So, you know the image of the perfect French woman, all chic and slim and cool and chic and slim and cool and stuff…… multiply it by infinity and add a dash of dismissive arrogance, then you’ve got my pre-conceived idea of a typical Parisienne.  And so the thought of going to a city full of these Stepford standard automatons filled me with overwhelming dread.

But wait, what’s this?  If this article in The Guardian online today is anything to go by, then it means I can completely relax my ‘Operation Preparation Paris’ immediately.  YAY!!!

Cancel manicure, pedicure, personal training sessions, spa-day including facial infused with the tears of angels, powdered unicorn horn body buff-n-scrub, mop-down with a damp sponge, seaweed wrap, colonic and massage, hair cut, colour and transplant, arm-lift, face-lift, bum-lift, eyelash and teeth lift, stop Dukan, California, 5~2, Atkins and ‘fluff and air’ diets and return the thousands of euros  of clothes, shoes, bags, perfume, accessories and obligatory small handbag dog I purchased today on a shopping panic rampage.

Where’s those pork pies?