Gay Paris and health problems
08.05.06, 10:16 pm
That�s right y�all, I have been and done the French thing. Flew out Thursday night, after getting the train up to Manc, and then flew back Monday morning � French customs was pretty heavy, and I got a body search and everything. The lamest, most half-arsed body search ever, but still. Also, the metal detector thing didn�t go off, even though I had a load of English change in my jeans pocket that I�d forgotten about. I shall now sum up the whole memory of Paris that currently resides in my head with the following sentence comprised of random statements spliced together with semi-colons. Wonderful grammar coming to a place near you soon!
Warm sunshine that has managed to bring out the freckles on my arms already; crappy drivers that don�t bother stopping even when the green man�s on; huge wide roads and pavements flanked by massive buildings covered in balconies; amazing saxophone busker playing on the metro train; bloody French flags everywhere; lots of espresso drinking and pain au chocolate eating; complete never-ending Smokers Yay Club, but I managed to resist; French women wearing tapered trousers that are too short, and a stupid haircut to top it off; Milka chocolate.
(Some dudes from Mongolia playing these really kick-ass songs outside the Pompidou Center.)
(Me and my dad squinting into the sun, trying to do a self-portrait that encompassed the fountain that we were sat in front of.)In the briefest of brief summaries, otherwise we�ll be here all day: Friday was spent at some museum/park place that I�ve forgotten the name of, followed by excessive wine in the evening; Saturday was spent at Saint Chapelle, followed by a punt down the river Seine; and then Sunday was spent at the Pompidou Center, followed by the Palace Gardens. Sunday night we went to some English pub and did the Pub Quiz that my sister�s friend Jethro holds. We totally kicked ass (because my dad appears to be some kind of encyclopedia genius) and won by 8 points, drank our bottle of champagne prize there and got kind�ve drunk again. Thankfully no hangovers though, unlike the last time I went to Paris. My sister�s French is completely amazing, and I was hugely jealous. My French wasn�t actually that bad, considering how long it is since I last spoke it, but I totally overused and abused my favourite phrase � oui, c�est ca! Because let�s face it, there�s only so many times you can legitimately say, �yes, that is so!� after all.
(Me again squinting into the sun, stood in front of the crazy silver dome thing that was near some science museum my dad and me went to.)
(The geekiest of all geek fests � look away now if geeking out offends you. We went into the DNA and genetics bit of the science museum, and I got way over-excited about seeing all the stuff I�d had countless lectures on, like rhesus monkeys and tanks of zebrafish and DNA structure models. And then I found a big board showing the whole human genome, and my geek level hit the roof. The ringed blue protein on chromosome 20 is the protein I did my MND project on during last summer, the one I checked for mutations. Okay, geekiness is over.)
(Me waiting in the queue outside Saint Chapelle, getting bored of smiling and deciding to bite my tongue instead. My hair looks really dark because I had to wash my hair with my sister�s Brilliant Brunette shampoo, which completely dampened down all my blonde bits.)I did have a fantastic time, and it was lovely to spend extended time with my sister (also incredibly impressed that me and my dad only had one argument, despite being holed up together in my sister�s tiny flat for four straight days) but my stupid ill thing meant that I was exhausted the whole time, and my legs got more tired and stiff and painful as the weekend went on. Sunday was the worst, as we were trekking around near the Pompidou center and had to climb a load of stairs, and suddenly my legs were dying after about three steps, and in the end I had to haul myself up along the handrail using just my upper body strength. It was so incredibly frustrating and I felt so tired that I had a sudden urge to just burst into tears. Most of the time it felt like my legs were two wet bags of cement, and every now and then they�d twitch and start to cramp. That paragraph was really badly written, but you get the general idea, i.e. whine whine whine.
(The stained glass windows in Saint Chapelle, which made me go oooh for at least five minutes.)
(Me in the Pink Room at some art gallery in the Pompidou Center. I�m starting to look kind�ve knacked.)Okay, so I went to the doctors on Thursday morning, before I got the train up to Manchester. The guy frustrated the hell out of me, and I came close to losing it and telling him to go fuck himself, but managed to hold it in. I think he realised that he'd pissed me off too, as he shouted at me to look after myself and take it easy as I went out the door. Basically it's not a virus, due to the results of my blood cell count, and after doing some reflex tests and checking my balance and getting me to resist him pulling my limbs in various directions, he's not exactly sure what it is. He's referring me on to have my heart monitored on an ECG in hospital for 24 hours � that will no doubt turn out to be the most boring 24 hours of my existence, and I bet no one bothers visiting me - and he's also referring me to a neurologist. It's all very... yeah. I was going to say that it's interesting, but I think people are starting to realise that I always write that when I don't really want to admit how it actually makes me feel.
(Me sat by the fountains, looking a bit pale and gross.)
(My sister and my dad sat in the Palace Gardens.)Mel is really quite concerned, because she�s a big fretter, and gave me a long worried hug before I set off to the train station. She only let me go after I promised to text her every day and let her know how I was doing, even though it ended up costing me a small fortune. The Neurology department is notoriously slow (apparently) so it'll probably be a while before I get an appointment, and for both of the referrals it'll be a case of getting a letter through my door. In the meantime, I have to go see my doctor again in about a week�s time, to reassess my condition and see what the rest of my blood tests come back with. My dad and my sister both appear to think that it's psychosomatic, and that I'm doing it to myself. It's interesting. And I�m not doing it to myself.
(My dad and me, with sleepy smile in tow.)When I got back to chez Sheffield I sat and played some guitar for a while, as I�m sad to report that I did indeed miss my beautiful guitar whilst I was away, and my hand cramped up after only five minutes. That�s never happened before, and is just stupid. I� have no words. My hand never gets tired until at least half an hour or something. I�m going to have an appointment with a neurologist. It�s all a bit� I dunno.
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