"We'd like to talk to you."

Now why did that sound a little like "Please see me", the three ominous words every teenager didn't want to see at the bottom of an essay when the teacher dropped it back on their desk? Thankfully it wasn't the case this time and my student days were long behind me.*

* - I was not a good student. Exams were always things that I participated in as more of an audience member than someone who was actively involved. I would look around the room at people scribbling away furiously and then try and cajole Brian into doing something similar. Sometimes he obliged, sometimes he counted the bricks in the sports hall wall. A friend of mine and I used to compare notes on how many bricks there were. It's not something I'd recommend doing if you wish to gain any useful qualifications, unless of course you want to become a brick layer, which is a highly skilled and worthy career and perhaps something I should've thought of at the time.

Several months before the "please see me" message, I'd dropped a note to the Head of Community at Wattpad and had suggested that a job advertised on the job pages was something I could do remotely for them. Her answer had been polite, but negative. So I was a little surprised when I got the summons to go have a chat a few months later.

All I had to do was go to Paris.

"Oh aye, sure, it's just down the road," said Brian utilising a certain amount of sarcasm. Brian doesn't always do well with surprises, and then had to dig himself out of a deepening hole.

"Er... sure, that sounds very cool." Better Brian, sorta. Schmuck.

The suggestion of a trip was followed by an assurance that they'd pay for the flights and a hotel for the night. And so, after my wife telling me to get the hell on with it and join the rest of the family in Cornwall when I got back (it was a long weekend in the UK and my wife was taking the kids to see her sisters), I found myself at the local airport on the short hop over the channel to Paris.

I've been to Paris a few times over the years, nearly got arrested once**, and tend to consider it necessary evil rather than a place to visit. The architecture's cool, and I understand why people like going there, it's just not my favourite place on the planet.

** - My French is passable. This usually means I tend to get myself into trouble rather than out of it, and understand more of it than I can speak. But I can order food and drink, so that's a good start in my opinion.

The near arrest came on a trip in my early twenties when I happened to go to Normandy on a trip with my parents. The village I grew up in was twinned with a lovely little village just outside Bayeaux, and that particular year I ended up chatting to a local English teacher and we spent a happy day chewing the fat (well her mostly correcting my schoolboy French), and trying to find wine. At the Eiffel Tower, we happened to stand next to a very poorly disguised undercover police officer, who had his radio on full blast so we couldn't help but listen in.

A pick-pocket was doing the rounds, and this particular Gendarme was tasked with finding him. Le description of said thief was being shouted out by his radio.

"White shirt. Black trousers."

- shut up Brian, I'm not a pickpocket -

"Black shoes. Dark hair. Goatee and glasses"

- Brian, shut up!

My French friend was at this point trying not to laugh as the Gendarme turned and gave me an appraising look.

"He is also very short and fat."

- who the hell are you calling short? Oh, cool. Not me. Brian you're a pillock.

We found a glass of wine shortly after that.

But this trip I was hoping to be less likely to be arrested and potentially employed. As long as Brian didn't screw it up.

The only thing I remember about the flight was sitting next to an interesting fella who worked for a mobile phone company designing batteries. He managed to make battery life an interesting topic of conversation for an hour which was neat, but we parted ways at the airport and I needed to get from the airport (which seemed to be closer to Dover than to Paris) into the city centre. I knew from previous trips that there was a train, so that was my first step.

As usual, I gave up on trying to plough my way through the official information and asked someone for help. Brian's victim was a pleasant looking French lady standing nearby, so I approached her and unleashed my best French accent to ask her if she knew where the train was.

The French lady responded in English with a delightful Australian accent. "Sorry love, don't speak a word. Er.. sprakken sie German?"

"No, sadly not, but my English isn't too bad."

"Oh, you're a pom***. Hello love, you alright?"

*** - it's the first and only time in my life I've ever been called a Pom and apparently it's Aussie slang for a British immigrant to Australia. Something to do with looking like a pomegranate after a few hours in the hot Australian sun I believe.

I've been called worse, usually in my previous job as an engineer on various construction sites and usually by someone markedly bigger and angrier than me and carrying something that could be used as a weapon (this can be anything from a crowbar to a smaller engineer).

"I was looking for the train actually. Do you happen to know where it is?"

"Yup, down there love," she said pointing down some stairs. "We've just taken it to get here."

"Oh, magic, thank you."

"You're welcome love, have fun. And watch out for the pigeons, they're a bloody menace!"

Having been to Paris before I was more worried about the drivers than I was about the flying rats, but it's always nice to get a risk assessment prior to going somewhere.

The train was different. Sure, it ran on tracks and behaved like a train but it had curiously French doors. Every time the train stopped, the doors played a little tune as they opened on what sounded suspiciously like an accordion. It wasn't nasty, just a little distracting and I kept expecting a band to appear, hopefully bearing a carafe of wine and some cheese. Sadly neither band or sustenance appeared and the only company I had was an old French chap who was obviously a little down on his luck. He'd lost his shoes, and was leaving urine soaked sock prints on the floor as he wandered around the compartment muttering Gallicly to himself. 

