The daily stress of France.
Getting up at 6.30. Having breakfast and give milk to the first cat to itself because the cat will not Scassa the Maronites. Try to get the bidet, wash face, arms and teeth in a quarter of an hour. Dressing up taking their clothes in case. Marching to a crawl in the ring looking for comfort in the horoscope of Paul Fox (Radio DJ up to 7.00 for those interested-but ultimately more guesses to make predictions on the sales of his book on the estimates of the Sagittarius-). Get to work trying not to be wet from rain, car park after trying out because at least is faster to go home. Teaching sweet creatures that can turn into monsters at any moment (I'm the kind of shape-shifting today's teens and like to pass from hand to hand the hot potato of family problems and social-cultural and existential. You go from that to whose armpits stink at what they always forget something). Try to repeat a mantra to not get nervous in class and not lose the passion for content and concepts. Then Frank comes home. And trying not to eat too many dirty dishes. Then studied. Fixed. Chat and get bored. Then just wait a house that does not cost too much, perhaps there. And meanwhile, waits for rain to end. Other Franche do not know where they are. Some They tell her lost in a shipwreck, some submerged in the valley fog, yet others say they spotted them in a nest of subversive of the regime. Who knows. After a lot of things you do not know.
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