As I type this, I am on a work trip to France, where I am trying my best to disguise the fact that, when it comes to speaking the language, I am about as useful as a glass trampoline. Last night, I found myself positively ravenous, and ended up in a quaint back street restaurant. Not wanting to appear to be an idiotic British tourist, I amazed myself by confidently ordering a duck dish. The most amazing thing was that a deliciously cooked portion of duck arrived on my plate – the waiter had understood my mangled voyeelles françaises, after all.
But that’s by the by. I could be anywhere as I type this. I was in Germany two days ago, but now I am in France. I should be outside, exploring the web of streets, meeting the people and soaking up the culture (along with the wine), but instead I’m in my hotel room, typing away on my computer.
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