And then we reached Paris.

It was hot, sticky, and dangerously full of people selling cheap shite to tourists, but I was kinda glad to be away from my comrade with the pee soaked socks. I was wearing linen and sandals, so I was prepared, but Paris in the heat means you melt gently and get covered in dust and street grot****. 

**** - mostly composed of dead pigeons and tourists I suspect

I'd had enough of sitting still as usual so I hoisted my trusty man bag to my shoulder and wandered off towards the hotel which was in a back street near the giant glass pyramid tourist trap thing whose name completely escapes me as I type this.

After a few hundred yards I realised that my so called 'walking' sandals were actually really not that comfy and I already had a blister so I decided to go full hippy and went barefoot. Did I get some strange looks? Absolutely. But it was better than hobbling along like the Hunchback of Notre Dame and starting to bleed, so I kept going. I wasn't due to have my meeting until breakfast the following morning (very civilised), so I had the rest of the afternoon and evening to myself.

Thankfully the hotel was open and I managed to check-in, have a shower, and then ventured out into the streets of Paris in search of the carafe of wine and cheese the doors on the train had musically promised me earlier.

I find most cities a bit of an assault on the senses, particularly at night when the neon starts to glow and Paris was no exception. But as evening fell it turned pleasantly cool and I walked around for a bit by the river.

As I was wandering along I found myself catching up to an American couple who were ambling along under the trees. They were walking arm in arm and obviously enjoying both the scenery and each other's company. They appeared to be in their sixties, and the man was using a stick, but more often than not to point things out to his wife rather than as a walking aid. I caught up with them just as we got to a bridge and said 'good evening' in English which surprised them nicely.  Sadly it also distracted my new stick waving American friend as he politely responded and then looked across the road to the far side of the four lanes of traffic, saw the little green pedestrian light and lifted his foot to step off the kerb.

"Stop!" The word came out very sharply, probably more so than I'd intended, but it worked and, as he looked across at me in surprise, a fast-moving moped shot past, just missed him, and beeped angrily as it sped around the corner.

"Goddam maniac!" The stick was waved furiously at the back of the rapid Frenchman and then I found my hand grabbed and pumped up and down with some enthusiasm by my new friend.

"God bless you son. Who'd a thought a Brit in Paris would save my life, and one with no shoes too. How'd you know he wasn't going to stop?"

"To be honest sir, unless a vehicle is actually stopped in Paris and isn't moving then I don't trust it. And I'm afraid the crossing here is a two-part signal. One bit gets you to the middle of the road, the other bit gets you from the island in the middle to the far side. You saw the green light for the other side of the road, not this one."

"Well that explains why everyone was beeping at us yesterday George," muttered his wife. "And there was you telling them all they were a bunch of ungrateful, illiterate French Ba..."

"Er... yes. Thank you Martha. I guess I owe a lot of people I'll never see again an apology. Well thank you again son."

"My pleasure, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your time in Paris."

A short time later, and after checking out a few establishments, I managed to find a nice little restaurant in a back street with outdoor seating. So once seated comfortably I ordered a glass of wine and some food and did my normal trick of people watching to pass the time.

Paris is not representative of France to me. This is just my and Brian's way of looking at things perhaps, and maybe it's true of many capital cities, but for me it's too fast, too in the moment. I love the French and indeed I have French family who are wonderful, and I've spend many happy holidays in rural France in particular both with family and friends. I think the French have the right approach to food, particularly in more rural areas where everybody sits down together and eats. Bring people, bring food, bring wine, and then enjoy it over many hours. Let the kids sit under the table and play, or go to sleep in an armchair, just wake 'em up for pudding that's fine, just let's get together and enjoy the food and company. In the UK sometimes it can be a little bit 'we came, we ate, we went', so the French approach very much appeals to me. 

The little restaurant I found wasn't quite a rural café but it had a gentle feel to it, a good waiter who managed to understand my mangled Franglais, and a great plate of cold meats and cheese that complimented the warm air and wine. If nothing else, Brian was at peace which surprised me a little given where we were.

My hotel was simple and comfortable, and the chap on reception even managed to find a power cable for my phone when mine gently fell apart. I popped on a movie, and gently drifted away to the sounds of pigeons being ground into grot by the constant stream of traffic a few streets away.

The hotel where I went to meet my future boss the next morning was resplendent in marble and architecturally breathtaking. I wandered in in a fresh batch of linen feeling more than a little impressed with my host's taste in hotels and settled down in the foyer where I'd agreed to meet them.

Breakfast was a rather good buffet that filled me up nicely: the company was excellent, I managed to control Brian long enough to impress them to some extent (well they gave me a job, so that's my assumption), and then I rather abruptly realised I'd run out of time.

A hasty farewell was bade, followed by a slightly mad dash (me running is not a pretty sight) back to the train station. Accordion doorways played me back to the airport and I was whisked back over the English channel back to Exeter.

But was I finished? Hell no. I still had to find my family in deepest Cornwall...