Morning After

We were only meeting up for "a quiet drink and a chat," really. OK, maybe the choice of bar was instrumental in our downfall. The next happy coincidence was bumping into David and Carlos - who'd already got a bit of a thirst going. And then, suddenly (my italics), it was 2 a.m., the bar was closing and - through a vodka haze - it just seemed like a FANTASTIC idea and the most natural thing in the world to keep going. And going. On a school night. Which may be why this morning I wasn't the least bit surprised to be approached by this large pink rabbit on my way to work. Happens all the time. Honest. ;)

"It's so funny..."

"...how we don't talk anymore," sang Sir Cliff Richard, Britain's self-styled Peter Pan of Pop (see left). I don't know to whom he was referring but it could easily have been us, dear reader. For which apologies, but the problem with this New Year's resolutions business is that it's just so time- consuming getting them all going. I'm exhausted already and I still have to sort out my two main ones. However, if all goes to plan I shall be over-achieving on such a MASSIVE (my caps) scale, international fame and fortune can surely not be far behind. Fingers crossed. But I digress. What on earth is a big poster of Sir Cliff doing in my local metro station? By that I mean, why is he doing a concert in Paris? In all the years I've lived here, never once has a French person asked me about, or indeed made any reference to "zis Cleef Reeechard." I've never heard any of his music on the radio. So who's gonna go?? The Palais des Congrès is pretty big, after all. I'm worried. Given that he's now Sir Cliff, will they round up all the British people in Paris and force them to buy a ticket? Will we all have to do the Shadows guitar-walk? Actually, the Cliffsta, as I call him, and I go back a long way (doesn't everyone in **showbiz**?). In my London days, I'd just popped into Fortnums to pick up a few bits, as you do. I remember I was rooting through the wine bins looking for a choice bottle of claret when, all of a sudden, I noticed that everyone was looking at me. I put it down to the old Rhino75 charisma and tried to continue my search. But now I'd noticed them, I could sense that they weren't just looking, they were staring - and when I looked up then I saw they weren't actually staring at me (hah!) but just to my left. At Sir Cliff. Looking very unlike the Peter Pan of Pop and more like an old turkey. And why was he in the wine section? I thought he was teetotal. True story. Oh alright, I KNOW that anecdote had a slightly less satisfactory ending than Abba The Movie, (i.e. we didn't shoot off into space in an elevator to the strains of "Bachelor Boy") but it still counts as a Rhino75 celebrity encounter (just like here, here and here). Still to come: how I once had Jeanne Moreau nestled in my armpit and discussed accountancy with Kristin Scott-Thomas in a lift (not at the same time though, I hasten to point out - otherwise it sounds like some bizarre gender-reversal version of "Jules et Jim"). Peter Ustinov eat your heart out.

HS

Which, dear reader, is French for "Out of Order." Can you believe they've closed my metro station until December (!! my italics) for renovation work? I liked it just as it was and, frankly, what on earth can they be doing that will take them two months (apart from drinking a lot of coffee and smoking like chimneys)?? If they were going to make it more fabulous (I'm thinking glitter/gold), then fair enough. But I suspect the end result will still "feature" those off-white-railway-station-loo (in German, that would probably be one word, but I can't imagine what it would be) tiles rather too heavily for my taste. Anyway, the whole thing is MOST inconvenient as it means I've had to completely overhaul the Rhino75 Morning Routine (patent pending). Normally, the alarm goes off at 8:00 a.m., only to be put on snooze until 9:00 a.m. There follows 25 minutes of "Where/Who Am I?" (not necessarily in an existential kind of way) and 5 minutes of "quality" time with Kitty - normally a very one-sided conversation (but again, not necessarily the side you might think).
Next comes a 10-minute "cereal/toast" mental debate (this can, of course, be speeded up by forgetting to buy one or the other at the start of the week), before flinging myself under the shower and trying to find two socks that look vaguely similar (another 5 minutes). Two hours well spent, if you ask me. But NOW I have to build in an extra 15 minutes to walk to another metro station. Where on earth is THAT going to come from, I ask you?? The whole business is too stressful for words - I shall need therapy by Christmas.

My Favourite Metro Station

Metrosexual
Originally uploaded by rhino75.

I wonder why??