Free I Heart Paris by Lindsey Kelk Page B

typing.

The Adventures of Angela: Can’t Speak French
Hmm. I’m not very familiar with French superstitions and customs, but I would imagine that I’m right in thinking that airport security blowing up your suitcase isn’t very good luck. Unless it’s one of those mad things like when a bird shits on you and it’s supposed to bring you good luck. It isn’t? No, I didn’t think so.
In that case I’d like to take a moment to mourn the passing of my beautiful things – the Louboutins, the Marc Jacobs satchel, sob, the GHDs. All gone. Seriously. Blown up. But anyway, I’ve decided not to dwell on it (having done nothing, but weep and wail for the last twenty-four hours) and to move on. I’m in Paris, it’s beautiful and I have lots to do to keep me busy. Did I mention I’m writing for Belle magazine? I did? Oh. And did I mention that my boyfriend is playing at, no, headlining a festival here? Yes again? Oh dear, I’m shameless, aren’t I? That wasn’t actually a question, but thanks.
So here I am in Paris, any suggestions on where I should go/what I should do? It feels a little bit like everyone else in the world knows Paris like the back of their hand, so any suggestions are welcome. Also, any advice on how to achieve the effect of hair straighteners without actually using hair straighteners will result in you going straight to the top of my Christmas card list.

    Having posted the blog, I opened up my email and stared at the blank page. I knew this had to be done and I really should have done it before now. I just didn’t know how. I typed Jenny’s email address into the To box and stared some more. Before I could start, a little box flashed up in the right-hand corner of the screen. Bloody G Chat.

Hey! How’s Paris? What did you wear today? Did you take pictures? I’m so jealous. J xoxo

    Bugger. For a second, my hand hovered over the keyboard, about to log off. But this had to be done. And done over instant messaging.

Hi Jenny. I’m OK, Paris is lovely, but there was a bit of a problem with my case.
It was delayed?

    She typed back quickly. I’d forgotten that Jenny was a master of all forms of communication.

Not lost? A, is it OK?

    I sat with my fingers resting on the warm keyboard for so long that the screen dimmed slightly. There was no getting around it, I had to tell her.

No, not OK. Security had to do a controlled explosion on it – don’t know why. I am SO sorry, I’ll sort it out. I’ll replace everything.

    Even on instant messaging, it was scary that Jenny was struck dumb. Silence was not a natural state for her, and it was not good. The screen dimmed again and started playing a slideshow of my photos, me and Jenny doing karaoke, me and Jenny having lunch on Rodeo Drive, me holding Jenny’s hair back while she threw up in the street. Even my laptop was trying to make me feel bad. And scared.
    Before I could freak out any more, the screen flickered back into life with Jenny’s response.

You’re kidding, right?

    No, I shook my head while I typed.

They blew it up. Everything got blown up.

    There was another pause, but it was shorter than the last.

WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN THEY BLEW IT UP?

    I started to type out my explanation, as rubbish and pointless as it was, but before I could, a little box appeared on the screen. My computer was running on reserve battery life. Shit. I instinctively looked around for my charger before remembering that a) I wasn’t at home and that b) my charger had of course, been in my suitcase. I didn’t even have time to explain before the screen died and the laptop turned itself off. I carefully placed it on the coffee table as though Jenny could hear me somehow, and slinked back towards the bed, only banging my knee once on the frame. As I climbed back under the silky cotton sheet, my BlackBerry started to vibrate loudly on the bedside table. I grabbed it quickly to avoid waking Alex, but didn’t answer. It was Jenny, of course. After what felt