France likes me drunk and stupid.

When first I embarked on this great, noble, transnational expedition, the words 'roughing it' figured greatly in my imaginings. I also imagined this week prior to my return to Paris on Tuesday would involve me living in some kind of farmhouse in a tiny village riding a bike with a wicker basket amongst the passing sheep and kindly, rosy cheeked farmsfolk. Perhaps stopping, if required, to help an injured baby sparrow back into it's mothers nest in a medium sized peach tree. I thought it not entirely out of the question that I may pick up, and quickly master, the ancient art of weaving.

And then I ended up in the capital of Chamapgne. Literally, there's a capital. It's Reims. They are still slightly angry about the Revolution.

Reims, I believe, is also the global capital of white pants and boat shoes. Sometimes the white pants all catch the rays of the sun at once and I am temporarily blinded by the glare. I believe it may also disturb the trajectory of overpassing satellites.

Dear friend, I did try so hard not to look like the scungy backpacker I am. Washed my hair special. Wore a dress and put on blush just so the people at the Mumm champagne house wouldn't scoff haughtily at me. And this is what France did to me. This is what constitutes a street sign in this fine country.

So I did not make it to that particular champagne cave that day. I instead had to resign myself to a rosé in the big avenue, wearing sunglasses until 10'o'clock on account of the aforementioned luminiscent pants.

But I was not fazed, dear reader. Not I. I picked myself up from the filthy floor of dejection and misdirection and boldy strode out in search of more champagne. I thought, join the party Cel. You don't own white pants but that doesn't mean you can't scull a brut like the best of the bourgeoisie. And I think humanity advanced just a little that day.

The first champagne place was staid enough. Went on a little tour. Nodded. Had a good little Brut Rose. And all was good in the world.

At my next stop on my personal champagne tour/crawl I was put on a little motorized white car (preceeding and following pink, middle aged Germans in white pants) and was told such things as 'Champâgne, the king of wines, had now become the wine of kings'. Then bubbles were thrown on me and I was subjected to a light show. And I thought, that could have just made me epileptic. It was like getting drunk by osmosis.

When I got off I half expected Gene Wilder to ask me to lick grape flavoured wall paper. But no such luck. Instead I was walked into a super fancy pants bar, surrounded by big groups of fancy pants middle aged people, and was sat in front of a table with three glasses of champagne. Spent the first 5 minutes trying not to giggle out loud.

And I thought, you've here placed me in something of a quandry Mr Piper Heidsieck. Please elaborate on the word 'moderation'. For I have eaten but one banana and a chocolate croissant today and here I have my fourth glass of champagne in front of me. What an interesting predicament I find myself in.

Decided to sit there and drink it like the sophisticated and graceful young woman I am. People did keep glancing over, no doubt think I was mysterious and aloof. But then, those looks could well have been ones of concern.