Why is it always sunny when you leave somewhere?

Call it Sod's, Murphy's or Levy's law. Call it what you will, but it is a truth universally acknowledged that as soon as you buy your ticket out of some god-forsaken rain-drenched misery den, the sun starts shining and you start to see things in a whole new light.

Today I have had the most charming of charming Toulouse experiences imaginable. Having luncheoned with my flatmate Claire and her friends, I shelled out 2 euro 30 for a copy of the International Herald Tribune and spent two hours on the terrace of a studenty cafe, broiling in the heat of a mediterranean sun that I haven't felt on my shoulders since the heady days of 2006 (if you can remember it, you weren't there...)

Truely sumptuous.

Things on the job hunting front have really taken off, with emails flying in from all 6 corners of the country (local reference. Mum, you should get that one) asking me to show up for interviews etc. etc.

BUT, my decision is made. My flight is booked and I'm off to the last great right-wing bastion of France, Strasbourg in a little under 48 hours.

I'm nervous and excited and scared and worried and confused all at the same time. I hadn't really thought when I noticed that the plane was 20 euros cheaper and around 11 hours shorter than the train that I was going to be moving house. This means taking everything I own. You can take whatever you can carry onto a train (bike sometimes included) whereas with the flight, I've got to ask myself some serious questions about how it's all going to work.

I have my Hachette 2007 (a large, much beloved dictionary), my Beatles Bible (never left my immediate possession since the age of 15 or so) and a nicked bicycle that I have to think about.

I'm also leaving behind two rather distraught French girls who will soon be back on the search for a flatmate. Clair told me she cried the other day when she thought about me leaving. I think that's what she said anyway; she might have been telling me it was raining (it seems to be virtually the same verb). And I still haven't got off with Sophie, the sexy one. Ah, so much unfinished business.

I've also got to say goodbye to everyone I've ever known in this great city (about 4 people) and inform my landlord that I'm leaving. This is the thing currently giving me stomach ulcers. I don't know why but I'm terrified of my landlord. I think it dates back to the marching me to a cash machine episode when I'd forgotten to pay the rent for January. I'm not exactly delighted at the prospect of phoning him and telling him that all his worst assumptions about me as a foreigner are true:

"Hi Monsieur Braux"

"Yes?"

"Remember how you thought it was a terrible idea that the girls have a foreign, unemployed scumbag move in, and that you assumed he would run off at the first possible opportunity, leaving you without rent and another lodger-hunt on your hands?"

etc.

So, less than delighted at that prospect. Plus I don't know the French words for scumbag. Perhaps "Anglais" is a suitable translation.

So if I don't email for a while or get in touch with those I really should do, it's because I'm running around Strasbourg trying not to get noticed by skinheads, die of starvation or get mobbed by angry landlords.

I genuinely hope that those with easy, comfortable lives don't for an instant take any of it for granted and that you spare a moment, whilst nestling into your favourite armchair, to think of your trusty friend/family member/random blogger Rob as he attempts to make his way in the frozen, mountainous north of France, armed only with a single cardigan, a 4-week teacher training qualification and just enough French to say "I'll only agree to sell my body if the skag is really of the finest quality".

Until next time e-chums,

Rob
xxx