| >>djpaulette [back to postcard archive menu] 2005: I’ve done it. I’ve moved… and I don’t just mean from my bed to the living room to watch trash TV or Trisha. Nor have I moved from solid to liquid to gas – although I’m sure that any psychiatrist worth their sofa would tell you that the emotional rollercoaster I’ve been on lately could easily bring about that transition. Two years ago, my dream was to learn to speak French fluently, to profitably sell my flat in London and to move to Paris to live with the man I love and whilst the fluent French bit is a bit off the mark, the rest of it has thankfully materialised. I sure as hell didn’t do it on my own though. It was a lot tortoise - given the negotiation process - and even more hare (brained) once faced with the physical and tactical reality of it, but we did it and I know we did ourselves proud? Now that it’s well and truly deux mille cinq, it’s time to thank everyone who’s helped me to make the decision or who gave me the strength and inspiration to physically move from London to Paris. Firstly, I thank God for giving me my focus and the family and friends and strength that I needed whenever I needed it most. Then there’s Sebastien – the man with the plan and the van: if anyone has ever found and signed for an apartment quicker (two days) or has a map of Paris to London via the Euro Tunnel that’s any more detailed than mine, I want to meet them. Mine is 64 pages of street-by-street accuracy from Pantin to Portobello, all bound up in an A4 ring-bound folder. Paula, my Mum and Dad, Audrey, Elicia all routed for me from the sidelines, making calls, geeing along whilst Janie (how many phone calls?), Dave, Nick, Fiona, Colin, Eddie and Jo all helped me to feel the fear and do it anyway. Deep in the bay of bureaucracy, a deal was negotiated, battles were fought and lost and won, papers were signed and I was eventually given two weeks to vacate and a well-deserved final handshake which signified the end of my West London life and its eleven and a half years worth (five and a half in the Notting Hill hood) of buying, storing, receiving and never getting around to getting rid of. Six bags of clothes and shoes were trolley-dropped at one charity shop, four boxes of bric a brac, cutlery and crockery went to the Help The Aged shop and, much as I tried to donate them, the bed, the sofa bed, the microwave, both phones, the ladder, the bed head, the chair, the card table, the iron and ironing board all met their rather forgettable ends at the razor sharp rasp of Michael’s trusty saw or the ravenous jaws of the Droop Street skip. After two intensive weeks of asking every shopkeeper close by (very nicely of course) for and buying hundreds of flat packed boxes and dj’ing and presenting my radio show in between, I and my invaluable helpers – Sebastien, Reetu, Michael, Stuart, Anna and Colin all packed, taped, dumped, wrapped, lugged, humped, dragged, squeezed and crammed box after box after box full of books, videos, CDs, sound systems, TVs, elephants, kitchen equipment, pots, pans, glasses, candles, tea light holders, pens, posters, 16, 000 records and all the other useless junk I didn’t even know I had that kept spewing involuntarily forth out of cupboards I was sure I had already emptied and loaded it all into 20 cubic metres of van. Twice. Over four days. In Paris, Laurent, Christina, Jodie, Regis, Fabien, Marco and Melissa all helped Sebastien to unload the first van and position the boxes, sometimes in the wrong rooms despite my clear labelling (okay in their defence, there’s no such place as a salle de cuisine so who’s complaining… erm, that would be me)! But even the best made plans can go tits up. Van 2 brought a parking ticket, horrendous Christmas shopping traffic throughout London and an M20 so horrifically snagged to a standstill that despite leaving London at 3.30pm we only reached the Channel Tunnel by 9.30pm, made the crossing at 11.30pm and finally arrived at our apartment just outside Paris at 03.30am on the 21st of December and not at 11.30pm on the 20th as originally planned. No welcoming committee there then. Still, 4 hours later, the van was empty, I’d scraped both my shins ‘helping’ to carry the fridge, the Christmas tree had been fully appreciated and the bed was hastily made. Yep. Happy Birthday to me! The tsunami was an incredible shock. My thoughts go out to those who didn’t return, to those whose loved ones and families did not survive and to those who are rebuilding the countries and their lives. There are many ways to support the cause, whether by attending one of the parties in your area or just donating whatever you can afford to the collection buckets you see in banks, building societies, metro stations and such like. Christmas 2004 wasn’t such a happy time for over 150,000 people or more and we should remember that.
