Such is the dilemma of the blogger, fighting a huge desire to tap tap tap away sharing what you fondly imagine to be esoteric and ethereal( see what I mean?) piercingly sensitive comments and thoughts to the greater world...only to realise domestic family life in all its glory is calling you.

Actually the sound is more like a fight scene in a Bruce Willis movie - deafening, chaotic and completely at odds with any more romantic idea of oneself trailing the streets of Paris or observing from the cafe. Today was all about packing Barbie for the ferry trip to the UK, folding laundry, feeding cough medicine, Monoprix, dry cleaners, dog poo on the scooter.. you get the picture.

So I'm posting some lovely random moments just to prove to myself... incongruous street scenes and dinner parties ..enjoy.

The great outdoors..

The Bois de Bologne - miles of parkland in the 16th Arrondissement -is like an enchanted Forest from a Fairy tale.

I am driving in Paris.

Okay, maybe I'm being a bit dramatic but it's a very unique experience, one no thrillseeker, no adrenalin- junkie, no expat mom -with- 3- kids -in -the -car - should ever miss.

Especially on the Champs Elysees at 4 pm and in the rain.

You get a brief space on either side of your car to share with other drivers - I'm unable to process the terror caused by the proximity of the bike rider, as the car goes into wild beeping, then it's all a blur- and a few important rules to learn,since I started driving in Paris.

Keep going ! Don't try to share! Ignore pedestrians unless forced to by red light!All children forbidden to speak on pain of death-bleeding or not-until we cross the roundabout at the Arc De Triomphe. These rules of survival go against every humanitarian impulse drummed in over my driving career. Exhilarating stuff

And lest we forget.. Parisiens are very considerate.

Whilst inching the car into our excruciatingly narrow driveway, my face literally frozen with alarm, the 18 yr old lounging beside the door very kindly pointed out my side mirrors - which need to be turned in or they will part company with the car - in time for me to fix the problem. Vive le France I say.

Visited the local hair salon, with a wonderful sense of anticipation, underscored by intense nervousness. French lessons have not reached the "Visit to the Hair Salon " chapter. Where are their prorities? Would waving my hands- a new habit which seems to be a substitute for speech since arriving in Paris- result in a drastic bob?

How foolish of me. The French are too stylish to allow some foreigner to sob hysterically over their mirrors. Actually its heartening to know some things in life are universal: the basin with warm water sloshing into your ears, the 3 week old Hello/Grazie magazine full of celebrities in compromising photos, the sight of your head, completely trussed up in foil and clingwrap, ready to bake. Gossip I sadly couldn't understand. Then along came a stylist with English, who could appreciate my poor efforts in French, we got along famously, and despite the rain I could swing my shampooed and brushed hair with pride.

Such are the achievements of the expat.