, WHO COULD HAVE SUCH AN IDEA?

Clearly, it must have already happened, given that the guy is hard-nosed. “You have to write your password” 1.

8h17: I might as well do so, as calmly as possible (=moaning like a three years old and shaking so bad I make a mistake twice). The laptop takes three days to start, I shit on Bill Gate’s face and send him the finger, I’m doomed anyway.

8h18: The laptop has started, happy end, I feel like french kissing the customs guy, but he, who clearly wants me too, yells “Ok GO ! RUN RUN RUN, your plane is leaving!” 1

8h19: Off I go with an extra three kilos, long live IT stock from 1998.

8h20: While I’m trying to move forward with more of a crawling than a run, I get one of those thoughts I have a knack for. Maybe all this is a sign. And I’m rushing to my coffin. Even though in the sky, my guardian angel is desperately waving with his small arms to explain that I shouldn’t board that plane which is more moth-eaten than my brain. It is, if all this is true, the irrefutable proof that I inherited the dumbest guardian angel ever. Because there are other options than almost wearing myself out on a moving walkway at dawn.

8h21: If I go back in this Boeing, I might waste my only chance to be on front page for escaping Air Europa’s most deadly crash. I can picture the titles “She missed the plane because of a laptop forgotten at customs’ check point (what a jerk) and avoid an awful death” and just below “Sometimes intelligence doesn’t pay, that’s the proof”

8h22: Don’t care, between spending the rest of my life in a trolley being the butt of everyone’s jokes or exploding above the Basque country, my choice is made. ETA here I come.

8h23: I propel myself into the plane, out of breath like a tuberculous eighty years old suffering from syphilis, crying emotionally.

8h24: Hardly have I done two steps in the plane, when in the movie with Georges, I would be swamped with applauses and passengers would even carry me from arm to arm with Gloria Gaynor’s screams in the background, instead, 300 pairs of eye looking daggers. I know now what it’s like to be the object of group hatred.

I feel an incredible solidarity with Raymond Domenech.

8h26: I sit down, fasten my seat belt quietly. The plane is about to rush forward on the runway. And, incredible: I’m not scared. Not at all. I simply don’t have the strength.

Edit: Check out the awesome drawing from Penelope on a relatively close subject, it could have perfectly illustrated today’s article if I had been of the kind who doesn’t care for copyrights. She is so talented!

So yesterday, I took a plane, very early, to come back from Madrid. The kind of plane for which you have to wake up before 6h, even if everyone always says it’s useless to arrive too early at the airport, it happens that my small issue with this kind of flying objects make my life slightly complicated on the day I take it. Ok, good for the madhouse. Or worse, to testify in one of those tabloid talk shows.

Come on, wanna read about it?

4h39: Wake up with a start. Where’s my phone, it’s almost time to wake up and if I don’t find it I’ll miss my plane.

4h41: Phone found. Fuck, only one hour’s sleep left, I have to hurry. Except I don’t know how to hurry to fall asleep. That is a real issue.

5h12: Although the interest of not falling back to sleep is that there are almost no risks not to hear my alarm. QED. I’m brilliant.

5h24: Is it worth going back to sleep, that is the question

5h34: Now it’s obvious it’s not worth it. I’ll stay in bed anyway until the alarm goes off.

5h45: I confirm it wasn’t worth it, I was in a better shape ten minutes ago and now I feel like it’s 23h55 and the night is in front of me.

5h55: Where’s my e-ticket? I lost my e-ticket. It’s bad, shit, where is that damn e-ticket? Elements are against me, it’s a bad sign, fuck, it’s a VERY bad sign. Or maybe it’s just a little help from destiny. For me not to take flight A4566 which is going to crash down above Basque Country. Without me as I won’t find my e-ticket in time.

5h56: In my left hand. It’s in my left hand. Let’s forget about that Basque Country thing, we’re most certainly not even going to fly over it. Ok, I’m operational. I put right away this damn ticket in the inside pocket of my bag, together with my pass…

Fuck, that jerk’s not here.

5h57: There. It’s there, in the bottom of my bag. I leave it, at least I’ll remember it’s there.

6h01: I’ll have a quick shower and then put my clothes on and check the room to be sure I’m not forgetting anything. Especially my charger, I’ve already forgotten three in hotel rooms. Thanks to me, there’s a blackberry chargers black market. I’m obviously pushing the market to bankrupt.

