Hmm, I just got an email from one of my internet chappies, one of the few French ones actually living in Paris. Most that mail me are from the deepest Southern States of America, or Tunisia. I send them my standard ‘thank you for your message but I’m really only looking to meet friends in Paris’ email and leave it at that. However myself and Matt have exchanged quite a few mails at this stage. Pleasant exchanges, nothing exciting, nothing terribly character revealing but at least he seems sane. We haven’t actually met yet because, like the rest of the French white middle classes, he is off on holidays.

However in today’s email he opened it with ‘Hello love’ and wrote of how he had been thinking of me! Emm, thinking of ME? Really? Now I suspect that any chances we had of connecting are shot before we’ve even met, because to be frank, my emails were certainly not all that and I suspect that any ‘me’ of which he was thinking is a creature entirely of his own creation and wishful thinking.

And I’m not sure I’ll be able to live up to it. It’s a tad unfair becuase the bar I’ve set for him is quite low. As long as he’s not a serial killer I’ll be pleased.

Now that’s not me putting myself down. I like myself immensely, it’s just that I suspect that I’m like black olives, you have to get used to me to realise how fab I am. I can’t imagine that if he is musing my profile picture into different scenarios he is imagining anything close to the reality of me standing in front of the fridge eating Carrefour chorizo by the pound. Or spending 15 minutes on a street corner in the Marais trying to covertly take a phone photograph of the STUNNING black guy, wrapped only in a white towel, folding sheets on his balcony. Oh course if we do meet I would keep that side of myself under wraps for at least a couple of dates, but I suspect, if I am competing with his imaginary me we might not even get that far. Damn me!

Oh I’m afraid the photo of the sheet folder didn’t come out: