So, I'm back, and since I'm ludicrously far behind, I think I'll just get started. So, where were we? Oh yes, graveyard barbeque's. Right, lots of things happened after that- include my mother and I dicing with death around the arc de triumph, and never actually following the cycle paths or going the right way down a one way street. No, I realise its not safe- actually, I realised it wasn't safe when a sixteen wheeled lorry overtook me and the wing mirror almost clipped my ear- it wasn't exactly chamomile tea on the relaxation meter I have to say. Anyway, eventually, we took our bicycles back; only to find that my mother bike wouldn't go back inside the funny beepy metal thingy. (don't ask, I'm not good with machines) Anyway, what it came down to was that it was getting dark and my mother was panicking, which was when the parisien bike people turned up. Which as also when my mother got down on the pavement on this funny little road island outside the Gare de Lyon and upended her handbag onto the ground- now in full panic mode. Amused I tried to get her to calm down- we hadn't broken or lost the bike, that much was obvious and now the authorities were here to help, not punish. My mother however, could see and hear nothing but the idea of a 300 euro fine,a d continued searching frantically through assorted tissues, tickets and makeup. The guy looked at me, and we began to have a conversation in french about what had happened, what they could do, and why my mother was bordering on the realms of the clinically insane. Eventually, everything was ok. Well, sort of ok, until we met up with my Dad a few days later and he told us we'd spent something like 800 euros on our little cycle. Suffice to say we won't be doing that again. Now, I think it's time I mention my brother's location- you may be wondering where in the general area of France, Hong Kong, and Sheffield he'd actually ended up, whilst me and my parents were on our whirlwind romp through Paris. Actually, he was in the Alps already with my Grandparents, where he was skiing up and down and doing stunt man jumps through more physical space than my mother, father and I covered in all our three days in the French capital. Unfortunately for me, this meant that when I got there, my reputation as skier extraordinaire was somewhat diminished. Still, we had fun, bombed (as in skiied fast down) black runs with my grandpa and father, leaped off ice jumps, chussed down blues for the hell of it and just had a laugh. Eventually, after my grandparents left, we even convinced Mum-who's slightly less sure of herself when it comes to standing on two 5cm wide planks of fibreglass and sliding down ice covered mountains-to actually come out as well. As much as I think we made progress, I have to admit my low point was definitely when, at a rest stop restaurant just off the piste, my mother leaned forwards whilst I supped my coke and told me there were a lot of similarities between me and Hitler. Suffice to say I comically spurted my last mouthful in shocked amusement- I mean, I thought I'd been being nice! Still, all it took was a cup of the best hot chocolate in the world from a cafe called Face Nord to settle our disagreement, and we ended up leaving the alps through the half building, half tent that was the airport in relative happiness- neglecting to mention to my brother the crazy guy in the parisien metro who thumped me for sitting down, and the other one who was about 23 who wanted to know if I wanted to go for a drink. When it comes to multi national 12 year old brothers, some things are better left unsaid.
Will update with part 3 soon, keep reading!
