189. Part 2.

We returned to our hotel late afternoon, following a fruitless search for a particular poster shop I always visit whenever in Paris, hmmm...I'm sure it’s somewhere near the Louvre.
I didn't need a nap before dinner but then bed isn't just for sleeping, so we picked up from where we'd left off earlier.
Once more into the shower before slipping into a white lace frock, white suspender belt, knickers and seamed fully fashioned stockings. Attaching all eight clasps of a suspender belt single-handed, is a contortionist feat par excellence.
Our taxi arrived, whisking us off through a wet night of shiny streets, to a delightful seafood restaurant. France, being a Catholic country, still keeps Sunday trading hours i.e. nearly everywhere is closed and if open, half empty. If the prospect of being a Flaneur, or visitor of galleries doesn't grab you, you’d be well advised to avoid Paris on a Sunday and Monday, certainly a shopaholic’s nightmare.
Starters were twelve oysters, smoked salmon bilnis and champagne, before moving onto the main, 'Fruits de Mer.' 'Frances, would you like to order the wine,' 'No, you be Mother, but please no Chardonnay' (why do they always have to oak it?), I replied. 
I'm not sure if the waiter heard us correctly, because what arrived looked more like the 'Fruits De Ocean.'
We crushed, tore, bit, sucked, squeezed and chewed: no, we'd not arrived back at our bedroom yet, that was just the Fruits de Mer.' 
The wonderful thing about seafood/shell-food is, one can eat to their hearts content without feeling bloated, unlike carbs and meat, it's also kinder on the tummy if sex is on the pudding menu for afters.
Pudding for us, consisted of me clutching to the railings of the bedroom's balcony, whilst S brought up the rear. However, he declined the suggestion that we change positions, bless, I think it might have  been a little chilly for him, and so we moved over to the bed.
Not unlike most men, S went out like a light, fortunately unlike most men, he didn't snore.
I awoke around 3:am to use the loo, now restless, I thought I'd bring myself off, well, it was right there and going to waste otherwise. I'd have gladly awoken S, but he looked content in his dream state, so I wanked away as gently as I could without rocking the boat too much.
Checking out before lunch, we set off once more in search of my poster shop: bingo, we found it, right down the far end of Rue Louvre, which has to be the longest continuous street of cafe's and eateries I know of in Paris.

After choosing five posters, S took them from my hands and insisted on buying them, thank you. It was a few hours yet before our train back to London, so we joined the throng of Parisians for an al fresco lunch.
'Did you sleep well last night S, I thought I might have disturbed you with my wanking?' 'What...you had a wank and you didn't wake me up, you should have woken me up!' 'Sorry, I promise to next time.'
Our train pulled into St Pancreas at 3pm. 'Frances, I had a marvellous time, I may need to make another trip back to Paris before the end of the year, would you consider a night away again?' Ask a silly question. We parted with a hug and went our ways. 
Sitting on the tube back to Tower Hill, I plonked myself down in a corner seat, next to a woman wearing rather large sunglasses. 'Frances, hello, it's me,' said the woman in the dark glasses, her eyes peeking out from above the rims. It was the artist Tracy Emin, with whom I’d been chatting the previous weekend, at a gig I played at the Golden Heart pub in Spitalfields. 
'You look lovely, where have you been this time of day?' 'Oh, I've just got back from a dirty weekend in Paris.' Ohhh how fab, I've still got you're number, I hope you'll come and play at my party.' 'Of course I will Tracy, it sounds like a plan, let's talk next week.'
What I'm reading in bed...
Music Theory For Dummies

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