The Wine Trader

“I’m a wine trader, and I have a small vineyard in the south.” He casually said. “Well, that’s amazing!… I LOVE WINE!”…. Oh god, not one of my most witty responses, but I felt like it came from the heart as I sat on my sofa evaporating a bottle of Sancerre. *Willow shaking her head into her paws*.

It was a Saturday night, and I met my thirty something red haired, German girlfriend, Kristin, on the east side of town, for a Cambodian getaway, i.e, a bar with salsa music, complimentary olives and staff that could speak neither English nor French. “I like it here… Feels like we’re not in Paris!” Kristin said, I was in mutual agreement with her until somebody opened the door and the ice age harassed the very skin on my back. “Why are the wine glasses like shot glasses here?! Oh I miss the days in England where you basically get a pint in a glass for £2.00.” Obviously I think I’m at the hight of the class structure… Kristin piped up and said to the barman “Un vin blanc à l’Anglais.” (A white wine, English style!) The waiter brought over a huge glass of wine, I should obviously be getting out that one liner a bit more often! So basically Paris turned me into a wino, well, not that I wasn’t a huge fan before in the London days… But the date with the wine trader just didn’t measure up… Literally…

Let’s go back to Monday! There I was (here we go again, another cliché, buckets ready please) trotting down the street giving it the odd leap on and off the pavement move, you know when you’re pretending to look as if you’re in a hurry, but you’re actually an hour early, and running is for five year olds or for people who are late for trains. No… Just me that does that, again…

I gave it a last leap out of the metro (blimey, anyone would think I’ve turned into a frog… Say nothing) in to the Saint Germain Des Pres district. There I stood waiting  and apparently my date had already arrived, a foot below my eyesight…

“Ohhhhh hey hi, hey, oh you’ve been waiting here!” I said awkwardly whilst swaying from side to side in-between words. Well this was not what the photos portrayed but, ok, let’s go with it. We found this French restaurant that was completely empty and remained completely empty for the entire meal.

“You look very nice this evening, I like your clothes.” Well done there sir across the table, one hundred points for you. “Your jewellery is nice, where’s it from?” another hundred points for you, need to be taking note of these, nobody normally does this well! He went on to tell me about how the wine is made, the best year, the this, the that, the Zzzzzzzzzzz……. *Snorts and arrises from the forehead facedown on the table* Lord, where were we, oh yeah! So the waitress/CEO/chef comes over to take our order and I thought obviously he should choose the wine, you know, being the expert and all…

*GASP* “It’s SO expensive, 23€ for a bottle of wine, oh well-we’ll just get the cheapest one then because there’s no difference really, has to be regulated or you can’t sell it so there’s no such thing as bad wine.”

……. FIVE MILLION points… lost… from… you…

The only place to look was the table cloth. I could overlook quite a few things in a potential partner, but I knew that a Mr. Talk About The Price Of Everything and I would not get on. It turns out he was a Mr. Suburbs as well as a Mr. I Eat Like The Cookie Monster too.

When the meal finished we walked through the beautiful Latin Quarter, and with my five AM start the next day I was ready for bedy-bed-bed! He looked up at me and muttered, “so… what’s the plan now?” I pretended not to hear and threw a sarcastic eye bulging look to the sky as if it were to miraculously beam me up and take me home. Knowing my luck I’d end up on a date with a martian who complained about the price of petrol to take me home… Erm, where did that come from? I digress. He took another shot at the question “What are we doing now?”

“Right, I’m going home and you’re going home, that’s what we’re doing now.” I ruled. He said he wasn’t sure as there are “cultural differences” and “I’m English ‘n’ all”. Thats the thing, well one of the main things I found in Paris. You had to be taken for a test drive in the bedroom on the first night, as we all know that sex is what a long lasting and loving relationship is based on, right? Well, I don’t think so. You’d be marched up six flights of stairs to the top floor of some ancient apartment block, given some left over wine that had been sitting in the fridge after being used for a risotto they made two months ago and talk about idle things like. “Oh look, the Eiffel Tower’s stopped sparkling!…..” or “What shade of grey is that paint exactly? I feel like I’ve been watching it dry for the past hour… I mean, having a great time!”…. Convincing. After that, the legendary hand on the back of the head would take its place and you’d be taken for a lap around the bed sheets for the night, and let’s not forget about the legendary walk of shame to the nearest Starbucks the next morning.

Generally a week would pass, where I’m sure other people were being interviewed for the position… In several different positions. Never to hear from them again. Paris tried to put notches on your bedpost, and if you really let it, your bed would look like it had a serious case of woodworm after a few months.

Another bar later and “Right are you coming or staying, I need to go home… I’m drunk!” Kristin said as she slammed into somebody. Haha oh she does make me laugh! Right I better see that she gets across the road ok! Until next week!

“WAIT!…. I’m coming!”