6h03: Charger is indeed in my suitcase. I take it out and leave it in evidence in order not to forget it.

6h15: A shower and off I go

6h17: What’s this G-string? I didn’t pack a G-string, am I dreaming or what?

6h16: My fault, it’s my bra. And my panties… My panties are with my passport and that is extremely weird.

6h18: Cool I have ten minute left for a last check and then I close the door. And then I take a taxi. And then I board the plane.

6h21: Except if the volcanic eruption has started again.

6h22: That damn volcano.

6h23: It could have had a bit more stamina. Just to make sure I wouldn’t have to go through any plane ordeal anymore. After all, there are great reports one can make in Paris’ suburbs. And it would be good for planet protection too.

6h24: It makes me sick when I think of it. We had a dreamed of occasion to stop, once and for all, all those CO2 emissions and bang, that moron with an unpronounceable name doesn’t hold the distance. Lousy volcano.

6h25: Where’s my passport?

6h26: in the bottom of my bag, perfect, even though I’m wondering how it got there. On the other hand, my phone, no idea. That’s bad.

6h27: On the side table.

6h28: I recap: passport, ok, credit card, ok, e-ticket…ok, phone, ok. Vamos

6h29: Charger. I got it covered. I thought of the charger before being in front of the gate. That’s a sign. And not good one in my mind. I’ll take the risk anyway. As soon as I find the key. That is in the door. That’s fine, I close the door and call the elevator.

6h30: My laptop. It stayed on the bed. It’s not that important anyway, is it?

6h31: Hola quetal signor, aeroporto por favor, terminal due… dos.

7h00: Flight for Paris, Gate E72. All is fine up to now, these numbers speak to me, no 3, it’s a sign.

7h02: My passport. Shit, my passport. It stayed in the bathroom, for sure.

7h03: Hola signora, ouno momento por favor, I have lost my pass… ah, no, it’s here, my god, thanks.[1]

7h05: La signora doesn’t seem to be willing to share a beer with me. Neither a moment of true friendship.

7h07: So: my shoes are in a crate, my toilet bag in another, my laptop in a third one. My hand luggage here, my hand bag, everything is there. Off they go, everybody gets scanned and it’s done and dusted.

7h08: Huh, what? Passport? Fuck but I JUST showed it to you signorita, enough now no?

7h10: No, not enough, even in Spanish I get it.

7h12: Alright, alright, don’t call the border police right now, calm down, my passport, if it didn’t walk back to the hotel with its tiny legs, should be…

7h13: In my right hand.

7h14: I’m not crazy you know.

7h16: I put my shoes back on, put my passport away, my boarding pass here, my credit card in my pocket to buy cigarettes. I put on my coat, fetch my toilet bag and close my suitcase.

7h18: My suitcase that is …

7h19: My suitcase that is …

7h20: MY SUITCASE THAT IS …

7h21: On the belt.

7h22: A suitcase is totally stupid. Couldn’t it wave or something?

7h23: Next time I take NOTHING with me, I’ll use paper panties and keep the same pair of jeans. And I’ll sew my fucking passport inside my coat, so that it stops hiding in the bathroom.

7h32: Anyway, I don’t mean to brag, but except a slight anxiety to lose my stuff, which is extremely common and totally legitimate, I’m rather zen. Hardly did I make sure I avoided white lines on the floor.

7h34: But it doesn’t count since it is well know that it really jinx people who are about to take a plane.

7h35: For example, the fool in the front, she’s a goner, for sure, she k.e.e.p.s walking on the line.

7h36: Fuck, she sits in front of gate E72. MY GATE. We’re on the same flight.

7h38: Because of that selfish woman, who has no sense of responsibilities, we’re all going to die. Even though I’ve been STRUGGLING since this morning to avoid all white lines.

7h41: I’m exhausted.

7h42: My passport. Shit, my passport.

7h43: “Passengers for Paris-Orly, please, passengers for Paris-Orly” 1

7h45: La signorita doesn’t give a damn for my credit card. Nor for my Carte Vitale [2]. Even less for my Pass Navigo [3].

7h46: HERE IT IS!!! I could cry. That bastard was in the inside pocket of my bag. As if it was the right time to hide. “Inanimate objects do you have a soul? ” was asking that visionary, well drop it, I have the answer.

