A Francophilo is defined as ‘someone who hates the French but loves their patisseries’. And that’s me. I like to invent new words when the old ones don’t work any more.

Though I don’t really ‘hate’ the French in any real sense, I just hate the thought of them. Well, the French men that is. Don’t mind thinking about their women at all. Something I seem to share with their president. Though he’s a big supporter of the ‘actions speak louder’ campaign.
And apparently, London has between 300,000 and 400,000 French nationals living here.

Which means to me that there are 100,000 French people pretty much unaccounted for. I mean, they’re either here or they’re not. They can’t all be on Eurostar (at the time of the counting), nor out the house shagging someone else’s wife, surely. The Missing. They’ll make a movie of it.

400,000 French people left to come to London… but only 300,000 arrived!!!!

They’re all here (making London France’s 6th largest city) because of Mnsr Hollande. Not in moral protest, the French have absolutely no moral standards whatsoever as anyone knows who’s ever stood in a lift queue in Courchevel. Bloody savages. But here because their pres. decided to tax them at 85% so he can get enough money to trade in his motor-scooter for a nice Renault Clio as befits the leader of a major European restaurant.

There are parts of Kensington now where English is not spoken. The shops will only serve you in French, the staff are all appallingly rude and arrogant and there are gateaux everywhere.

I despair, but still remain keen to find these 100,000 errant Frogs in case they all turn up at my house seeking asylum.

I love Tai Chi. My new ‘thing’. My main event. Its a wonderful form of relaxation, stretching, exercise and brutal violence. You go from philosophical meditation to broken collarbones in 0.6 seconds. Its where Marcel Proust meets Bruce Lee. And I don’t mean ‘in heaven’.

Last night we abandoned the more meditative and used each other as punch-bags. STAB-KICK-JAB-CROSS-JAB-KNEE-ROUNDHOUSE-KICK, and repeat as the victim glides backwards across the room holding up the punchbags. And repeat, and repeat, until someone either dies or you’re sweating so much you might drown.

I ended up with 2 rather nasty blisters on two of my rather nasty toes. I may sue.

Happy, peaceful Friday

A xxxx