Bonjour mes amies,
(Apologies to those who have had this chat before)
Life in French France continues to amuse. Have been taking the defintion of 'working holiday' to its logical conclusion by concentrating on the former and totally ignoring the latter.
FYI The beach is LOVELY.
So far all contact with the agencies has been less than promising. I think I'll stick to daywork and leave the hard graft looking after demanding Italian familes to someone more qualified than I, or someone who cares.
Now, I was led to believe that getting a job sur les bateaux was as easy as falling off one. However, the hatchet-faced Brunthilda Ubergammerhildungsfraus who runs these agencies (all seem bitter about something, perhaps there is a childhood trauma they need to address) want to know everything from your shoe size to political orientation, where you stand on the euro to who was better, Sean Connery or Roger Moore.
The one here, who is currently eyeing me beadily from her laptop, was unimpressed by my 'cocktail barman and wine waiter' qualifications and wanted to know if I could 'cross toggle lines' and other nefarious practices. She was less than impressed by ANYTHING else I had done, so I don't hold out much hope that I'll get any stewarding work. It seems to be that there are 28, 657 Australians all chasing one job, and they are invariably more experienced than I am, so The Boy Christie looks as if he'll stick to daywork before he buggers off to sunny Corsica.
Need to get new accomodation, something more sociable than where I am at the moment, though sharing a room with fifteen Australian back packers called either a.)Brad, b.) Chad or c.)Tad isn't exactly the most appealing prospect.
However, his fabulousness Mr Stephen A. Russell arrives today, threatening to wear his Burberry trunks on the beach. I'll HAVE to get a job once he's gone. all I'll have spent all my cash on booze and sun oil. C'est la vie, innit?
All this sun must have gone further than tanning my skin and bleaching my hair, as I got up at some ungodly hour this morning (any time before noon is ungodly when on a working holiday) to go to Nice Airport to pick Stephen up, only to realise that his flight arrived at 8.40pm and not 8.40am, so I had turned up a full 12 hours too early.
**Queue repeated shaking of heads and mass utterances of 'Bloody typical'**
FYI Rachiepops, they've just put Bill Withers on the stereo. Cheers for the reference, you're too kind, don't know if I'll need it know, bugger.
Anyhoo, off to find somewhere to stay for the next part of the trip.
Thanks to all who have emailed, do keep in touch, and barring disasters nautical or otherwise will be back en Ecosse start of October.
Le Garcon Christie (a.k.a. Jean Jacques Smoothie) x