Irish wifey

I don't like typing too much on the iPod. But tonight it might be worth the odd spelling mistake.
What a day
First, Pompidou, I love yo soooo. I'll put up a lot of photos as soon as I am able. Next, my lunch, happenstance as most of my encounters tend to be, also simply decadent and straight from the pages of a worn romance novel. And filled to the brim with cute waiters.
Next scene: home. Dorms. California style dramz, like a sleepy trainwreck. I secure a room at my cute hotel and we make it over. It's exceedingly adorable and small and better. Fabulous dindin at cafe fleur, I think it's called. Tomato salad and the most gorgeous evening yet. Crepes by he church.
Split and fold and keys and le sac and cute Ripey ripe cherries and my retainer is in, my silk boxers are on and I am utterly settled in bed.
A knock on the door.
I choose to ignore. I prefer the company of the widowed drunken voices frothing at my windowpane.
Pause.
Another knock. Sounds friendly.
And there stands my Irish knight, telling me he must go and dashing my hopeful hopes of eventually falling love. The nerve.