18 January 2007

The Magic Flute

Awakening in the company of a strange gentleman in unfamiliar surrounding can hardly be described as a new experience; what made this unique and memorable was the unreasonably early hour of the day, for the strange gentlemen had neglected to mention he was among those who work for a living, so my beauty slumber was disturbed by the relentless bleating of his alarm clock. Needless to say, I found myself divided between doubt as to the occasion justifying having come at all, and excitement at the prospect of my favourite meal of the day... breakfast.

It appeared the strange man had no doubt about the prudence of his own drunken decision-making and gave no thought to arrangements for breakfast: despite the fact he was going to be late for work, he insisted upon… well, suffice to say that the power of doing anything with quickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of the performance.

Afterwards, admiring the brilliancy that exercise had given to my complexion, he declared that since he was already late, he might as well be really late… a logic that I was in no fit state to challenge. In a careless manner, the gentleman enquired if there was anything that I would like for breakfast, seeming a little taken-aback when I provided a complete list of my dietary requirements in the morning and suggested a dash to the nearest patisserie.

As I awaited his return, instead of risking an encounter with florescent lighting in his bathroom or doing something useful in the kitchen, I perused his music collection. Working my way through the untidy stack- not in alphabetical order, I noted disapprovingly- it was encouraging to find no trace whatsoever of La Cicada’s influence, but a grave concern to discover several recordings from a Dutch indie group whose lack of talent guarantees they will have to remain in the lowlands forever, remaining deservedly anonymous. It appeared that there was simply nothing I could bear to listen to, until I arrived at the bottom of his pile to find… a little Mozart! Fabulous! If one has to get out of bed in the morning, there cannot be a better way to start the day.

The strange gentleman was a little amused to find me tra-la-la-ing around his kitchen table on his return, but that is of no consequence: breakfast had arrived. Suffice to say that the croissant were exceptionally good, with a reasonable selection of preserves that were acceptable, even if not home made, however the orange juice was not freshly squeezed and I had to sit opposite the strange man, on a strict muscle-building programme to improve his rowing, who insisted upon eating tuna… from a tin.

After a night of reckless sex and excessive drinking, it was safe to assume that my body reeked of whisky, beer, semen, stale sweat… and possibly something worse, explaining the gentleman's surprise that I declined a quick shower in his company. However, one assured him no public transport users in Paris would notice any of the stinks aforenamed; instead, one would be mistaken for a local... and having suffered air pollution for the last year, it was time to give a little taste of their own medicine.

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