Little Red

Foolishly I was hoping to avoid telling this story! But by popular demand, here's my account of The Time I Was Arrested For A Misconception.
Sounds so much better that The Time I Was Arrested For Prostitution, dontcha think?

Last year I wasted six weeks of my life doing a work experience thing in France- I refuse to believe that I’ve ever had a real job in my life apart from this one, and doubts as to my intention of ever actually getting one have been raised more than once, despite J having had something of a tendancy for bringing me back shiny application forms “just in case”.

My brief stint as as Christmas elf doesn't count, because I was half dead with cold for most of the time.

One night after a particularly rough day at work, where the paper shredder broke after I tried to feed it bits of cardboard coffee cup, we decided to go out- “we” being me, the few other English-speaking souls who’d been similarly conned into signing up for unpaid work experience at this company, and some of the stranger French worker bees.

Partying with people who are considered weird even among the French can only lead to trouble.

One impromptu fancy dress party and lots of obscure French drinking games later, I tried to get home but was refused access to my train by an overzealous night guard, which did- obviously enough- mean that I decided upon sleeping in the doorway of the Hotel de Ville- the town hall.
I was woken up several hours later by a pair of grubby looking men surreptitiously trying to look up my skirt, who then proceeded to question me as to my vocation and reason for sleeping out in the open. The smell soon convinced me that they were harmless French hobos- I do, of course, live in London now and have learned my lesson; bad smells seldom mean the people asking you for money are the real hobo deal- and fumbled for my purse, dropping my hotel key at their feet.

"Qu'est qu'on fait?"

Turns out they were actually grubby policemen who thought I was a prostitute.
As this used to happen with dismaying frequency- I've been refused access to hotels I was staying in because of such misconceptions- this may or may not have been due to the outfit I'd been given for the whole fancy dress shennanigans.
Little Red Riding Hood Goes to Fetish Party, would be putting it kindly.
*rolls eyes*

It took me a fair while to realise what was going on however, and when I finally did- several crude hand gestures later- being un peu drunk still, I informed them that I didn’t kiss on the mouth, a statement accompanied with a finger across the nearest guys lips, and wide eyes.

*shrugs*

These things would appear to be universally understood.

Which resulted in me being carted off for questioning, en Français, at the police station- amazingly, I was never taught the name for that in A Level French* (chez le police, peut-etre?) until they finally realised they could just call my company to vouch for my erstwhile integrity- presumably because the Giggling Brit was having trouble sobering up enough to speak French intelligibly.

My name restored to its former slightly tarnished glory, I left with my nose in the air.
At which point I dropped my handbag, and flavoured condoms scattered across the shiny laminate floor.
Having sobered up somewhat, I declined getting down on my hands and knees and picking them all up- I think the skirt would have ensured I was done for indecent exposure if I had, anyway.

The week later, I left the country.



But I've since learned that prostitution's actually legal in France, which begs the question- what the fuck were they doing picking up grubby little street women like me and hustling them off to rooms with the most hideous and unflattering flourescent lighting you ever did see?

*Other French words that might have come in useful at this point include the posh word for prostitute, and any word for pimp. Also words for “drunken idiot” might have been useful, but as it was I had to settle for “stupid tourist” which, surprisingly, I was taught.