Monday, January 25


On Sunday afternoon I went to see a French Film: Micmacs à tire-larigot. Even though I had no idea what the title meant (did it have something to do with haricots verts?) I was convinced it would be good. Amélie Poulain has been hugged to death, but I must admit that I love Amélie Poulain and on rainy Sunday afternoons I often wish I could be her. To me violence is not entertaining, but watching skinny French women eat crême brulée is more than entertainment: it is art. If all else fails in life one can always try to be French. In the cinema I bumped into an ex-colleague of mine. The questions he asked me sounded like he was preparing for an interview. Where do you work right now, do you like your new job, why did you leave, are you still writing, do you still plan to move abroad? It’s frustrating to talk to someone when you know their interest isn’t real. This weekend I’ve decided that in conversations I must train myself to be more French: I must learn to use a lot of words while keeping the essential message to myself.