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I remember reading a Marie Claire article yonks ago about Par-Dons, the then-new breed of socialites that split their time between Paris and London, always dressed appropriately for the social and weather conditions of either city. Examples include Fleur Delacour, who I once spotted in the Oxford Street TopShop. Is this going to be me? I wonder occasionally. But then I remember that being a Par-Don requires a certain amount of insouciance, spontaneity, and enough cash to jump on the Eurostar (first class, naturellement) at a moment’s notice. I lack all three of those things, so much so that I have taken to googling ‘Parisian student style’ to make sure I don’t stick out like a sore thumb at the Sorbonne. (The results were inconclusive.)

… Don’t worry folks. I was going to do another whimsical, self-analysing post about what it means for me as a half-Frenchie to be going to Paris for a year, whether I will succeed academically, socially or linguistically, whether or not I will ever bring myself to drink red wine, etc. This first paragraph is all that remains of that post: I should have written it ages ago, when I was sitting around doing nothing for the first part of the summer and had plenty of time for self-absorption. Now I’m working full time at a job that, although quite enjoyable, drains me of the energy I need to write blog posts upon my return home. Instead, I lie on the sofa watching American sitcoms I don’t even like and I eat scrambled eggs until it’s time for bed.

As it is now, I have to face up to reality. It’s less than a month until I depart for Paris and I still have no concrete plans. Well: I’ve picked some courses, got a place to stay in for a week when I arrive, and I know my term dates. I can also delay a lot of things until this Monday when my student loan will make a welcome appearance and I can like book a train or something. But I mostly still feel as ill-prepared and blank as I did when I first started this blog.

Usually my response to this kind of growing anxiety veers wildly between sticking my head in the sand, bursting into tears at random moments and obsessive list-making/planning. I am yet to reach the latter stage, which is a shame as it would be quite helpful really. Overall, I expect nothing will change even once I am there: no doubt I will be sobbing with fear as I trip along to the Erasmus Bureau to snot all over my new student ID.

Knowing that I only have a limited number of weekends to sort this stuff out and to bid adieu to my friends obviously makes things worse. I’m going to London next weekend to see some uni friends probably for the last time before Christmas. My dear friend Hayley and I keep texting each other things like When am I going to see you?!?!?!?! P.S. lol at that Snapchat because she is as busy as I am, sadly. Then I have to schedule time with my home friends before they disappear on pre-uni holidays. I should probably also renew my passport.

What I want most at the moment is to jump forwards in time to the point where I will look back at my panic-stricken self and chuckle wryly whilst I nibble elegantly at a croissant (already I know this is a pipe dream given the flakiness of the pastry). Part of me wants to keep jumping forward, right until September 2014 when I will say to myself ‘Well, Paris was pas mal but now it’s time to return to London.’ Yet another part of me (I’m conflicted) wants to jump backwards to the day that I accepted my offer from my uni and therefore sealed my fate as an Erasmus student nearly four years in advance. Yes, I know I’m overthinking it. But I don’t have a solution to any of this.

Hey, guess what, this did turn into the usual whimsical, self-analysing post laced with the usual fear of the unknown. Hopefully by the next time I post on here things will be looking up. Hopefully in a month’s time my writing output will be more like ‘On the Metro lol’.