The thing about spending time out of Paris is that on your return, you have to spend all your time re-learning the ways of the city. I’m talking about the dog poo. It seems that a little over a week out of town and I’m an absolute excrement dodging novice. Hopefully I’ll remember to keep my eyes peeled on the footpath and get back to my previous form.

There is also a new hazard on the streets. These come in the unsuspecting form of autumn leaves, and when wet, they are more potent than a banana peel in a cartoon show. I almost lost it twice today on the slippery little suckers… my balance, that is, the dignity factor was long gone after several dog poo incidents.

I thought I was quite good on slippery surfaces. In St. Petersburg, a few winters ago, there was a particularly sustained period of black ice on the footpaths. I had men falling at my feet, literally. Everyone had to resort to shuffling, because the moment you lifted a foot that was the end of it. Almost the whole icy incident passed without a personal tumble into the gutters… until one day, perhaps the day before it all melted. There was a teenager handing out pamphlets, dressed as Santa Claus. I magnanimously gave him a head-turn in acknowledgement of his boredom, but also to soften the blow of rejection. In that split second of concentration lapse, I lost my balance on a sheet of ice. My legs flew out from under me, kicked up in the air one after the other, and I think there was even a moment of poetic choreography in the fall when both feet were above the height of my head. THUD!!! I slammed down on my tailbone, and looked sheepishly at Santa, and let out some sort of an ironic giggle that was trying to say “see what happens when I don’t take your leaflet?”

The boy stared blankly ahead, as if I was only one of the millions who had taken a spill in front of him that day. I picked my sore self up and limped carefully home.

I hope the same thing doesn’t happen in Paris…