You know you're in France when you're allowed to smoke whilst playing the organ. Didn't get very long to play stuff but had much fun nonetheless. I'm not quite sure the French understand the subtleties of syrup-like Victoriana mush as Guy (for it is he) kept on adding mutations all over the place to make the Cocker sound completely different. Oh well - never mind. His Carillon de Westminster was particularly good.

After an hour's organ or so, we all disappeared back round to Guy's house for alcohol (quelle surprise) and food. I met his daughter, who's lovely, and chatted a bit to her. She regailed everyone over pizza with stories of being force-fed jelly by her exchange family in England. My French topped new heights tonight when I successfully explained the entire scenario surrounding children's birthday parties; children eat jelly, children eat cake, children drink fizzy pop, bouncey castle (Chateau gonfler) turns into swimming pool of vomit.

I have discovered that 'Tophe doesn't wear underpants. We had a very bizarre conversation over the dinner table about whether I preferred oysters to sperm, which raised eyebrows when I pointed out I'd quite happily eat sperm until it came out of my ears, whereas I appear to be allergic to shellfish.

My bar tab in Traxx is under the name Anglais. My monicker with the locals is cendrier qui marche. I'm distressed that whilst we were out, we saw a poster for Bridget Jones' Diary. The slogan is "Tomorrow, I'll quit." Even in France people are pointing and saying "That's you, that is."