There is a strange role reversal at play 'twixt my princess and I, sort of like the way Seb has replaced me as the social flutterby, princess has mastered all the flirting ability I seem to have left by the wayside these past months.
Not that I'm bemoaning, I seem to enjoy the leaning back and letting the search for witty barbs pass me by.
The trollop of the 5ieme, as she is now known in my head, at least for the next fifteen minutes or so until I'm done bugging her about it, was quite successful, leaving the caf� where we wolfed down our breakfast/lunch/dinner with not one, but TWO marriage offers from the two cutest waiters in town.
Well, really it went like this:
"Stop trying to steal my future wife!"princess giggles uncomfortably
"she's not YOUR future wife, she's MY future wife!"
Something in me wonders if they insisted on calling us "les princesses" due to the striking contrast of our appearance together, or due to the mistress of disaster's (princess) influence involving me, the tablecloth, and my undaintylike manner of pulling the entire neighbouring table with me as I was sitting down, glasses, cuttlery, salt, pepper, and large jar of spiced mustard to the floor.
Les princesses. Heh.
The sad thing about France is the lack of that delightful american invention -- toothpicks.
I mean, SURE, they use 'em to spear hors d'oeuvres at fancy contemporary vernissage gatherings, but where are they when you need them to prop up your eyelids and avoid falling into your smoked duck and gizzard salad?
It just wouldn't be proper, I guess.
The rain cut short our brave attempt in wandering half-asleep near the jardins de Luxembourg, and we gratefully fell into the m�tro qt Od�on, heading for a quiet evening with tea and pastries, bathtubs and postcards and Mr. Pyke's books.
In the m�tro, passing into the 6i�me, the raving, yet somehow charming lunatic ordered the chevalier to ouvrir la porte!
Princesse hopped to it, and he swept off, brandishing his stick and galloping up the platform to wherever his adventures would take him.
There was a minor moment, to the soundtrack of the madly laughing train car, involving a rather bloodshot bloodhound licking the mustard from my boot. (He only got one, the other is slowly becoming artfully stained) The owner's of said dog, utterly ignored him in the lieu of their dramatic performance as parisian trash.
So to recap, she's the trollop of the 5i�me, the chevalier (another role-reversal) of the 6i�me, the princesse of the 18i�me, and the infamous "ewww BUGS" city slicker of the P�rigord.
I wonder if she could give David and I some advice as to where to store those superfluous personalities when we're not using them.
*grin*
Pastries and tea are on their way to our overstuffed stomachs, and giggling in bed is about to ensue.
More updates after tomorrow's singing lessons and adventures at the prefecture to report door vandalism.