One of the things about moving so often is that it can be a little hard to make friends in a new city. In Stockholm we were lucky, in that a ready-made supply of what turned out to be very good friends came gift-wrapped when we started our Swedish lessons. In Singapore Isobel was too young for us to think about making friends (and Sam met a lot of people through her mother and baby group). But here in Paris it hasn't been all that obvious where I was going to make friends.

I looked on google and found this: an expat social group called Expat Contact (slightly unfortunate name because it sounds like a dating agency). From the website, to be honest, it sounds a little wanky. You're left with the impression that everyone will be fabulously wealthy, gorgeous and earn ten times what you do.

I went to my first weekly do last night, which was held on the rooftop terrace of the Hotel Raphael just off Place d'Etoile (which is where the Arc de Triomphe is). As you can imagine, the views were spectacular - with the Eiffel Tower sparkling, the Arc de Triomphe illuminated and the whole cityscape stretching out before us. It almost made up for the fact a glass of wine was €10.

And I met a lot of interesting people from all over the world, which for me is the best part of being an expat. I met my first ever Senegalese person, and lots of people from the US, Canada, the UK, France, Germany and so on.

I'll be going again next week.

Today's the 60th anniversary of the liberation of Paris from the Nazis. I was walking to work this morning down the Champs Elysées and a column of Free French armoured vehicles drove past, which was both a sight and a sound to behold. It's just one of the events scheduled for today, including a huge public ball this evenoing at the Bastille. It's something the French do very well.

But to watch the TV and read the papers here, you'd think the French liberated themselves. Nothing about the Americans at all, just like the Brits and the Americans tend to gloss over the fact the Russians liberated Berlin.

It's a funny thing, history.

You may have noticed some ads at the top of my blog. They're all for high-quality products and services, and I highly recommend you click on them.

For reasons too dull to go into here, I've spent a lot of the last couple of weekends on the train.

Last weekend I was on a combination of Virgin, Central and First NorthWestern trains in the UK - while this weekend I've been on the TGV here in France.
You know what I'm going to say, don't you?

The trains in Britain were variable at best. One that I caught from Birmingham to Worcester was absolutely filthy, while on the way back I had a mad rush from one platform to another at Birmingham as they got the platform announcement wrong.

Mind you, to be fair they got me where I wanted to be on time, and it could even have been a lot more expensive. But travelling by train in the UK just isn't fun.

My TGV experience, however, has been ace. It's cost me less than €140 for a journey of more than 1000km booked at the last minute, it's comfortable, on time, unbelievably fast and almost eerily quiet. It's a whole different ballgame - and I doubt the British will ever catch up.

There are many, many reasons why I don't want ever to have to work in London. But here's one of the major ones.

I work in advertising.

People who work in this industry in London are a funny lot. For a start, they think they work in the CENTRE OF THE WORLD, and that anyone anywhere else is a hick. Apart from New York. They may be arrogant, but even they kowtow to our friends in the big apple.

I think one of the major problems is the awards. Instead of rewarding ads that do the business in their respective countries, they seems to reward agencies that produce work that could have come from London or New York. It may be pretty, but does it get people buying in Bangalore? If it dosn't, don't give it an award.

Think kebab and what do you think? If you're British, Swedish, Dutch and probably most European nationalities, you probably think of low-rent fast-food outlets staffed by people of middle-eastern descent basically selling food late at night to drunk people.

Believe me, I've tried to eat a doner kebab from Kebab King in Wigan sober, and it's not a pleasant experience. Actually, it's not that great an experience drunk - as the mountain of half-eaten kebabs in any town centre on a Saturday morning will testify. Keeps the rats happy though.

Here in Paris, however, it's a different story. At least if you live or work on the swanky Avenue George V. Just down the road from my office is a very posh Lebanese restaurant called Al Diwan. And next door is itsdelicatessen, which doubles at lunchtime as a kebab shop.

But it's no kebab shop you know. the staff are immaculately suited, and drip both lebanese charm and expensive gold. The kebabs are to die for, n'all - and when my French is better I'll try some off the other stuff.

Mmmm... other stuff...