Anyone who has followed the barest of my paragraphs over the past four years will know that life has not been easy.
Homelessness (several times), hunger (depressingly often), alone in Eastern European countries because it’s all I can afford . . . I’ve written about it everywhere. Many newspapers, Substack, Facebook, my website – in fact, I’ve written about it all so much, even I am fed up with hearing my whining (and trust me, there is no greater fan of my work).
People have been incredibly kind, offering various kinds of support where they can, and I say thank you all the time.
But there is a small group of people who seem to think I’m living the Life of Riley if I mention certain words. Instead of being thrilled that I am enjoying a small enjoyment in a life that has been pretty difficult the past few years, they leap upon those pleasures as if I have set out to murder their families.
The words that set them off are always the same ones. Paris. Oyster. Champagne. Heaven forbid if I mention all three in one breath: no, I am now a fat cat living off the spoils of those less fortunate than myself.
Just over two weeks ago, I had an operation and was unable to fly to a cheap place to recuperate because the air pressure would have been destructive to the black air bubble that followed my eyeball around like an abandoned Chihuahua.
There was nowhere in the UK I could afford – and we’re talking really far-flung parts of the country that were still extortionate.
So, I went on the Eurostar, first to Lille and then Paris, where I had booked mega cheap accommodation well under half the price of the UK. I didn’t even pay for my rail tickets as I had enough points for freebies (just in case that word ‘Eurostar’ sets the pack on me again).
I have my favourite places in Paris, one being La Coupole (oh dear lord – that’s another one that sets the pack off! How dare I sit in a nice place).
I like it because I can eat there very cheaply and they always have specials, too, which knocks more off the price, particularly when it comes to oysters. And they like me there, so I invariably get a glass of complimentary Champagne – which in any case is pretty cheap, along with many other drinks, during the city’s amazing Happy Hours (again, half the price of the UK).
And there you have it. Paris. Oysters. Champagne. How very dare I! I had just written about the nightmare of a Wetherspoons during half term, which was Bedlam. I have nothing against children in general, nor children eating out, but when they are rolling around the floor, screaming and bumping into people carrying hot food and drinks, it’s just damned dangerous. Simple as that.
But suddenly, I was the Devil Incarnate, attacked as if I had suggested the kiddies should be served up with a Weatherspoon special (three times the price of my oysters in La Coupole, by the way). I was attacked for my salary (from a person who knows zilch about it, nor about my pay cuts), and my ‘snatching’ oysters (no idea what that even means) and having no idea how other people live.
I know I don’t have to defend myself to anyone, yet here I am, having to apologise for being a soon-to-be-homeless person (again) who took a moment out for a bit of rare enjoyment and, to boot, in darned sight less expensive situations that I would have had to endure in the UK.
My changes in circumstances have been brought about by necessity, not choice, and wandering around Eastern Europe, desperate for an affordable place to lay your head for a couple of nights, is no fun. Why should anyone begrudge me the occasional pleasure?
It doesn’t mean it’s an indulgence (although nobody’s business if it were); I have just become very astute at finding the cheapest options in what has been a distressing (and often illness-inducing) set of circumstances.
One of the problems of the social networking stratosphere is that it is quick to judge, and many of the people in it cherry pick their targets without taking the time or trouble to check on the background. Even if those circumstances are known, the sniping does not stop. I posted a picture of a bottle of water and a disgusting piece of quiche – the only thing on offer that I could afford when I found myself without food for two days.
Oh poor you, another hater opined: Paris and quiche.
There it was again. Paris that is cheaper than Cardiff, but oh, no, I’m a veritable Elon Musk showing off my wealth.
So, here’s to the bloody lot of you.
Paris. Oysters. Champagne.
Love ’em.
Never mind the words – read the reality.
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