For the last week or so now, i've spent an unhealthy amount of time hunting for my next chick-magnet pad which may or may not be in Paris

I've been visualising how cool it would be to go fishing at weekends once i've moved into the old two-up/two-down, situated next to a river, in a quiet little village, on the other side of the middle of no-where

Or even how groovy it'd be living in a converted grange on a country estate, in, naturally enough, the back-end of the middle of no-where

Once i stop drooling, the cold, stark reality of things raises it's ugly head

I'm just not that keen on getting up at the crack of midnight to catch one of the two trains that all-to-infrequently pull in to the place that is just somewhere on a map, with a mirth inducing name, at the end of a long road that leads to the middle of ..... nul part

Such is the price to pay for living somewhere that is forever France

Although ...

When i was in my early twenties, i used to leave home at about six in the morning (to get to work for 8.30 ! ) then i'd get home for about seven thirty in the evening

Is this something that i really want to be doing now ?

Part of me says YESSSS BUDDY-BOY DO IT
Another part of me says HMMMM MAYBE
Yet another part of me says HEY ! BE SERIOUS, DUDE