Full Party Report Coming Soon!

Dearest Ms. Mac,

I’ll bet you never thought that after spending four days in your precious company

(i) cruising the streets of Troyes asking pretty ladies “Are you lookin’ for a good time, Sugar?” ,

(ii) finding a pretty lady to abduct and take with us to a Den of Iniquity at 10, rue de la Charme where the madam was waiting hungrily,

(iii) heading to Paris, indulging in shopping, drinking, singing, and a Disco Musical Appreciation Gathering with voluptuous young ladies (and Julian),

(iv) enjoying a massive American Sunday brunch in an authentic diner and

(v) bussing out to the airport to deliver your sorry, broken-backed ass onto the plane,

I could possibly have time for any more excitement.

Well get this! I befriended a charming young American upon leaving the airport and offered to help him get his tickets and find the right train for his trip to Dijon (only out of the goodness of my heart of course. Nothing to do with his rugged good looks and manly physique). It was going to be a near thing, because the airport bus Nazis had inexplicably cancelled one of the regular shuttles to my train station, so he was running a little late.

We arrived at the station and just as we sprinted athletically to pick up his tickets, our path was blocked by a police barrier. We skidded to a halt, and were suddenly deafened by a very loud explosion: smoke and flames billowed sky-high, my heart burst literally right out of my chest (not a good look) and my ear-drums exploded into bloody fragments and dripped down onto the ground.

It turned out to be a bomb alert and the anti-terrorist pleece had blown up a suitcase belonging to an anonymous moron who had left his luggage unattended in a major Parisian railway station… I feel quite chuffed at the thought that in return for having caused travel delays for thousands of passengers, the rest of his trip will be spoiled now by a lack of clean undies.

Poor Mike from Boston missed his Dijon train, despite my good intentions, and so I was forced to offer him some hospitality by ordering two long, cold beers, while he manfully went back and stood in a chaotic queue to wrestle (with rippling biceps) new tickets out of the pissed-off ticket vendors. I was considering running off to Dijon and then Barcelona with him, but remembered just in time that I have clinging offspring, a grumpy husband and a dirty house that need my constant attention. Also, I am old enough to be his mother.

AND, whatever would you do without me permanently strapped to my computer, sending you advice, dirty jokes and recipes by email every day? I knew I couldn’t betray your trust in such a despicable manner. So I regretfully shook his hand, taught him to do la bise, and ran for my own train home. Sigh.

Tonight I will download all the incriminating photos taken during your debauched Parisian interlude, and then may the blackmail begin!

Naughty love and kisses,
Antipo

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