Erm...

I've been trying to find the time to -

I don't know why I haven't been able to -

It's been a while since -

Feck it. I've had the longest lasting writer's block known to man.

Thanks to all you loyal subscribers for keeping the faith. Princesse Ecossaise will be back. I promise.

Baby Shopping and Other Short Stories

Well it's been a crazy month what with my new job (which isn't so new anymore) and two sets of visitors during April - the first one being my mum and the second Zannie and her fiancé Venzo. There was a spot of drama as soon as our guests left for home because I was knocked for six with a case of the lurgy which, despite my protests that it was just a wee cold, scared the living daylights out of my loved ones who were all convinced I had caught swine flu. We get quite a few Mexican tourists at the Chateau de Versailles, you see, and my dad was having a hairy fit, telling me to wear hospital gloves while working at the ticket control and suggesting I invest in a surgical mask to keep germs out. I didn't do this, of course, as I don't want to get bullied at work, but his concern was very touching nevertheless.

Oh! There was a much happier drama this month too. On the 20th April, Indigo, my best friend from uni, gave birth to a lovely little baby boy. I haven't met the wee man in question yet as I'm stuck in France and they are in Edinburgh, but I have seen photos and let me tell you, he is a looker. He's going to break girl's hearts one day, I'm sure of it. So I'd like to take this opportunity to wish Indigo and her BF congratulations and to welcome Baby Blue into the world!

Anyway, the birth of Indigo's baby gave me the excuse I needed to drag FP into a big shop full of baby stuff to buy a present, which turned out to be an interesting experience. It was clear from the outset that FP wasn't keen to step foot in a baby shop before he needed to, but I promised him it would be a quick in and out. Except it didn't really happen that way at all, because as soon as we were inside, looking at the teensy, tiny trainers, and adorable socks that wouldn't fit my finger, time seemed to stop.

There's something special about a Baby Stuff Shop. I swear the entire shop smelled of a baby's head (have you ever smelt a baby's head? If not, then do so). Inside, there were buggies and carry cots and cradles and cots and car seats and high chairs and bouncy chairs and those funny seats on wheels - hang on, I've just googled it and apparently it's called a baby walker - and the clothes...Oh the clothes! And it wasn't just me who came over all soppy. I'm not joking, amigos, but I can pinpoint the precise moment when FP cracked and decided to allow himself to enjoy the baby shop experience. He reached out to touch a tiny velvet babygrow covered with red and white stripes, the label indicating it was for a newborn baby, and his face seemed to melt into what I can only describe as a Broody Man Face. From that moment on, he kept seperating from me in the shop and returning minutes later with various items of baby clothing, saying 'look, look!' all excitedly like and trying to get me to buy it for Baby Blue.

Strangely enough, once we left the shop FP returned to his normal 'no babies until we have enough money and good jobs and a house' self. I think it was probably the baby head smell of the shop that got to him.

In other news, last night I was lying in bed all alone (FP was out with friends) reading my book when a man out on the street started singing 'When a man loves a woman'. I peeked out through the curtains and could make out his figure standing below the balcony of the apartment across the road from us, singing up into the sky. It wasn't like in the films though, because the woman, or indeed man, that he was apparently serenading did not step out onto their balcony and look down admiringly. Instead, someone from our block of apartments opened their window and threatened a call to the police if the man didn't shut his snout.

So there we have it. An update of my month. Oh I lead such an exciting life...

My Royal Job

I've been working at the Château de Versailles for two weeks now and I must say, it's very surreal.



Of course, I don't really have an office in the palace since I am merely a lowly caissiere / controlleur, but at times of calm throughout the day, I still find myself shaking my head in disbelief when I'm reminded that I, a 23 year old hailing from a tiny village in Scotland, am working in the Palace of Versailles. The irony that Princesse Ecossaise is now working in this royal château has not escaped me, either. What's more - and I know that this might change many expat's views of me but I'm going to have to admit to it at sometime or other- I'm a fonctionnaire, working for the state! Life is crazy.



Something I love about working at the palace is that I have access to all areas of the chateau, places where no tourist is allowed to go. It's so amazing to travel underneath the palace in the cellars where servants used to go about their daily duties back in the 17th century, although I have to admit that, being the biggest wussy scaredy cat that I am, I never go down there alone.



