The few possessions which support my pseudo-hobo lifestyle are finally in Paris, dumped unceremoniously in a corner of qx's cramped apartment. I don't live in Paris yet, but at least my stuff is acclimatising. I speak a few words of French, with a million more on the to-do list and of course the accepted methods of stringing them together into vague sentences. Tough months are ahead no doubt, but nothing worth doing is without risk or difficulty.

The first three days of my new life in Paris set the benchmark for many to follow. We pretended to drive trains, impressed children by riding between carriages, impressed their mothers less and played around some abandoned (and not so abandoned) metro stations. One particularly gorgeous rooftop eluded us in our moments of indecision but time is aplenty. Siologen took a hilarious tumble on a velib (the cheap rental bikes) while Snappel busted mad wheelies for the ladies. Baguettes on the daily, exploring on the nightly, this is the life of the liberated.





A year of British destruction has given way to a new chapter. Paris promises so much against a benchmark set high by pimping finds and memorable adventures. This new chapter overflows with possibilities, beginning with one boldly scribed word of both literal and metaphorical meanings. Enculé. Let's see if we can avoid that shall we?