7h49: All is fine. Except for that white line question but I KNOW it’s stupid. I KNOW it, the doctor told me so, it’s my mind playing tricks on me. Otherwise, honestly, I’m proud of myself. My heart beats normally, I’m not sweating nor do I have obsessive thoughts – my pass…shut up – and we’re taking off in less than fifteen minutes.

7h50: I think it’s what we call growing up.

7h51: Or getting old. But in a nice way.

7h52: Not sure there’s a nice way of getting old though.

7h53: If I were the woman from before, the one who rolled into a ball right after entering the plane or who put the crew’s body language under a microscope, I would yield to the little pervert voice whispering in my head that I’m not sure I put my laptop back in my suitcase after customs check.

7h54: When you must be really half-witted to do such a thing. Losing your passport is alright, but for that you’re good to “see someone” for the next ten years.

7h55: Right, I KNOW it’s another manifestation from my subconscious that wants to stop me from taking this plane. But it’s harmless to double-check all is in order in my suitcase which I just stored in the overhead compartment. I barely looked for my passport since this morning, we’re not going to nitpick for such a small thing, especially if it’s the key to peace of mind.

7h56: Sorry miss, can I just check my bag, just two seconds 1, thanks.  There we gooooo, I open my luggage, slip my hand inside and notice that…

7h57: that I want my mummy.

7h58: And my daddy too.

7h59: But mainly I want my laptop. That most certainly is somewhere, but not in my luggage. Nor in my pocket. Neither in my hand bag. Neither in my bra. And the plane takes off in three minutes.

To be continued…

Ok, come on, let me finish this story. You might be disappointed because, you’ll see, I’ve seen no Johnny… only Jack. But not the one you think of…

No kidding, I was not convinced when I left and my heart was won when I came back. A very nice musical moment, thanks to the slender and graceful presence of Vanessa Paradis and to Matthieu Chédid’s genius who doesn’t spare himself for the one who seems to be his soul mate.

Come on, let’s go!

20h30: The hall is full and everybody’s calling Vanessa. Zaz thinks I didn’t see it but her eyes are wet.

20h33: It’s all fun and games all these emotions but I have a precise goal here. So before lights are turned down, I scan the whole place to find my grrrrrrr…Johnny.

20h34: Right above us, there’s a balcony and a little blond girl swings. She looks like an angel. It seems…

20h35: I’m going to faint.

20h36: This child has Jack Sparrow’s blood in her vein, I’m positive.

20h37: Alright, she’s the spitting image of her mother.

20h38: I tell Zaz there’s Vanessa Paradis when she was 7 right above her.

20h39: With Zaz we just spotted Vanessa Junior’s little brother. Jack.

20h40: We’re aware that fantasizing on a four years old child is shady.

20h41: Ok, it’s liable to prison.

20h42: But he’s his father’s son, we should be able to get along in court, shouldn’t we?

20h43: I can’t help telling my neighbor that Vanessa’s kids are right above our heads.

20h44: Now the entire hall is aware that Johnny’s brood is right above our head.

20h45: Zaz tells me I could have more respect for Vanessa’s intimacy. She finds it very cute, these small ones waiting for their mum.

20h46: The issue is that I don’t buy the whole perfect woman, perfect mum and perfect spouse scenario. No matter how hard I try, I’m not moved. And sorry but I’m here to see an artist, not a mum, right now.

20h52: For sure Johnny is behind his offspring.

20h53: The man warns me that should I keep crushing him trying to see Johnny, he’ll puke the accras on me.

20h56: Lights are turned down. Everyone screams Vanessa’s name. That group hysteria is amazing. Too bad I’m not a fan. I’m not going to force myself though.

20h57: Screams are even louder.

20h58: Alright, it’s impressive.

20h59: I’m crying just to stick together with Zaz. That is so me.

21h00: Vanessa arrives with Matthieu Chedid.

21h01: She is very small and he is very tall. You’d think he wants everything to be soft around her. I think I understand why she gets on my nerves. It’s because she’s the kind of girls who’s prettier when they cry. And whom boys always want to comfort.

21h02: Just like my friend Béa in 9^th grade.

21h06: When I was crying I was given a good slap in the back and told “cry more you’ll pee less”.

21h09: Fuck Vanessa is bringing back strong stuff from my past.

21h12: She’s singing Divinidylle.

21h14: Her voice is unsteady but she’s going for it. It’s annoying but I too want everything to be soft around her.

