So, yesterday I was back at work, slaving away in the absurdly busy generic coffee shop, and none other than those two presumptuous Parisians just happened to walk in, again.
Clearly an unavoidable and somewhat awkward situation for me, and perhaps them.
There was a stunted and flustered interaction, where they forgot that I speak English, not French, so was having to scream over the caffeine-fuelled chaos that is my workplace: "SORRY? WHAT? PARDON? SORRY? WHAAAAAAAT?!" until I'd gathered their order.
Not really the romantic setting for two men, who will "depart for Paris within the hour", to conclude the sweet nothing that was their stay in Birmingham, with an English stranger, is it?
What could persuade anybody, particularly pretty-faced, cultured young men, to bother traipsing all the way through The Bull Ring (rammed with vile brummies and gaudy festive decoration), with their hefty suitcases (one was a battered tan patent affair, the other was only Louis Vuitton, ya know...), to sit at a grubby, littered table in order to drink "chocolat-chaud" and waste time before their train arrived to whisk them back to Paris?
Certainly not me, the Elusive English Woman, what with my frizzy mess of a pony tail and incessant screaming of "ONE MEDIUM DECAF LATTE TO GO" for four straight hours, on a hellish Sunday morning.
Hmmm..
French men, especially hungover ones, bewilder me.
Bless, innit.
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