Since my last instalment, life as an undergraduate in Paris has begun in earnest with the start of lectures. My first few lectures are moderately fun. In France, there is a fetish for signing your nom (surname) before your pronom. This renders my signing of the register comically painstaking – one of the many minor incidents which remind me of my status as an Erasmus tit, which occur almost hourly.

I’m taking beginners Arabic despite spending two years in the AMES department (cue evil laugh), and enjoy sort of knowing what I’m doing in an Arabic language class for a change. The trilingualism proves a little too much, however, as I find myself resorting to hand gestures and a French-English mix to signal my need to borrow a classmate’s sheet. I personally find the mixing of languages to be inexplicably hilarious (like the other day, during a drinking game, when a Canadian, French-speaking friend said: “umm, I think that’s un peu trop de cheating Kiera,” and my ribs almost burst through my skin with laughing); but, I am, I think, in the minority on this point. The French girl smiles benignly in any case and her knowing “Erasmus?” likely seals my fate as a social reject.

The zone of my life untainted by incompetence appears to involve my dealings with the bank, who unfortunately obliterate my uncharacteristic productivity with a dose of their own shitiness at getting things done. Initially, with a great deal of vim, I make BNP Paribas promise to give me an account, which they do. Hurrah, whoop and jolly hockey sticks! BUT I have no debit card, thus I can neither withdraw, nor put money into the account with my name on it. That’s not really very useful now; is it personal-advisor Veronique?  It’s been ten days and my card hasn’t been delivered. And Veronique, do be a dear and explain why debit cards are optional when one can’t use one’s bank account without one? And, furthermore, why on earth can’t I put money into my own account, ma cherie? A complementary advisory meeting? I’d really like to accept that meeting with you next week, Veronique, but I really can’t see the need once I’ve told you to go fuck yourself and resigned myself to stashing my remaining Euro in a Nuttella jar under my bed; can you?

In other news, the Eiffel tower is still crap, The Tour de Montparnasse is still tall, and French pop is catchy, but still essentially crap. I spend two Euro everyday on bread and have no choice but to eat real butter, as Monoprix seems to have the same scientific qualms about trans-fats as the general medical council and men’s health magazines. It's a hard life.