In common with most of the global female population, I have shunned intimate contact with Milhous Vile. That situation has dramatically shifted this weekend. We are in Paris, but the change of my status from untouched to despoiled is nothing to do with the city of love, its cheap wine, marvelous chocolate or chansons d’amour.
We are staying in a (two bedroom) apartment I found through airbnb. The apartment, just steps from the Bourse, is the last word in Parisian chic. It is on the fifth floor of an apartment building accessed by a wide and heavy front door at street level. Inside the lobby, there is a tiny elevator. It say it holds 3 personnes, but these would have to be pygmies or Parisian models. Milhous and I are an uncomfortably tight fit. Wedged in wedding night poses, we avoid eye contact as we ascend or descend. It is like sharing a particularly uncomfortable and inappropriate cocoon. On the top or bottom floor we spill out like ungainly twins birthed at more than 40 weeks. I wish I had the knees for stairs.