54

That's the official shoe count now, courtesy of 2 pairs of lovely ballet flats from Ash. One is utterly classic, in softest leather, with a tiny bow, à la Brigitte or Audrey. The other is satin and rhinestones. Ah, bliss.

Isn't it annoying

... when a much looked-forward to lunch with colleagues leaves me thinking I would have been better off eating a sandwich at my desk.

Efforts to have a pleasant non-work related conversation were swept away in the path of a violent bitchfest over one - absent, naturally - person.

And then the check was split evenly between us and I ended up paying 24,90 € for my 12 € antipasti plate.

Ho hum.

And yes, I should have said something on the spot. But isn't this (partly) what blogs are for ? A safe place for petty anonymous rants ?

François Ozon

I've tried to like him, I really have. I go into the movie theatre with an open mind - no, with a positive bias, even. But nope. I just don't get him.

Am currently reading Angel, by Elizabeth Taylor, the novel that his latest film is adapted from, and I'm really enjoying it. It's clever and wonderfully funny (in a Jane Austen rather than a Monty Python way) and it says this of its heroine: "He realised that she had great pride and not a trace of humour in her" and it seems to me that applies to Ozon's screen adaptation as well.

Still, it's always good to see Charlotte Rampling, and Sam Neill (have I seen him anything else since Jurassic Park?) gives a good performance too.

RIP

Found out today that the head of a company I used to work for died this week.

He was a real character, a brilliant businessman, at times unbelievably generous to his employees, but extremely demanding and prone to terrifying fits of anger when things didn't go his way or if he thought someone had failed him or not lived up to expectations. Not surprisingly, he went through a dizzying succession of assistants. I didn't work directly for him, but for one of his MDs.

Once when my boss was away on extended sick leave after an operation, I made a decision in his absence - it was only a paltry initiative - after all I was low, low woman on the totem pole, but for some reason this came to his attention. He called me into his office and asked why I had told X that Y. I started to reply, "well, I thought that..." but could get no further. He picked up a pile of papers from desk and threw them at me, screaming "I don't pay you to think!"

I would like to think that nowadays I would calmly reply, "in that case, sir, you pay me too much" and walk away. But this was a good 8 years ago, I was young, and it was my first "real" job, so I burst into tears and stumbled back to my desk to have a good cry. Various people consoled me ("there there, we all know he's a bastard"), and one kindly soul got me rather large glass of wine. (Yes, there was always booze around, and we could smoke at our desks too, in those days).

On the other hand, some months ago I was looking through old papers and found notes where he had praised me, and even years later, I felt proud.

Once a year he invited everyone in the office, from MDs to PAs, to an all expenses paid weekend in the South of France. We would fly into Nice, take a helicopter to Monaco, and from there his yacht would take us to Saint Tropez for a night out and oh my it was fun.

It all feels a little surreal now when I think of it.

RIP, HPR.

Sometimes

... I forget what an interesting person my mother is, and it's nice to be reminded. Like when I was telling her about The Painted Veil, which I loved, and she told me she had met Somerset Maugham in a teahouse called La Pagode in Saigon, and that she had read all his books, and couldn't believe that I hadn't.

Because...

...thinking of Piaf leads to thinking to Gainsbourg, which leads to YouTube. This is good.

Musicals

Saw Dreamgirls last night, and came home singing and strutting, in an absurdly good mood.

Saw La Môme tonight, and am listening to my Piaf CDs now, weepy and desperate for a stiff drink!