With my badge, I'm allowed unlimited free access to the chateau, and the exhibitions that are shown at the time, as well as being able to have one person accompany me for free. And so I made the most of this opportunity when my mum came to stay with us for a few days last week. Look.




Things I love about my new job:

• My Badge with it's French flag and authoritarian status!
  
  
  
• Surprising American tourists when they realise I'm not French.
• Eating my lunch in the gardens.
• Popping into the hall of mirrors at lunch time, just because I can.
  
  
  
  
• Ripping off the stubs of tickets.

Let's hope the novelty doesn't wear off any time soon!

Out of sight, out of mind

I don't want to be a baby about this but

It's my birthday

And no one

From home

Remembered.



Only my Facebook Friends did.

And that's because Facebook reminds them automatically.



What has my life come to?!

The Cosmetics Girl

I was taking my time browsing through the make up and perfumes in the duty free shop at Glasgow Airport, killing time while I waited for my flight back to Paris. The trip home had been seriously short - I'd only really had two full days in Scotland - but I'd done everything I had needed to do. I'd spoken to the priest about marrying us in his church, I'd viewed three venues for the wedding reception, had my highlights done and even managed to squeeze in a lunch with Zannie. It was hard to go back to France after such a whirlwind visit, but at least I was going home having made headway on the wedding plans.

"Can I ask you a question?" A girly voice interrupted my thoughts and I was confronted with an orange-faced, platinum blonde, blue-eyeshadowed member of staff.

Before I even so much as uttered the word 'yes', the girl whipped out a cosmetics brush from her back pocket quick as a flash, and before I even knew what was going on, she brushed it across my cheek. I stumbled back slightly from surprise. Then, with the same lightening flash actions, she pulled a pink hand-held mirror from somewhere else on her person and showed me my reflection.

Ah. A cosmetics girl.

I should have recognised her before she approached me. I could have avoided her, hidden behind the Chanel N°5 perfume display perhaps, if only I'd seen her hovering around. Looking at her then, I couldn't believe how I had missed the signs; the ten shades too dark foundation, the overpowering waft of strong perfume that followed her around, the name badge that read 'Sophie Jane - Cosmetics'. I was a fool for not having been en garde in the duty free shop, a fool.

I have always been very wary of these make-up girls who work behind the cosmetics counters in department stores. I don't trust grown women who plaster their face with every single product that they are trying to sell all at once. No normal person would honestly believe that their orange foundation, blood red lipstick and multi-coloured metallic eyeshadow would convince any customer to buy cosmetics from them, surely? I mean it's hardly a good advertisement for the products, is it?

I looked at my reflection in the pink mirror and saw a startled girl with a single circle of red blusher on her left cheek looking back at me.

"Stunnin', innit." Cosmetic girl said. It was more of a statement than question. I looked helplessly up at her, my mouth opening and closing like a fish, unable to find the words to reply.

"But don't worry," she continued, grabbing my hand and leading me to her counter. "I wouldn't leave you with only one side of your face done! Sit up here," she patted the seat of a high stool. "And I'll even you up!"

She had been trained well, this cosmetics girl. All her actions were so fast and sneaky that you had no time to argue, no time to even think of an excuse in order to escape. In the end, I suppose I climbed onto that stool because it was easier than finding a plausible excuse and let's face it, managing to walk away with my dignity intact when I had only one cheek covered in blusher was impossible. The damage had already been done.

"So, what's your name?" The cosmetics girl asked as she whipped out three different types of foundation and dotted them on the back of her hand.

"Linsey," I replied, realising that it was the first time I'd had a chance to actually speak to her. She mixed the three blobs of foundation into one vile brown colour, and began applying it to my face. As she did this, my eyes darted around the shop, wondering how I could escape, where I could run to, where were the nearest toilets so that I could scrape this muck off my face and what I could possibly say to get out of this situation.

I realised that since we were in an airport, the best bet would be to look at my watch and gasp, state that my flight was boarding soon and then make a mad dash. But I had already done the unthinkable. She had gotten me to sit on the stool, and everybody knows that once you are in that stool, you are there until the bloody end.

