Un verre du vin est parfait pour le soir

So I sit here, sipping a glass of golden French wine (a Muscat, if you're interested) and everything seems alright again. Don't get me wrong, I love it here, the family is great, I've met lots of great different people blah blah blah. But sometimes things get a bit much.

I turned down the offer of going out for drinks with some friends in Le Vesinet for various reasons:

a) I'm currently a massive bore and feel much more safe in my pjs inside the comfort and warmth, and the thought of trudging outside and bracing the cold is daunting. In short; I am tired.

b) Money is always an issue and whilst I'm able to convince myself that the 25 euros spent on a blazor from the new H&M on the Champs Elysées was necessary, I am in fact actually very poor (and I intend to go out tomorrow night, and the night after that).

c) Although the life of an au pair is overall almost as good as it gets (no bills, food in the fridge, somewhere to live in Paris of all places, and a reasonable income), children are HARD WORK. My patience levels have been stretched a considerable amount and I don't think that any adult could faze me after 6 weeks of attempting to reason with the mini-people. I need some time to myself to hear myself think.

Anyway, moving swiftly on...

I am beginning to live for the weekend. At the weekend I can sleep, plan my own time and as mentioned, go out without worrying about getting up in time the next morning.

Did I tell you that there is a fabulous bar by the Odeon metro? It's called Le Bar Dix, and if you venture down the admittedly dangeriously small, steep and crumbling stairs into what should be the cellar, you will find a small but vibrant room lit by candlelight, with picturesque French mirrors and old film posters. The waiter (it is always the same one, and there is only ever one of course) is old, with a dramatically receding hairline and spectacles which frequently slip to the end of his nose. Do not be fooled though, he is quintessentially French: he is impatient, so much so that it verges on rude, speaks not a word of English and slams down your jug of sangria before demanding money and then flying off again. It's brilliant, the lack of English is refreshing and the apparent rudeness is mere normality for France. I highly recommend it.

Le 10 Bar, 10 rue de Odéon 75006 Paris

A demain, peut-etre