On ne peut pas fabriquer la vérité

Marie-Jacques peered round my rain-soaked inexplicably curled mop of hair and once she pursed her lips and spouted nonsensical poetry in broken french I knew she wasn't going to leave me alone. Cicero was lost, I jotted down absolute rubbish about Chalcolithic pottery in the hopes that my writing would be so small they'd just give me the points anyway and I begged her to hold still.

"Why are you here?"

She shrugs bony shoulders. "Pourquoi pas."

"Mais pourquoi maintenant? I was writing last night, you could have come then."

"Il faut commencer 'il était une fois...'"

"You're taking the piss."

"Tais-toi!"

"Tais your own toi."

I scribble notes about the French Revolution from lectures I've missed.

"Et il faut finir 'ils se marièrent et eurent beaucoup d'enfants'"

"Shh I'm very busy and important."

I started writing about enlightenment. Which was just lists and lists of philosophers and thinkers under various headings. David Hume was one of the Scottish Enlightened ones and with a spasm my hand creeps to the top of the page and writes she's searching for the missing shade of blue.

"Oh come on. You want me to write a philosophical fairy tale in french? Where were you in sixth year when these things were fresh in my mind. I'll be stuck on wikipedia with foreign dictionaries on my lap. You know I'm lazy with the grammar."

"Je t'aime." She knew ideas were planted in my head and need say no more. Needless to say it was difficult to pay attention in class despite such discussions as "But Catherine is a girl" (nice of them to notice) and bluffing my way through things I barely read the night before.

And my little Parisienne tortures me with something too perfect for me to recreate on paper. And I'm left trapped in my own limitations.

I'll never be the shine in your spit

The French musical about threesomes that I wanted to see? Yeah it's out now. Know where it's showing? Edinburgh. And France I guess. Sucks! I wanted to hear French people sing their feelings about sex. It's a sad day for multicultural porn.

So, last day of term for me and I turned up to all my classes. Few made it to Archaeology which is a shame, the lecturer is lovely and the actual lecture was pretty good since it was about digging instead of politics. Mouse Face was there and I sat next to him unintentionally. Not right next to him but near enough. Everytime the lecturer made a joke and we laughed MF turned to me like we were sharing something. He walked down the stairs right next to me afterwards and I thought he'd say something but he just looked at me and didn't follow me out the door. Classics was dull, dull, dull like always and the place was full of people I've never seen before. MF was there too (I sat a couple of rows behind him) and he turned round a good few times, caught my eye and said nothing. Missed your last chance Mouse Face! All that creepy looking for nothing. Silly boy.

One of the girls I hung out with for the first month of Classics turned up today after many months of not being around. She's great and we had a giggle at RobeMan's complete utter bafflement when faced with technology. Her friend Jo wasn't there though. Jo was the first (and only) person I met at Glasgow who had heard of where I live since she lives like up the hill and went to the rival school in the area. We had laughs about how we should be stabbing each other up. Good times.

And so I trundled home in the bus with a screaming redhead in my ears and blood in my mouth and as we turned into Renfield Street I recalled a mild argument Julie had with me last night about something I did (or rather didn't do) three years ago. It wasn't the argument on my mind though it was the time. Three years ago I was fifteen years old and I spent nights like this shivering on dark streets in my black miniskirt and stripy tights with a boy enthralled. It would be another month before love reared its ugly head and I was just learning what power my hips held. If I had just held on to that naive sexuality maybe I would have had a better time but sadly it didn't last. But for those two months I had the confidence to wear that skirt in winter and I found out what it was to flirt and tease and have a guy around who was more into me than I was into him. Three years. Seems an age and nothing.

Qu'est ce qu'il fait? Qu'est ce qu'il dit?

Once again my attempts at bowler hat purchasing have been foiled. Having nigh on 3 hours to kill I walked back to the previously mentioned vintage shoppe, money in hand and an excited spring in my step. Maybe, just maybe one of them would fit me since after all men were smaller back then (giggle giggle wang joke). Full of double mocha macchiato (best coffee evar) and slowly coming the realisation that my tights were falling down and if something wasn't done soon it would be penguin-walk time, I finally arrived at Great Western Road. I past the many indian takeaways, past the 'what the? that's a lotta brooms!' shop and quickly past the crazy kinda goth, kinda just weird shop in case I got lured in and bought something stupid like an elvis lamp. I dodged the energetic, soap flinging window cleaner and the aggresive little Chinese woman (I don't know what she wanted) skipped across the road...and carried on with a heavy heart. Shop was shut. For no reason at all.

I got over my disappointment though with coffee and a good chat with the loveliest girl in the world which is kinda a lie since I'm still annoyed but I always like seeing her. And then there was more signing up for classes. Gahr it was dull. So many different ways of saying 'University is different from school' and 'STUDY FOR THE LOVE OF GOD'. Pleargh boring. On the plus side the Classics teacher has one of those old-fashioned professor capes and the classics society has a toga party. Always good for a laugh. My class is in the only remaining preserved Victorian lecture hall in the uni. Let me tell you it is also the most uncomfortable. Gorgeous but needs more cushioning! It's like sitting in an old church but without the holiness.

I met my Edinburgh friend, or rather she kept finding me like the stalker she is! The Hare Krishna woman who preys on the young in Glasgow interrupted us and was met by very quiet rambling French. Sadly she claimed she could speak it too. We just left and tried to look like annoyed French people. Lesson learned. Next time learn some Russian!