"So Linsey," she spoke up, breathing her morning breath into my face. "I'm going to make you look stunnin' today." Stunnin', it appeared, was her favourite word. She finished rubbing in foundation and several layers of unknown creams and lotions, before she whipped out the mirror again and I saw that I was a fetching shade of tangarine orange. The girl then grabbed my hand and, without asking, spritzed three sprays of perfume on the inside of my wrist.

"This perfume is called Seductive," Cosmetic girl stated. I raised my eyebrows. "Are you feeling seductive today, Linsey?" She was so cheesy, I almost rolled my eyes.

"No." I replied matter-of-factly.

She glared at me. "Well, you will."

Next to come was another layer of foundation, which was supposed to give me a 'bronzed glow' but when I looked at my reflection in her hand held mirror, I saw that it only made me a glittery tangarine orange. Classy. Very classy.

It took almost twenty minutes, but finally, finally, she was done. Cosmetics girl took out her mirror for the final time and showed me the result. My heart jumped into my throat.

"You look stunnin'," she said.

I almost punched her right there and then. My skin was orange and glittery, my lips silvery pink and I had two big, red, round circles where my cheeks used to be. My eyelids were painted with metallic gold and in contrast to my face, my neck was completely white. I looked like an eejit.

Apparently the cosmetics girl took my silence as a sign of delight. "So, what do you see that you want to buy?" She chirped, confirming my fears that she was on comission. There was a large pile of products lying on the counter next to me, according to her, all those creams and potions and lotions had been used to make me look this...er, stunnin'. But I didn't want to buy anything. I had only walked into the shop to browse! I have no money! I didn't need any of this stuff, I didn't like any of this stuff!

So what did I do?

"Um," I pointed timidly to my chin. The area that was least affected. "I'll, uh, I'll take the shiny stuff." Cosmetics girl's face lit up and I could almost see dollar signs in her eyeballs. She packaged the tiny and extortionate 'shiny stuff' up for me and I paid, grudgingly, using my credit card. As I made my way out the door, keeping my head down and trying to navigate towards the nearest loos, I couldn't help chastising myself over the fact that I can never just say NO.

I really need to get a back bone, damn it.

Next of Kin

Sitting in the office in one of the buildings at the Chateau de Versailles, I took my time filling out the employment form. From somewhere in the room I could hear a clock ticking - although there was no clock to be found on the walls - and I have always found the rythmical tick-tocking rather peaceful (except, of course, when I am late. Then it's stressful). I looked around at the other people in the room - my future colleagues - and with the exception of the guy with a cold sitting next to me breathing annoyingly loudly through his mouth, I liked the look of them.

I looked back down at the form I was in the middle of. I was now getting used to filling in these papers with their inquisitive, personal information questions that often gave me the chilling feeling I was selling my soul each time I signed the panel at the bottom of the page. Something I had had to do every time I had a job interview or signed up with a recruitment agency over these last few months.

As I signed my sloppy signature at the bottom of the second last page, I turned over and saw an unexpected question. A perfectly reasonable question that I hadn't yet come across in any of my French form-filling sessions. Next of Kin, it read, and in brackets, Who can we call if you are sick or injured? Without even having to think about it for a second, I wrote down FP's contact details. After all, he is the only person I have in France, it just seemed logical.

It's only now, thinking about it, I feel as though by filling out FP's details, I have made a transition. As though those words are a symbol of how my life is changing as I (very slowly) approach our wedding day. Yet another leap into adulthood.

Up until now, I have always written my mother's name as my next of kin, no questioning, no thinking it through, I just knew that if there was ever an emergency, my mum was to be notified first. But I changed all that today. I wrote my fiancés name, without even really thinking it through, and it feels as though I am stepping closer and closer to womanhood. By writing FP's name on that piece of paper as my next of kin, I feel as though I am letting go of my childhood, and saying hello to becoming a wife.

And, surprisingly, it feels quite nice.

Proof that cats will sleep anywhere

I came home the other day to find a furry present lying in a very awkward looking position on top of my clothes horse.

Proof, indeed, that cats choose the most uncomfortable place they can and then insist on sleeping there.