According to a mean rumor among my friends, I work only every other day or so. That is, of course, not true. Like your average 9 to 5 (30) white-collar worker, my work is at times calm and at times hectic. I don’t control it, It’s god’s will!

Anyway, today at 11 o’ clock, after we celebrated a colleague’s birthday and I got back to my desk all sugar-rushed (there were two cakes), I’ve decided to give all of my big-mouthed friends a piece of my mind: So let’s be clear, I do work. During my office hours I could get very busy. Ooh! This week’s L’Express Style is here! Where was I? Oh, and just so you know, getting up every day at 7:30 is not a piece of cake. Take today for example, my alarm didn’t go off… I woke up at 8:45, had to skip my morning shower and still got to my desk 45 minutes late. Can you imagine how ashamed I was?! It’s not like my boss got angry at me or anything, but I missed the morning meeting! I’ll be right back, time for lunch.
Around here, I have a very distinct role. I read the news online, I twitte some stuff, we watch round-the-clock news, I e-mail, I phone people. Occasionally I would drift off to a short visit on facebook, but just to clear my head, you know… Damn! I’m all out of good pens. Note to self: get a new box. And my opinion matters too! My boss (hi Boss! he reads my posts… Please don’t fire me!) consults me on work stuff. Now, where did my Paris-Match go? And so what if I get home around six while Mr. Issues stays at work till 10 pm? It’s not my fault slavery still exists in other work places. Besides, he gets to sleep more in the mornings… So to all of my dear friends, let’s just call it even so I could get on with my day and get to my coffee break.

Dolly said it first!

Ever since World War II ended, Europeans like to look down at the rest of the world who hasn’t reached peaceful utopia yet. They, in Europe, have grown way past bloodshed. Here, borders are only an administrative fact and nations treat each other with utmost respect… Bulls**t! Underneath their mature façade, two great European countries continue to take part in a childish rivalry: the English hate the French, the French hate the English, and even though it was officially over in 1453, they forgot nothing about the 100 year’s war.

A recent visit to the UK made me understand just how different things are here and there. In the streets of London, I came across strange names, labels and food… As if globalization doesn’t apply to French-British relations. A friend even asked me to buy him Cadbury chocolate bars he cannot get in Paris. How very 50’s…

It seems that in this mutual pouting, British chose to touch French where it hurts them the most: fashion. How else can you explain that the world is filled with Topshop branches (including Malaysia, Bahrain and Slovenia) but Parisians have to go all the way across La Manche to see the inside of a store?

Coming from a Mediterranean province, I know all about going abroad to get a new wardrobe (the first H&M store in Israel opened only a year ago, the same goes for Gap and other international brands). In Tel Aviv, we blame anti-Semitism, but what can the French say? It’s Jean D’arc’s fault?