Flâneur-ing in Paris


I’ve been busy recently: That mad rush in the lead up to an extended period away from home when there’s so much to be done. Still, these days with the kids that much older, I’m inclined to optimistically believe that even once the holidays have begun, I should still be able to put the hours in on the Making Art front. Especially with three out of four now away.

Cue hollow laugh. What on earth would make me think their absence would free up my time?

Prodigal Daughter (aka Eldest Daughter) has just started a month of work experience in Paris to get her French up to speed before starting university in October. Middle Daughter decided it would be fun to accompany her for a week, and practice her own French for a few days.

The pre-departure activities were neither straightforward nor cheap. Prodigal Daughter seemed to have spent her entire gap year dressed in tee shirts and pajamas, and dressing up meant putting on a clean sweatshirt. Not a good look for a Parisian office situation. A few manic trips into town were required to remedy the problem.

Naturally my taxi driver duties called for me to drive to the airport at midday thereby ensuring the planned working day in the studio was completely scuppered.

There’s no such thing as a free drop off at Leeds Bradford Airport these days, but at least the £2 for 30 mins parking charge allowed me to watch the performance of the bag allowance shuffle as Prodigal Daughter was forced to extract four heavy tomes from her suitcase to carry onboard as permissible hand baggage allowance. Middle Daughter couldn’t quite grasp the logic of this (who can?) but her pleas for common sense were ignored by the Girl on the Desk leaving Prodigal to balance the books for the next hour.

Then they were gone.

Until the texts, phone calls and emails began arriving.

Whilst Prodigal was getting to grips with French formules de politesse, Middle Daughter was experiencing the delights of antique bookshops, reading Voltaire in the gardens of the Palais Royal and oh yes, getting pick pocketed.

Lucky me, having to battle the impenetrable security barriers of her happy-to-help bank, and getting cut off only twice after I’d got through the interminable options and mindless waiting music.

Lucky her, that they only got her purse.

Maybe I should have gone with after all.


4 responses to Flâneur-ing in Paris

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