Especially the one between your Mojitos, when you're drinking in Covent Garden with a friend...That's what I learned of this week end in London.

I love London. Firstly because once I hated that city, secondly because everything can happen to me over there. My first wedding was in London, my first divorce too, which makes sense. I've been tatooed in this city with one of my best friend, and for three years I've spend every single free day in her streets. I know my path in Covent Garden and Portobello, I like walking between Kennsington and Bayswater, I like to read in Hyde Park, to eat in Fulham Brodway and to drink everywhere I can...

That's exactly what I've done this week end, with my friend Cat and a lot of pleasure. We've killed our bank accounts (and forgot about our bankers), bought a lot of stuff, mostly food (which is an absolute nonsense, but whatever), and by saturday night, we were very very drunk.

It's not that I don't like to be drunk, but this was The Big Drunk (there must be a world for that but I'm not in the mood for that, since I'm still not really on top), and everything did go... well: happy, smelly, and sicky. The good thing is, the barman was charming, and smiling, and putting a lot more rhum in those mojitos than he should have. We laught, we talked, we found a jacket and then handed it back to the girl who really owned it, we did get kicked out of the bar, out of the cab and then, well, I was there, but after the first kick, I was pretty much a big mojito on heels and I have no recollection of whatever happened between the kicking of the bar and me waking up in my bed (I'm soooo glad), in my pj's (waouh, I managed to get in my pj's ?!) and alone (Omigod, where is Cat ???).

Cat was in the other room, because I had been sick somewhere between Covent Garden and the house of the friend who was hosting us (again, I think I'm making up that verb, but I'm not sure...). I had been sick on a porsche in front of the house, and on my books from Waterstones, and on my bag.

Which is why I had a very smelly bag on the way back to Paris. It was like if vomiting wasn't enought, I had to pay for the good time before...I had to have my smelly-vomiting-bag.

And you thought French girls were sophisticated, hum ?