Sacre Bleu!

THANKFULLY I know enough French to get by. 'Bonnet de douche,' 'café,' 'a votre service', 'enchanteé' and 'je suis un celeb' are normally sufficient to get me a newspaper and a seat in a restaurant.

THANKFULLY I know enough French to get by.

'Bonnet de douche,' 'café,' 'a votre service', 'enchanteé' and 'je suis un celeb' are normally sufficient to get me a newspaper and a seat in a restaurant.

Well, dear readers, my skills with the lingo were put to the test this week, as I went for a short break to Paris - pronounced Paris - because I've noticed that other celebutantes are often either:

Paris-based.

Spotted shopping in Paris.

Seen drinking in Paris.

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Photographed while filming in Paris.

Or

Observed enjoying a Parisian luncheon surrounded by an entourage.

I must admit I'm not sure my fame - such as it is - extends too far over the channel.

But alongside my celebrity entourage which included my sister, my Mum and my Mum's friend I took a trip to the French capital just like any other would-be-famous-self-obsessed-self-regarding- superstar.

The trip, which included the sights-Marie Antoinette's prison cell, the Arc De Triomphe, shops, Princess Diana's underpass of death and a couple of big churches, wasn't without incident.

A tiny bit scared of flying since the rise of the suicide bomber and chav-infested airports, I decided to let the train take the strain. However, we spent the first 20y minutes of the journey sitting in the luggage rack after Eurostar managed to double-book our seats.

“You will have to depart monsieur,” said the guard as he ambled down the aisle in a decidedly Gallic manner.

“I'm not leaving the train.” I replied getting a little hot under the collar.

“This problem you have. It is not normal,” he added.

“I don't care. And it's not my problem it is yours.” I replied in my best British.

Eventually other seats were found and we passed through the tunnel-but, if I'm frank, there wasn't much of a view.

Once in Paris, I was designated map reader above ground - alongside my mum's friend Eve, who worked the Metro.

My sister Claire, who enjoyed a croque monsieur and an Orangina at every opportunity, had a slight incident with an artist at Sacre Coeur when he asked to draw her likeness.

“Non, merci,” she said in a bid to decline his advances.

“Say 'no thank you,'” he countered “If you can't speak French, don't even try.”

It was unfortunate she didn't know the French for “would you like a knuckle sandwich?” but her language skills didn't stretch that far.

She never bothered trying again preferring to shout or ignore them instead.

IT might be trendy but I've decided I don't fancy getting a black orphan.

I don't want the fuss. And the last time I went to the third world it was so awful I'm in no hurry to return. Dusty, stinking, dirty, place.

I caught something in Dar Es Salaam and lost two days of my memory-not something I want to risk repeating. So while I'm sure removing a child from the horrors of African poverty might be a good idea I'm afraid, perhaps for the first time, I shan't be following the celebrity crowd.

FOR those of you who live alone you'll know how demanding Sundays can be.

After an uplifting communion service at St Mary-le-Tower in the morning, I spent the rest of Sunday watching DVDs and reading newspapers.

I rented a film called Poseidon, during which a massive boat capsizes and all but about six people die. Naturally those that survive are all handsome and pretty but the film wasn't exactly relaxing.

As the tension built my heart began to race, I couldn't settle, I drank too much Coca Cola and now I'm too scared to book a luxury six-month cruise around the globe for fear of large waves.

Though, having said that, I'm handsome enough to be a survivor if anything untoward did happen.

Talking of sinking boats, its audition time soon for Titanic - the musical to be performed by the eager members of the Ipswich highly Operatic and desperately Dramatic Society.

I have pre-audition rehearsals this week to find out from the affable director James and sprightly choreographer David what I have to do. I'll let you know how tricky and demanding it all is.

I particularly enjoyed the James Bond inspired firework display on Saturday evening.

After selling glow stars and the Evening Star for two hours from the marketing department's trailer - I mean promotional unit - I was glad of the diversion.

Did you see me there? If so, why didn't you come and say hello?

I told him you were the theatrical reporter with advanced memory loss)

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