Vinka finds her feet

Day Two dawned in glorious technicolour. For the bargain price of both kidneys, I had invested in a European internet booster, so my phone was telling me it was 20 degrees outside and sunny.

Hooray, what does one do in Paris by oneself on a midweek morning in March? Yep, they grab their camera and head out to find some interesting-looking buildings. Instead, I found some interesting-looking Algerians. They appeared friendly, although my guard remained up in case their motive was murder, rape, or worse - theft of camera! After spending some time in their company, and receiving a fascinating guide to the red light district in a combination of English, French and Dutch, we approached Le Basilica de Sacre Coeur.

Those of you with a passing interest in French cinema will be aware of Sacre Coeur from its prominence in Amelie (which was filmed entirely in Montmartre) "Oh great, more fucking stairs" I lamented - which seemed to be the theme of my entire stay. These are not just stairs, these are M&BloodyS stairs. I`m sure there were at least a million before you got halfway but, once at the top, the reward was breathtaking (both literally and figuratively) Those who smoke, are infirm or who live in England, and are therefore of a lazy disposition, should not attempt this challenge unless they are in possession of an oxygen mask, crampons and a Sherpa guide.

Result! A call from Pierre, to say he was coming to meet me for the afternoon. So, I gladly allowed him to take me on a tour of the local cemetary, which is spectacular - if you`re into that kind of thing, which I am - and left the Algerians arguing over who was going to ask me on a date.

Paris 2012

Not many people find themselves in a mental hospital on their first visit to Paris but, obviously, this was my first point of call on my debut in France`s capital. Unfortunately, this hospital was not of my preferred derelict, Victorian architecture, variety but, rather, a slightly dull, 1960s concrete construct in a run-down suburb of Northern Paris.

Upon arrival in Paris Nord, it occurred to me that I would have to negotiate the Metro - in French, at night, by myself and lugging, quite possibly, the largest size of suitcase acceptable for intercontinental travel. Having purchased the correct tickets on the 7th attempt, thank you for having no English instructions whatsoever, and sheer guesswork at the required line, my initial concerns were realised when I discovered the sheer number of stairs on the Metro. A) Whose bright idea was that? and B) No wonder French women stay slim! After changing lines and experiencing my own personal game of Snakes and Ladders - mostly ladders - complete with 100kg of extra weight, I arrived at the hospital to collect the keys for the apartment. There, I encountered my next obstacle...

Ahhhhhhh, the "Je ne parle pas Anglais" security guard. Luckily, I sprang into action with my top notch Franglais, which resulted in a bemused smirk from him and increasingly suicidal tendencies from me. I thought "je visite mon ami pour retrouver les cles pour làppartement, je ne sais pas ou est làppartement"* made perfect sense! A quick emergency phonecall and I was finally allowed up to the ward. Considering the state of me upon arrival, it is no mean feat that I was allowed to leave! The nurses were intrigued by the sweating, sobbing mess, resplendent in strawberry hat and Moomin hoodie. Under French mental health regulations, I probably qualified for a bed, nay, an entire wing to myself. Mad, noooooo, I`m British!!!

Onwards to Montmartre. Now, I have since experienced the fantastic qualities of the area but, as I exited the Metro at Blanches, my first sight was the famous Moulin Rouge. "Great, another fucking hill" was all I could muster. I finally reached Rue des Abbesses, my home for the next 5 days. The apartment block was like stepping back through a Parisian timewarp, all wonky stairs and creaky doors. After 10 minutes of wrestling with the 18th century door, and disturbing the lovely lady opposite (Françoise, whose English was as proficient as my French) I was in! You would think this would be the end of my ordeal, but no, due to the fantastically odd wiring - probably designed by an opium addicted, cad in 1870 - there were no lights. There were switches but no light fittings; Oh what fresh hell was this? Eventually, by the light of my HTC, I sent an SOS to a trusted friend "Save Me. I am in a fucked up, horror version of Amelie"

And day one came to a dramatic climax.

*Roughly translated, in crap Franglais, this means "I am visiting my friend to get the keys for the apartment, I don`t know where the apartment is" Obviously, my verbs were not correct and this was spoken in mouse-like tones through a small hatch.

Marathon

Having managed to escape PE for most of my educational life and having avoided Sports' Day from the age of 6, it will come as a shock to most people to discover that I will be running the Brighton Marathon next Summer for St Wilfrid's Hospice in Chichester. Despite my aversion to anything sporty, aside from watching the gymnastics from the comfort of my sofa on a Sunday, I am determined to run and, more importantly, finish it.