21h17: She sings “Dis lui toi que je t’aime”. I know it by heart.

21h19: Tandem too.

21h22: « Joooooooe, vas-yyyyyy Jooooooooooeeee !!! Vaaaaaaas, yyyyyyyyyyy, foooooooooooonce ! [1]» All those memories from my youth.

21h34: Zaz tells me it’s now clear I know all her repertory by heart.

21h45: She sings “Les revenants” from her last album. Her voice is deep, assured. I always knew that girl’s a diva.

21h55: “She sings well, doesn’t she?” I tell the man. “Oh yeay she’s got a nice ass!” he answers.

21h58: Lesson n°3 about marriage: once you’re married you don’t speak the same language.

22h00: Vanessa keeps looking at the balcony. I find the communion between the artist and the mother so beautiful. It reminds me an episode of Sissi when she throws herself into her daughter’s arms and all the bad Italians, who didn’t want her, scream “viva la mamma”.

22h02: The man asks why I’m weeping. He promises that even if she’s got an awesome ass, I am his own Grand Meaulnes.

22h04: I prefer not to tell him I’m crying because I’m a big bitter Italian and I feel like screaming “viva la mamma”.

22h23: In between two songs, small Jack yells “Mummy!”

22h25: Every mum in the hall is crying.

22h27: With Zaz, we cry too but it’s because we’ve had enough with accras.

22h35: It’s over. Vanessa comes back for two recalls. She says she loves us but with Zaz we both know she’s thinking of her Johnny. Her “because of the why“, as she says.

22h37: I warn the man he’d better not make fun and allude to the fact she might be on stuffs, it’s just not class.

22h40: Jack and Lili Rose applaud a lot.

22h42: When I think I was that close to break a family.

22h43: Come on Johnny, you can show yourself. I’m not even looking at you. Only, if I can… your…. Alright, I’m out.

Last week, my friend Zaz, the man and I went to Vanessa Paradis’ concert preview, in a small hall, not even in Paris. Right, I wish I could tell you it was thanks to my fame but I have to face the facts, I’m not yet in Universal’s listings. The truth is my friend Severine works in show-business and thus had the information about the preview. Then, we booked our ticket like everyone else and paid for them. We even had to book another show to get the right to attend this one. In Marne La Vallée. Right when we just sold our crappy car. But, you have to admit nothing’s too good to see Johnn… hum, Vanessa…

Come on, wanna read about it?

18h00: I rush out of work, tonight I have an appointment with Johnny Depp.

18h03: Ok, his wife will be there too but since she’ll be on stage, she shouldn’t disturb us too much.

18h06: Anyway, personally, Vanessa, I have nothing against her, right, but you see, right. I barely know her songs and I’ve always been a fan of Charlotte [1]. Actually I’m going to please my friend Zaz.

18h12: I warn the man that he can come but I won’t promise anything. I explain that sleeping with Jack Sparrow, is not being unfaithful.

18h15: The man answers he is willing to turn a blind eye if he can watch the rugby final together with Jef.

18h18: In fact a successful marriage is easy. You just have to make a few concessions here and there.

19h00: Off we go to Marne La Vallée. Vanessa performs at “La ferme du buisson [2]“.  Mmmm, Johnny, I hope you’re not allergic to hay because, you and I, we’ll have some all over, believe me…

19h04: My friend Zaz is very moved, it’s the fourteenth time she sees Vanessa.

19h06: Zaz warns me she won’t sit next to me if I allude one more time to the fact that Vanessa must be on stuff to be that skinny.

19h10: I don’t care what she’s on, I tell her. I’m just sad for Johnny, that’s it. With me he wouldn’t have all those worries.

19h45: We find La Ferme du Buisson. So much for hay, my dear Johnny. It’s an old market hall, very nice, made of bricks. There are small lights everywhere, you’d think you were in Le Grand Meaulnes[3]. I find it very poetic. I hug the man and tell him, never mind Johnny, he’s my ‘grand Meaulnes’.

19h50: The man answers he’s hungry.

19h55: Marriage actually is bullshit.

19h57: The man doesn’t see how five waffles and ten choux buns eaten during our way to Marne La Vallée could put him off his food. He says travels make him hungry.

20h00: People are already waiting in line to enter the hall and get a good spot. The public is really fan, I can feel it. Poor Johnny, he must feel completely discredited.

