"Non, ce n'est pas good Gemma. You 'av put on all of 'ze weight
you 'av lost. 'Ow will you get anozer girlfriend if you are,
'ow do you say…fat ?"
Break ups are difficult. Heart-wrenchingly, Mount
Everest-on-roller blades kind of difficult. Is it possible that
surviving one in the country of pain-au-chocolat and red wine could
be even harder? Especially when you have a rather sexy French boss
in the office commenting on your fluctuating weight?
Surely, if there is one tiny, miniscule advantage to going
through a break-up it's the right to indulge on all those things we
normally try to limit our intake of. Ice cream, things with
goo on them, take-aways… In a break-up situation, replacing
love with confectionary is not only entirely acceptable but
completely desirable, right?
But then there are all those awful expressions bandied about at
the newly single. Phrases such as 'back in the saddle', 'plenty of
fish in the sea' or the French 'une de perdue, dix de retrouvées'
(one lost, ten found). These are intended to motivate the
moping, dynamize the dejected and galvanize the gloomy. But in a
bustling city like Paris, it's difficult to find the time for the
mourning and the eating. Should I be dying to launch myself
back into the fray? Do I need one of those t-shirts that says 'dip
me in chocolate and throw me to the lesbians?' I'd much rather have
my chocolate without the side of lesbian for the moment, thank you
My sexy French boss, who may or may not have been the object of
a pre-break-up crush has been a pillar of strength and support
throughout this most difficult of times. Coffee for breakfast,
salads for lunch, a friendly shoulder to cry on for tea. Our
professional relationship bordering on friendship, (but mostly
founded upon the sharing of practical advice and regional culinary
tips) was evolving smoothly until, disaster!
She took me out on the scene - something to do with cheering me
up before I eat my body weight in cake. The best lesbian bar in
Paris, Le Troisieme Lieu, is kitsch and grungy and home to lesbians
all over the city. There's not a girl who hasn't been kissed in
there or been drunk and cried there and probably a good few too,
who have been ushered out kicking and screaming (they are French
after all). It's a fabulous place but like any gay bar, to the
newly single, it represents a potential landmine of old encounters
But the sight of my sexy French boss, downing a pint like a real
Brit and getting down and dirty to a remix of Edith Piaf's 'Je Ne
Regrette Rien,' was a sight to behold.
There are plenty morepoisons dans la mer, but there is also time
for healing. In the mean time I'm going to cut back on the
patisseries. Would, 'dip me in low-fat yoghurt and throw me to the
Le Troisieme Lieu: