Long story, but I'm in Paris.
I don't have that much to say, I just like the coolness of blogging on the hotel's wifi network. Only yesterday I told B we'd had a modernity failure, when his phone kept cutting off mid-conversation, but today I think modernity is really good. Although you have to bring a lot of cables with you.
I am staying in the Hotel California. It has the bizarrest collection of faux art I've ever seen. I don't know what is Californian about it: it's not the decor (seventies hotel renaissance), the art (over-displayed and weird), or the location (quite a long way from California).
Oh well.
The Eurostar was delayed, and then I had to make my own way to the hotel, so when I got here, the clients had already gone out for dinner. So now I've ordered room service, and am reminded how little vegetarian food there is in France. I think it's extremely likely that my salade de saison will come with a ham garnish. Even though I asked them not to.
Oh well.
Is being away better than being at home?
The hotel room smells of that weird room-smelly-stuff that if you have asthma makes you feel ill. If you don't have asthma, it just makes you feel like can't breathe. Or maybe it's the other way around.
Paris is about as cold as London.
I did quite a lot of writing on the train, although the woman sitting next to me was headline surfing my screen, so I wasn't exactly writing with the door closed, so to speak.
Must go, room service.
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