It`s time to make moves,

I can`t stand still.

I`m taking the fast train south today,

and I`ll kiss these big city blues goodbye.

(or for those of you who don`t speak jive)
I`m getting bored of the tourist thing, and I don`t want to spend new year`s eve in Paris. So I`m taking the TGV to Marseille and then a cow train to Aix-en-Provençe.

Filbert-blog has become like the abandoned dacha in Doctor Zhivago, when Yuri returns from his press gang service in the white army. The sentimental poet searches for his wife and child, and the memories of peaceful summer days. But in the house are only icicles and sad traces of those happy times.

And carrying a chisel is being monitored by the French secret service.

Is blogging dead?

It is so quiet on filbert.net... Thank heavens for new blood (by this I mean the "it girl"). Otherwise Filbert would be a dusty abandoned street with a boarded-up movie theater and a few tumbleweed bouncing by. The one traffic signal flashing Christmas cheer from red to green; the amber light shot out by some kids with a .22.

I went to see SWEET 16 last night at the MK2 Quai de Seine. Everywhere you turn in Paris there is romance and history. We got off the metro at Jaures-Stalingrad, and immeadiatley fell into a wonderful fairground, with carousels and an ice-rink. Les concessionaires offered crèpes and gaufres belges with Nutella. Or you could try your luck in a midway shooting gallery game: 3 Euros buys you five shots: The target is three balloons enclosed by wire, bopping around wildly on a jet of compressed air
"You look like you know what you`re doing." My friend Anna said, as I loaded the pellet gun and tried to adjust the sight. Her heavily accented Swedish voice seemed both amused and perturbed by this.
"Just tell me which prize you want baby." I replied.

And like Bo Mason, 1898 champion shot of Montana, I took out three balloons in three shots. If only I had a pair of figure skates with me.