Lack of Vit D vs Skin Cancer…

It is no secret that I was not over the moon at the thought of moving to Paris. I was no less displeased to actually be here – a fraud, living someone else’s (many others’) dream. Mr S was a little peeved about this as there wasn’t much he could do about it and, after all, Paris is in France and being French, France is the best country in the world: rejecting Paris was rejecting the best country in the world, his family, his heritage..all the way to his toenails. Ok, I exaggerate, but it certainly seemed like that.

It’s getting better, as logically I knew it would – it had to. Yesterday afternoon I was organising my photos from the past few months. It was nice (can you hear the heavy sarcasm) to come across photos like this:

and then as I got closer to the present, they were starkly contrasted with this:

What? You can’t see the top of the tower? Aaah, that’s because there’s freezing fog.

You think I’m kidding about the weather? That almost-vertical (my bad angle, not a rival to the Leaning Tower of Pisa) structure in the background is the Eiffel Tower. The spots just in front of the lense: sleet.

The same day that we moved from Cairo to Paris, some good friends of our moved from Cairo to Mozambique. I was insanely jealous, a radioactively glowing green. That has changed a bit as the months wear on, especially as the working spouse’s job involves outsmarting pirates. ‘Nuff said!

This change is faltering a little now, however, after talking with them on Skype yesterday. Mr S and I were wearing about three layers of clothes. She was in a sleeveless top and he was topless.

Later on at dinner, Mr S said to me, “Do you think you could change the calibration of your webcam? It makes us look white.”

“We are white.”

“No, I mean it makes us look really white, it’s not normal.”

“We are really white – we’re living in Paris in the Winter.”

Might it be, just perhaps, Mr S is realising that while Paris, and by extension France, has everything*, it does not have the best weather?

*I have to admit, as evidenced by my rapidly disappearing waist, that France’s food is indeed, excellent.

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