I could get used to this

Paul McCarthy's Colonial Tea Cup, at the Hotel Albret last year.

Ok, so the room's small. Smaller than small. But it's cosy, and I find you hardly notice smallness until there's someone else sharing it with you. If I need to stretch my legs, there's a gym in the basement, in which someone has thoughtfully installed a kids' drum kit. Needless to say, me been layin down sum wikkid grooves.

And the area is great. You could look at the local culture, museums, art, architecture, nightlife, all, etc - but frankly, arse to all that, even if it's nice in its own way. No, what is particularly of note is that the Marais is crawling with students. Arty ones. Youngish. I can't help noticing that the typical user of St Paul métro stop is a hot Sheila in her early twenties. Go there some time and check it out. Certainly makes a pleasant change from the bepoodled Babushkas of the 16th, or the fishnet trannies of the maréchaux.

Faybo and I went out for the 4e Nuit Blanche on Saturday. I can report that the Nuit Blanche was rubbish this year. A few weak lighting effects, some Brazilian dancers, and that was about it. Last year's event was an LSD trip without the LSD. This time, there was a sad lack of street cleaning vehicles dancing to cubist music. Not enough children singing badly while flying badly. And definitely not enough giant pink teacups representing the hardships of colonial oppression.

Working week is now up to approx 75hrs.