The busker in the ligne 4 of the m�tro on the way to Les Halles and the "Board Caf�" asked me to marry him.
Now if you've been following the saga of an unfortunate yellow blonde traipsing about Paree looking just a touch too out of place to go unnoticed, you'll have heard that I can't walk the two blocks from the m�tro to la Tour Montparnasse without being proposed to by self-styled african princes every third metre.
And heading to the closest laundromat in my neighbourhood? There's an old drunk at the bar on the corner that takes me by the arm if I'm late enough into the evening to escort me the two blocks there, or it's the algerian princes that want to make me a queen.
He r�gales me with stories of the wars in africa where he fought off savages armed with very sharp pieces of guava. And he hasn't even heard of Blackadder, let alone seen that episode.
A very sharp piece of guava, it was.
Ce soir, alors, it was the trombone-playing busker, the kind that climb onto the trains with us, that played three back-to-back renditions of Hello Dolly that got down on one knee, jiggled his cup, and rather than asking for coin said "I know I don't have much to offer, but if I made 100ff tonight, will you be my queen and smile for me?
Try to stop me grinning from ear to fucking ear, lemmetellya.
Compare that to the bartender at the Board's clumsy "No really, my name is S�b too, I AM the guy you're looking for, I just forgot my rollers at home..." and I wonder where french men get their suave reputations from.
Hollywood, most prolly.
This evening, after white beer and spiced nachos and torturing poor unsuspecting bartenders, Oceans Eleven was a quiet lean-back in the outstretched arms of the UGC couches.
It was witty. Really. I found it witty.
And that Basher dude was candy on the eye.
And tonight, going on 2am, after getting lost trying to drop Alex off in Levallois, reading some more about OpenLDAP, and kicking orange cat ass --
-- I am a busker princess.