20h03: The man warns that if we don’t first find something to eat, he will hold his breath.

20h05: We resuscitate the man who’s always been short-winded and we drop the idea of being in the front row. Direction: the refreshment area.

20h06: The man is too happy, for 10 euros he gets a complete meal. With Zaz we start a nervous breakdown.

20h08: On the menu there are accras.

20h09: The man never managed to digest accras.

20h12: With Zaz we try to find a way to leave the man behind.

20h15: The man has eaten half of the buffet. We can finally enter the hall. We find spaces in the front but on the side. I feel Zaz will take some time to forgive that accras event.

20h18: I tell Zaz that making a preview concert with M [4] playing guitar is class.

20h20: Zaz, she says it’s normal for Vanessa since she sucks Johnny’s dick every day.

20h22: We both agree this is truly class.

20h24: In full digestion, the man opens a baleful eye and says he ok to be called Johnny if it can help.

20h26: Zaz answers that his having a chewing-gum could help.

To be continued…

Well, well, well… For a start, the final pictures are not yet available as it must be a total surprise for the viewing day. But Barbara, the one and only, kindly sent me pictures from the making-off – how class is that? – Some illustrate this article

Come on, here’s what happened next…

Monday evening

20h00: I’m hesitating. Do I wash my hair tonight to get there with my personality at its best or I leave it totally free-style so that the hair dresser has room for enhancement?

20h02: The man is of the opinion that I’d rather wash them tomorrow to have faith in myself. He also says it will look cleaner.

20h04: The man doesn’t understand free style at all.

23h00: Yet I’m super scared, fortunately I’m doing this for a humanitarian cause.

23h12: Let’s hope my nails will be long enough for a manicure.

Tuesday morning…

07h30: The man wakes me up with a weird face. He doesn’t stop shivering with cold because of hot water which is not running from our tap this morning.

07h34: I’m trying not to interpret this hard blow as a bad omen. On the other hand, no way I’m washing my hair with a 12°C water. Sebastien will see my personality right away: dirty.

07h45: After a 14 seconds cold shower to wash the essential – below the waist, in short – I see myself in the mirror.

07h47: It is said that, after 30, you grow old by stages, all of a sudden.

07h48: Too bad, my stage was last night.

07h50: The man assures I don’t look 10 years older than yesterday. He says I just look tired. He says styes are not helping.

07h56: I realise my brows are a mess and I don’t recall Barbara mentioning waxing.

08h00: I don’t dare calling her to ask. Even if she admires me for my humanitarian courage, I yet fear she’ll find I’m going to far asking for my brow to be trimmed.

08h12: Whatever, I do it on my own.

08h14: I have one brow twice bigger than the other but at least it’s neat. My hair is greasy but my brows are trimmed, one makes up for the other. Or maybe not.

11h00: I’m struggling to concentrate at work. Honestly, what I’m about to do is so militant that all these people seems small to me…

17h00: I escape and take the underground to Colonel Fabien station. I feel like telling every woman I pass I’m about to fight for her. They all are my sisters.

17h03: I feel like singing Julie Pietri.

18h00: I’m in front of the studio, in an inner courtyard. I’m beginning to be super scared. Maybe they’re thinking I’m younger. And slimmer. And that my hair is lighter too. Well, I mean blonde on the top of my head as my daughter would say. I don’t feel like throwing myself with all my might into the arena. I’m fat, ugly and I want to g…

18h01: “Hi Caroline, how are you? I’m Barbara, nice to meet you”. Shit, Barbara hurtled from nowhere as I was about to go. When it comes to diversity, she’s out of the league, that’s for sure. I wondering why she’s not the model for the shooting, it’s simple, that girl is a candy. Pretty AND kind.

18h02: Pretty, just like ALL girls in the studio.

18h04: Which is just like in movies. With umbrellas that must be used for something related to light. A white wall. A glass roof. Music in the background. And… ahhhhhh ! A hair fan. You’d think you were in « Un Dos Tres » the sitcom on M6 with Penelope Cruz’s sister.

18h05: On a stool, Caroline Daily is being photographed. With 12cm heels and a dress so small I could use it as a cardigan. She’s holding a crazy pose with a leg upright. Wow. She’s been doing this all her life or what?

18h07: Mlle E. is having her makeup done. In a pink Carrie Bradshaw dress to die for. Size 8 because size 10 is too big for her, she explains.