Sadly I have discovered that I am a higher maintenance machine than I thought and that a good hairdresser / waxer / pedicure / optician / dry cleaners is hard to find but that the best place for black hair products is anywhere along the Rue Faubourg St Denis. I have found that the post, the plumber and the gasman are ridiculously reliable (so far, no waiting around for the service man who never knocks at all) and that it’s customary to say ‘bonjour’ and ‘bon journee’ to pretty much everyone I encounter. I must, however, forget the rudiments of the English queuing system and the layouts of Tesco’s, Sainsbury’s and Somerfield, as they don’t exist in France. I have also learned that there are three decent places for tougher records in Bastille – Techno Import is one, whilst the best place for deep and underground soulful house is 12” near Les Halles. I have learned so much already, I am learning more every day, I am doing as much of it as I can in french and I haven’t even started getting out and about yet! As for moving in to an unoccupied property: you find strengths and talents that you didn’t even know you had. I am proud to report that I am now a dab hand at faire-ing le nettoyage, unblocking toilets and deblocher-ing the drains. Imagine the scene… no don’t… no do … imagine me with a rhinestone encrusted ‘ventouse’, a rubber cat suit and marabou trimmed rubber gloves. Ain’t I just the Queen of the Unblocking Scene? Sebastien is definitely the Fastest Flat Pack Assembler in my books: I wouldn’t even attempt to help as he’s completed a whole bibiliotheque before I’ve figured out which way up the line drawing is meant to be viewed. He’s also done all the electrics, rewired the fridge, the washing machine and wired the cooker in, installed all the curtains, got annoyed at the general substandard nature of things from Abita (they don’t pronounce the ‘H’ or the final ‘T” in France which is kinda funny) and Eeeehkaaayah (that’s IKEA to you and me) and is everything I want in a man and more – plus he hasn’t got a fat builder’s bum which makes him infinitely more attractive. After all the fixing, mending and organising, the first gig of the year at Carey’s in Coventry was a welcomed release. It was such a great feeling touching those decks again and it showed! Like the lyrics from ‘the Devil Went Down To Georgia’: “Fire licked from [my] finger tips as [I] rosined up [my] bow” ? … It’s always a pleasure to play there since it’s just like a home from home: the staff is like family and the crowd are like friends and that’s why none of us ever want to leave. I returned to London on Sunday and hooked up with my friends Janie and Jo in Hoxton for window-shopping, drinks, dinner and Celebrity Big Brother. It was really lovely being back but also bizarre feeling like a visitor to what, six week’s previously, had been my hometown. Monday was spent changing my address where it needed to be changed and changing my attitude in the new Apple Mac shop on Regent Street by waiting in what is undoubtedly the slowest queue in the world. I also visited Azuli and Defected Records for a catch up on all the industry gossip and a stock up on hot vinyl and CDRs. Back in Paris for more meetings with Antoine Baduel at Radio FG to organise my new radio show (depressingly it’s still not signed or sealed yet) and for meetings with my good friends at Virgin Records. Oh and if you want to know just how good the new Daft Punk album is, I can assure you, it’s really rather good. Listen out for ‘Human After All’, ‘Robots’ and ‘Television’ on a dance floor near you very soon. After flitting from Dubai to Istanbul to Trieste to Rome to Croatia and back to London for the move at the back end of last year, January’s Ministry of Sound party at Lifting House in Biel was amazing again: DJ Lele Alasco played a superb warm up whilst Nick Bridges and I survived mad Piero’s military driving skills and minus 6 temperatures to tag-team our way through the live radio broadcast. Don’t ask me why I woke up on the hotel room floor on Sunday morning: I blame the Alize! I opened February with an early set at Xpress 2’s Muzik Xpress 1st Birthday party at the Cross – lots of dark, twisted electro fuelled house set the tone and tracks like John Carter and Gecko’s ‘Double Drop’, Tiefschwarz ‘Issst’, Dylan Rhymes ‘Salty’, Soulwax’s ‘E Talking’ and Different Gear’s ‘Pop Idle’ kept my customers satisfied. I am looking forward to the contrast of a mega soulful Valentine’s Weekend love-in at Neighbourhood’s ‘One Starry Night’. It’s my third time there now and I think I have just the material to take this one out of the stratosphere. I’m not going to give the game away but Blaze and Barbara Tucker’s ‘Most Precious Love’ is just about the best set opener and closer of its kind. And as for the upcoming Ministry of Sound party at Redlight – bring your torches, because I’m planning on pitching that set one shade darker than blindness. All the while the flat continues to take shape. After a day of unbridled personal activity two week’s ago, the record boxes were moved, the decks were taken out of boxes and the music room was born. The bedroom was finished that weekend when we made the last trip to Ikea. And on the seventh week we rested. Well no, that’s not entirely true. IKEA has late opening on Thursdays so I think we’re going to buy the shelves for the records instead. Life is so glamorous when you’re an international superstar DJ but then I wouldn’t know: I’m just the one that’s either up to my shoulders in white porcelain or had it up to there with queueing… ? I’m really glad that we’ve caught up again.
Sorry it’s been so long. If you want to catch up with me in person,
don’t forget to check my diary for dates and don’t be a stranger!
Be nice to yourselves, be nice to those you know and if you can only be
nasty, save it for the dancefloor. I’m out of here like I stole
something! See you next time. ?
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