"Monstre, you're really a soprano."
"I know, we covered that in the first lesson."
"No, I mean you're REALLY a soprano, it took me weeks to be able to hit those notes!"
"Oh, uh, well, thank you... Uhh..."
Abs still aching from Saturday night's contortion twich-fest, breathing excercises were an act of comedic proportions.
So were the yelling bits. "PROJEcT, PROJECT, DAMMIT! Pretend like you're talking to me in the kebekois bar!"
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!"
"THat's it! THat's it! Now do it with an actual note!"
"AAAAAAAAAAAARGHHHHHHHHH!"
We made it all the way through the first Vaccaj, this time, and I was humming it, rolled-r italian worrrrds and everything, all the way to the prefecture.
WHo sent me to the commisariat.
Where I waited, breathless from the climb up the stairs of Montmartres, behind a humourless couple complaining about the music their neighbours play.
"Ce sont des JEUNES!"
A dirty word, apparently, either that or they have a saliva problem, the way they spat it.
Des Jeunes.
I want to be forever jeune...
The sergeant lady was surprisingly nice despite the ordeal she'd just been through with the Irate Couple.
I left loaded with a thousand (or thereabouts) documents, photocopied each twice, and should really be looking for my insurance papers rather than playing with Linux bootdisks.
Local friends and foe are behaving strangely, at least I think they are. I haven't seen any of them in too long to remember which bit is strange and which is strange but habitual.
The adrenaline rush is still there from singing.
My lungs are clear. I want to scream, shout, project, fill my cour with sharp, shattering notes.
I hummed all the way to the prefecture, and sang all the way back.
I'd still be singing, but princesse is napping before her yoga class.