18h08: Where’s diversity?

18h10: Now I get it.

18h11: I AM the diversity. On my own I pull up the age and weight average.

18h14: Barbara feels I’m panicky. She holds me out a plate of macarons. They’re not from Ladurée but it doesn’t matter.

18h16: I kind of feel that eating macarons will not help me feel better in my too low-necked black dress. Anyway, what’s done is done.

18h18: Sébastien, the hair and makeup artist, is done with Mlle E., it’s my turn. He has me climb on a huge chair to wash my hair. I apologise for the state of my mane and explain for the hot water that stood me up right this morning.

18h19: It’s crazy, him too! Same issue, he had to shower at the studio. We look at each other and laugh. So much complicity could make me cry. I know I hold on to him like a buoy. But he’s the only one who’s not wearing a killer pink dress, so it creates bonds.

18h22: Sébastien says he wants to go easy on makeup. Now I’m reassured.

18h23: He massages my scalp and it makes me think of my friend Julie who told me one day she had an orgasm like this. So I pray it won’t happen to me. Emotional as I am, that would be embarrassing.

18h25: I don’t want to leave the shampoo area

18h26: I will never make fun of Julie anymore.

18h27: Sébastien agrees to a light messy blow-dry, Emmanuelle Seigner’s style. For my face, he will use only concealer.

18h29: In my opinion, Caroline Daily’s personality was not worked on with concealer.

18h32: Sébastien says it would be surprising that my getting old stage happened last night. Yet he spends loads of time on my lion wrinkle.

18h34: Sébastien says he wants light eye makeup too. He explains that I have light eyes but small with a slightly sagging eyelid and too much eyeliner could have an opposite effect to the one we want. I say I agree even if the sagging eyelid doesn’t have me jump for joy.

18h38: A young lady does my nails while Sebastien gives character to my hair personality. I’m hysterical, she has black red. She says “garnet”. But it’s the same. She says my nails are fine even if they grow askew. Something tells me the askew part is not so great but at this point it doesn’t make much difference.

18h41: I hate my eyelid. Until now, I hadn’t noticed them, but now I see nothing but this, they sag, these sluts.

18h43: I look at myself in the mirror. In your face, getting old stage. Sebastien is a magician, he gave the 10 years from last night a real hard time. Sebastien says I’m pretty. And, I don’t know why, but I believe him. Well that’s right, there was huge room for improvement but now seriously I feel ready to roar in front of the camera. Come on, there we go, hair fan and all.

18h50: I’m going out of the dressing room and I don’t feel like doing this anymore in fact.

18h52: Nicolas, the photographer, arrives. He is 14, maybe 20 years old, maximum. He has a mocking look.

18h54: I prefer to sit for a start. I warn him, not a chance I’ll lift my leg.

18h56: Nicolas shows me the first pictures on his camera.

18h57: I will never allow any picture of me sitting.

18h58: I suggest going behind a white stand in order to hide the ten rolls I just saw on the pictures. I lean forward and decide to bet on my breasts. Taking the risk of being vulgar. Being vulgar is better than bulging out.

19h00: I check the result on the camera. I might have bet on my breasts too much.

19h02: I smile as much as I can. I tell myself if not pretty I’ll look friendly. Poor Pantene guys, they will regret the diversity idea.

19h05: Nicolas is super kind. He guides me and cheers me up. He says I don’t have to smile. He asks me to do again that look. He says he likes that one because it shows I don’t have to smile to seduce. I tell myself he is a good photographer, from all of his fifteen years of age.

19h30: Nicolas asks if I want to try with the hair fan.

19h34: I’m unstoppable, I want to marry the fan.

19h39: On the pictures, it looks like Bonnie Tyler.

19h45: Nicolas says he’s got it all.

20h00: I leave after a dance with Barbara on Rita Mitsuko and kissing everyone goodbye. I have no idea what it will come to but truly, I did it. I did it [1]and actually, it doesn’t mean nothing.

Thanks…

Edit: amongst the bloggers, there are Garance, Anne-So, Caroline Daily, Mlle E, Dietcoke, Géraldine et Cé. Sorry for the ones I’m forgetting, let me know and I’ll put your name as well…

Edit2: A big thank you to the whole team for their kindness and gentleness.

Edit3: The first to say something unkind about my green cowboy boots will be sulked.