Such a short flight to Paris, but long enough for the woman in front to freak me out. She was an older lady, traveling with her son. She had an elongated Celine Dion/Afghan Hound face, made scarier by the world's biggest pair of glasses. Her brown eyes were three times magnified and bobbed around behind the octagonal glass like dying goldfish, staring me down as she tottered down the aisle to the bathroom for the seventeenth time. I told Rhi I was scared, but she assured me it was a big city and we would lose her at the airport.

As soon as we jumped off the train at Gare du Nord a rather aesthetically pleasing young man appeared and asked if we were lost. We immediately assumed he was going to kill us, because this would prove correct The Mothership's theories about Young Ladies Out In The Big Bad World. But no, he was just simply some hunky random lad who spent fifteen minutes patiently explaining how all the different trains worked and where to go and what to do. Then he just smiled and ran off without any trouble, while I will still trying to figure out how to say, "Take her, she's got more cash!" en français...

I was clomping along, as is my unelegant fashion, late for an appointment at Recruitment Agency #457, when before me appeared a goddess. She did not clomp, she glided along George Street with her long golden limbs, impossibly wispy waist and groovy handbag. Her hair was a perfect sheet of black curls, cut in layers so it looked like a big arrow pointing to the small of her back, where a tattoo peeked out from the top of her jeans.

"Sluuuuut. I hate you," was my natural reaction.

But of course every male in the vincinity responded differently. Three lads in baggy pants were nudging and phwoaring and leaning forward to read the tattoo.

Then came along the navy suit with the melty icecream. Then the tourist with his shiny head burned bright red, being slapped by his wife for looking.

In just two and a half blocks this goddess managed to accumulate no less than eight men trailing behind her, all desperately trying to look like they weren't following her, all straining to read that bloody tattoo.

Finally, she sashayed into a dress shop, and the crowd dispersed.

Can you imagine having such power over people? None of them followed me. Bastards.

Paris was rockin', even on our teeny tiny budget and my pathetic attempts at French. It was 31'C on Sunday, we sat beside the fountain in front of the Louvre, dipping our feet in the water. So much to say but I am utterly stuffed. That is the problem lately, I am busting at the seams to write, yet so little energy. Me sleep now!

Just a quickie - if you're an Aussie and you've ever wanted to come to the UK on a Working Holiday visa, it's just got a whole lot easier thanks to a review of the scheme. Thanks Rory for the heads up!

SHAUNA:  Hello Mother! It's The Daughter.

MOTHERSHIP:  Hello The Daughter!

S:  I just wanted to call you before we nicked off for the weekend.

M:  Oh yes, Paris. Well you know what they say about Paris.

S:  No?

M:  Pickpockets and bum pinchers. That's what it's all about. If they're not stealing your wallet they're pinching you on the arse.

S:  Really?

M:  Oh yes. They can be quite rude.

S:  And who told you this?

M:  Oh I read it in the Sunday Telegraph.

S:  Now there's a reputable source!

M:  If you can't trust Rupert Murdoch, who can you trust? Now stay out of that Tunnel.

They let me out of the attic yesterday.

I've graduated from data entry. They let me file things now. Since the office is so ridiculously tiny, they are forced to store their documents in this weird garden shed in the car park. They call it the Sin Bin, and it's stuffed to the gills with files and boxes and ye olde office chairs.

So out I went with the filing pile and my headphones, from one confined space to another.

My brain must be shrinking the longer I spend here, because I seem to derive great happiness and satisfaction from menial tasks. I was in the airless room for an hour, putting the enormous pile of records into numerical order, stuffing them inside their correct folders, all the while bellowing along to Radiohead. Through the tiny window I watched the pensioners shuffling by with their yappy dogs, the parking inspectors on the prowl. A weedy lad was on the way home from Tesco. He looked around to make sure noone was around, then proceeded to do bicep curls with his loaded shopping bags as he walked. I cackled away, before remembering that I used to do that, and wondered if some sicko in a shed had been watching me too.

Then it rained, in that way that Scotland has a habit of doing. The sun had been sashaying around all morning, just long enough to make you think it was going to be a nice day, then suddenly it's grey and chucking down again. So I stayed another half hour and had a little snooze.

It's a pity this job finishes up on Friday, just when I am getting to like that shed. Someone could make it into a reality TV show. The concept would be simple: Ewan McGregor and I get locked inside the Sin Bin for ten weeks. They'd have to screen it late at night.

I ate haggis for lunch today! It wasn't so bad. It was actually quite nice for a sheeps innards. Not sure it will happen again though. More soon!

Scottish men. What can I say? I can't get enough of them and they can't get enough of me. Just witness this conversation I had with a client the other day!

It was supposed to be a brief call to make an appointment for someone to visit him, but the flirty old bugger wouldn't stop talking.

His name was Alex and he was eighty-four years old.

OLD DUDE:  So dear, where are you calling me from?

SHAUNA:  I'm in Edinburgh.

OD:  Edinburgh! Have you climbed Arthurs Seat?

S:  Not yet...

OD:  Oh you have to! Have you heard the legend about Arthurs Seat? It says you have to wash your face in the morning dew in June on Arthurs Seat. I did it myself once, when I got out of the army. You should see my complexion.

S:  It's June now, I guess I should get cracking?

OD:  Yes you should! Then you have to send me a photo of your face so I can see if it worked or not.

S:  And what if it doesn't?

OD:  Well I guess I'll use it as a dartboard!

S:  Hey!

OD:  Och, that wasn't very nice was it? Promise I'll be nice to you now.

S:  You'd better be!

OD:  I will. So is it you that's coming to visit me on Thursday?

S:  Oh I'm afraid I won't be, I just work here in the office.

OD:  Got you chained to the desk have they?

S:  Yep!

OD:  Oooooh... now that sounds rather fun...

S:  *giggles*

OD:  But don't worry about it dear. I am sure if you wait awhile, your knight in shining armour will come and free you from your bonds!

S:  I sure hope so!

OD:  Just watch out though, once he does that he'll probably just take you outside and tie you to a lamp post!

S:  *hysterical laughter*

OD:  Ah ha! I made you laugh again! Not bad for an old man of 184, don't you think?

S:  You're doing very well.

OD:  But you know you owe me for all this entertainment!

S:  I do?

OD:  Oh yes. For each laugh I give you, you owe me one cuddle.

S:  Really? I think that's three times you've made me laugh now.

OD:  Oh I've been counting dear, believe me...

S:  I've really enjoyed our chat but I have about 50 more calls to make today...

OD:  You know the others won't be half as interesting as me. They'll just be old and boring!

S:  You'll be hard to top, that's for sure.

OD:  Are you sure you can't come and visit on Thursday?

S:  I'm sure. I'm as crushed as you are!

OD:  But what to do about these owed cuddles?

OD:  *dramatic sigh*

OD:  Oh well. It's been very nice talking to you dear!