Ah, Paris. So, I got into work at about half-past nine - not that anyone's here to check up on me. Then I chatted to the other intern, Charlotte, about whether she's going to get a job as a chalet girl when her stage is over. As we're chatting, her boss and her boss's boss walk by on the way out to a "working breakfast"; they insist on bringing us back some viennoiseries. MY boss, a laidback and stylish 24-year-old, still isn't in yet, so I'm perusing The Mirror for the news of the day.

No, I'm not making this up: the world of work really can be like this. It might be that I'm in France, where working hours are an hour later than British ones, and it's normal to lunch in a bistrot. It might be because I'm an intern, and not being paid what I should be for the full-time week I'm doing. It might be because it's nearly the weekend. But, with an atmosphere like this, who cares?

I'll let you know how I got on this internship - or stage, as they call it here - on the weekend. Bises.