So today's 'what-disastrous-thing-can-Clare-do-today' incident (previous days' include losing my passport and almost destroying a very important piece of artwork) came in the form of me managing to turn my whole computer screen upside down whilst searching for damn accents on the keyboard. Turns out ctrl+alt+125 does not do the same thing on french computers as it does on Durham's. Even the mouse movements were backwards, and when it didn't automatically fix itself after the standard re-boot procedure I thought I was going to have to admit what I had done and add something else to the 'list of reasons to ridicule Clare'. Thankfully the computer behind me was free and after 10 minutes of FML-ing and google searching I managed to resolve it before anyone returned to the office. Bam. Totes inherited Karl's IT genius.
Other than that today has gone swimmingly. I will however take note for the next time I wear heels to the office, that if I have to go half way across Paris for any reason it would be a good idea to change to flats before hand. Yeah sure I looked class waltzing through the streets in my heels and sunglasses (I kid you not it was actually sunny), but man alive did my feet suffer for said vanity.
It does not end here on this fine Monday night, obv there is birthday-weekend drama to report. Gwen arrived here on Friday evening claiming someone had tried to rob her iPhone on the metro. Defs thought she was being a tad dramatic (I should stop doing that) until someone actually did rob sistah's iPhone in a photo-stop-harassment episode that, por suerte, ended in the little thief handing it back to her, probably because the boy who stole it thought Karlos would beat him up. Little did he know I'm the one in our family with muscles to kill. Two attempted robberies down, there was inevitably going to be a third, but this one was quite funny. So we go to a fab restaurant because obv I want to celebrate my 21st in style. We're all loving life until Gwen's steak turns out to be pretty much a lump of gristle and she can't eat it. She sends it back, it's too late to get something else but that's fine, she waits for dessert and we get cocktails (couldn't handle any more sugar after Angelina's sugar-coma-inducing feast) while Karl has the world's best sorbet. We go to pay, and the very attractive french waiter (it was basically the Hollister of the food industry) brings the bill and announces, in his wonderful french-english accent "finally we offer you your dessert". So wait, they expect us to pay 40 € for an inedible piece of steak but thank them for giving us a 12 € dessert for free?! Qué va. Needless to say Rose and I made a swift exit to avoid the slight awkwardness of the following conversation, but Gwen emerged victorious with the 28€ difference in tact. Moral of the story: don't try anything funny with the Saunders' innit.
I had another story to tell, but I fear this is a rather long post so I will shorten it. Basically, the Eiffel Tower is the latest addition to my 'Paris Most Hated' list (other places include the Louvre and Versailles). 2 hours of queueing in the freezing cold to get 280m high and see practically nothing because although there were clear blue skies it was hazy as hell, does not make for a happy Clare. In fact it made for angry Clare (then emotional Clare, #awkward). If anyone comes to visit me you can go up it alone because I have vowed never to do it again.
And with that happy note I will love and leave you. I'm off to raid my belongings to make make-shift weights and then burn off the what-feels-like-2-stone-in-fat I've put on since Friday. Thank heavens you're only 21 once.