I’ve got a date tonight. No, I’ve not plunged headlong into the favourite Parisian pastime of infidelity, I’m meeting a young man called Jean-François outside Pizza Hut in Les Halles. We’re going to sit at a table, drink coffee and then converse in our respective languages for 15 minutes at a time before I wander off and watch Lana Dey Rey. It’s part of a thing called Conversation Exchange, and you can find it on the internet. I know it will be helpful in my quest to learn French but I only envision impending humiliation. When French people say they’re bad at English it usually means they’re completely fluent.
Regarding my post on Friday, I went for a run around Buttes Chaumont earlier and there was a man keeping fit with an actual sword. Crazy business! I came out and there was another man in a silver hat sat outside a café reading his Tarot Cards. Funnily enough, last night I stayed up late playing poker with Tarot cards. I got a full house and four people died (that’s a Steven Wright joke).
People often say to me, ‘Jeremy, why do you post so much Parisian street art on your Instagram?’ (Nobody has actually said that yet, I just imagine them saying it in my head), to which I always reply: ‘Because it’s ephemeral dear boy/girl. It might be gone before you know it, and then you’ll be sorry. It might be the artist’s intention that it only lasts for a short time, and yet I beg to differ – such beauty should be preserved.’ I’m off to work on that answer while people grumble under their breath about how fucking annoying it is that I keep posting Parisan street art on Instagram and how they’d really like to unfollow me but they’re afraid of hurting my feelings.