My Dad once told me that I was on a one-woman mission to save the world. He may have a point. I do suffer from a form of "Charity Tourettes". If anyone needs help, it will always be me with their hand up, "pick me, pick me". This could be seen as me being caring and considerate or it could be seen as some sort of mental health disorder. "Oh, you need someone to prance about in a funny outfit? Okay" The things I do in order to help a good cause. I am surprised my two kidneys remain intact!

I shall be using this blog to record my progress, as I begin training. Watch this space...

Busy busy busy

Phew, what a whirlwind few weeks. I have barely had time to sit down and the only thing remaining of my old routine is watching Dynasty!

That said, I am quite chipper. I like having things to get my teeth into and being able to use my brain. The Dirty South is now up and running - the team are out and about and are doing a grand job covering events in the South. Southsea Fest is just around the corner and I will have my hands full with the new volunteering project, it'll be hard work but we are the first festival in the country to offer this scheme. Woohoo! Quite frankly, I am busier than a busy thing on a particularly busy day BUT in no way am I bored!

The majority of my life now is unpaid. It seems silly but all the work I do for Southsea Fest, the webzine and my voluntary work will help me far more in my chosen career path than my actual job. I am happy with the things I'm doing, which means I am better able to cope with the mundanity of my work life. The thing I have to stop, is the ideas I come up with when I have 5 minutes of downtime. It just results in yet more work! Is there a way of controlling that do you think?

Arse Idol

Last night I attended the premiere of "Love You Too" at Cinema Number 6. I shall not be reviewing the film on here, that will be available over at The Dirty South website.

What I do want to discuss is the afterparty! Squishing so many people into Sam's terraced house was quite a feat! Much alcohol was consumed and I am entirely to blame for "Arse Idol", an idea based on the amount of nudity contained within the film. I felt the other blokes needed a platform to exhibit their wares (haha) It's only fair!

So, 5 contenders stepped forward and I attempted to mark each backside based on technical ability and artistic interpretation. The results are as follows:

Xan 5.5/10

Mark 6.5/10

Sam 7/10

Isaac 7.5/10

Jack 7.5/10

The fact there was a tie-break situation was nearly my downfall! I do not feel able to discuss the events following my adjudication, needless to say I ended up with a scrotum on my shoulder and will need counselling for the forseeable future :D

Grrrrrrr, the Vinkasaur roars!

There are not enough hours in the day to achieve everything. Short of cloning myself (which is not wise, the world is not ready for two Vickys!) I shall just have to soldier on. As such, sleep deprivation is the norm and I am becoming a total insomniac. Telly is rubbish at 3am, radio is rubbish at 3am and being awake is rubbish at 3am :(

Several ideas have been put forward to alleviate my sleeping (or lack thereof) issues:

1 A mobile (not phone, but the whirly animal things that hang over a cot) I immediately rejected this idea on the basis that it will probably keep me awake even more by wanting to play with it!

2 Soft and soothing music. Even Selected Ambient Works is not doing it for me (Volume 1 or 2!!)

3 Reading. I am currently reading (or attempting to read) The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas. I will be awake sobbing and visualising Auschwitz, so have rejected this idea on those grounds.

My own idea is a combination of a mallet and chloroform. It's foolproof! I may be left with minor concussion or increased headaches but if it means I get some sleep, it's a risk I'm willing to take. A tired Vinkasaur is a grouchy Vinkasaur :(

A dilemma approacheth

Anyone who knows me will know that I do a lot of work for charity. In fact, most of the work I do is for charity being that I only work for 15 hours a week. I love what I do - always have done.

At present there are a load of projects I am juggling. The Dirty South will be launching soon and Southsea Fest ventures are about to kick off in earnest, plus I am helping a group get funding for counselling services, advising on a youth project and there are several charity events I am planning for the rest of the year (more on this at a later date!) There is no doubt that I am busy!

So, when an opportunity arose for me to be the regional coordinator for Refugee Week I was really excited. It's a voluntary post for one day a week between now and July, covering the South and South-East region. The aim is to be the point of contact for RCOs and for the media. I would love it, I'd be really getting my teeth into things but I know that the press enquiries and community group queries will not only happen on a Tuesday from 9 til 5.

I am stretched almost to breaking point as it is, if I took this on too would it be the straw that broke the capybara's back? Technically there simply aren't enough hours in the week for me to take this position but if I don't I would be missing a huge opportunity to enhance my experience, help out the regional Refugee Community Organisations (RCOs) and raise awareness. I find it hard to say no when asked to help but, in truth, I am finding this a difficult decision to make.