Le Bourget

I forgot to mention that we visited the Bourget as well (annual conference of UOIF, the French equivalent of ISB or similar from what I can make out). The Metro was awash with Muslims and there was a shuttle bus transferring people to the Parc d'Expositions where it was held - that's proper French buses not minibuses or dirty white vans or anything.

We went on the last day so didn't hear any stirring French speeches or anything but I caught some of the closing concert with Raihan singing 'Merci Allah'. I also met one of my dear Frenchies (as Cherry, for want of a better pseudonym, used to call them). She had the most delicious little niece with her, all blue eyes and curly blonde hair and eyelashes. I could eat her with a spoon. If only I, too, had married a Morrocan.

There was also a market of awe-inspiring proportions, with fresh Muslim produce from all over the world - jilbabs from Morocco, scarves a plenty and other goodies all surprisingly cheap. Unfortunately, I was only let loose with 20 Euros, so had to curtail my expenditure severely. This would not have been a problem if all the cash machines in the region had not been emptied by previous (doubtless female) greedy shoppers. It teaches me the lesson, of never refusing money when your husband offers it - although he actually only had about 8 euros himself when all was said and done. Oh dear now I'm going to make him feel bad. For the record, Mr C took me out to dinner once and to lunch every day during our trip. He also took me on a scenic walking tour which took in, amongst other things, the gayest road in all Gay Paris.

a comeback Part II

Have returned from Paris, having been on a nice jaunt with Mr C. We visited the Notre Dame, Louvre, Pompidou Centre, Eiffel Tower and for the rest, I can lend you the Rough Guide. I unfortunately caught a cold, having complied with Mr C's wishes to walk to the Eiffel Tower in pouring rain in unsuitable shoes (mine were, not his). We saw the Mona Lisa, which was ok in its way, but didn't seem to be as extraordinary as all the hype. I prefered the portraits made of fruit and flowers personally, although I've forgotten who painted them. Napoleon III's apartments were very magnificent, one could imagine little Leonie visiting with her Seigneur. Versailles was out this time though, perhaps in the future.

I finally visited a Sephora, which was definitely a highlight :) In fact, I went into three of them, I think. As my long-suffering mec puts it, I was like a kid in a candy shop. In fact I wanted to buy a candy floss scented perfume, but he vetoed.

a comeback Part I

I realise that I must have a voice on the web in order to tell my tale, as opposed to having my fans read the mangled tabloid version as found in Bikey and Fudge's blogs. I am hoping that Cambridge Psycho has run out of steam (as her last blog entry suggests) and I can rescue my tattered reputation and that of my erswhile Swain, if erstwhile is what I mean (probably not).

So to update on my life, let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start. When we read we begin with ABC when we sing we begin with do-re-mi...ok that'll do pig, that'll do. Well about six weeks ago I had my tonsils out, not precisely an exciting experience unless you have a particular fondness for budget women's magazines. I then went through a convalescence period, and cultivated an interesting style of swallowing. On that note, let me tell you that the Establishment is wrong, and icecream does not help in any sense whatsoever in soothing a throat robbed of its tonsils.

Towards the end of this time, Mr C and mother came to see me at home. As I was feeling much better, I blazed into Domestic Goddess-style activity, cooking, baking and mess-making to my heart's content. It didn't turn out too bad either (other than 'You Idiot! It's only Raiyan!' - It wasn't). And all this time, the Great Drama was unfolding, ready to play itself out in the night. To cut a long and unpleasant story short, my tonsils had decided to commit their final act of defiance and started haemorrhaging, culminating in several hours coughing up blood in A&E, a couple more days in hospital and much shameless attention-seeking on my behalf.

Since then I have been in Oldham delivering babies. I have noticed that Bengali women can be rather high-handed with their fellas when in labour. If I have one message for all you young ladies, its don't push when they tell you to stop. Things rip.