If groping or being groped is your thing, you’ll be in seventh heaven on the Paris metro today. My guess is it’s a veritable gropathon.
The French unions have gone ahead with their ill-timed general strike, regardless of the fact that the Olympic Comittee are in town today. Metros, trains, buses, airports, radio stations and the postal service are all affected. Mr Frog had it on (what we thought was) good authority from a station employee only last week that there was no need for him to change his train tickets, as the strikes would be called off at the last minute. Not so. The strikes are very much on, and his train has been cancelled.
I often wonder where reporters find the people they film for the eight o’clock news saying that yes, they have had problems getting to work, but despite this they do fully support the strikers’ demands. I challenge a roving reporter to shove a TV camera and/or microphone in my face. On second thoughts, just give me five minutes so I can look up the phrase “shooting yourselves in the foot” in the English/French dictionary first.
I am however sufficiently in touch with my French side to have opted for an extra long lie-in this morning, using public transport disruption as a smokescreen for my sloth. If anyone asks, I waited patiently for a metro which was not forthcoming before abandoning ship, mixing my metaphors, waking the slumbering Mr Frog and begging him to drive me to work on his trusty
steed Piaggio. We weaved (wove?) in and out of the dense morning traffic, a chill wind blowing up my coatsleeves, and I arrived at work a mere half an hour late. The fact that we left home at 9 am is irrelevant.
Upon inspection of the RATP internet site I note that one in three metros are actually running on my line. Shhh! Don’t tell my boss, or Mr Frog, as he has agreed to come and collect me at 5 pm.