in which Tennis Pro Bono drops me a line

Dragged myself out after work last night. Would have preferred to snuggle down in my sarcophagas hotel room with the view onto a quaint restaurant's terrace dumpsters and watch Bob le Bricoleur, to get the feeling my French is up to par somewhere. Since Bob le Bricoleur's target audience goes to bed by 8 and the station doesn't feel there are enough foreign business visitors desperate to warm up their frozen French by catching up on the latest adventures of Scoop, Tourneboule and Coccigrue, I changed into something skanky, freshened up my makeup and went to dinner.

While I could have assuaged Msr. L-A's feeling of duty to entertain after hours, A., S. and C. were jumping at the chance to go out on the boss's dime. My reputation with them is verging on too our-work-is-my-play, so I figured I'd better go.

Before we'd ordered, something in my bag jumped. Was thinking a rat, but it was my phone. The display had a number I didn't recognize. I let it go.

It was Tennis Pro Bono.

Wow, wait until Thursday night to ask your client's source of irritation why she's not moving out?

She knows I'm away, she can tell him, and I'll pick up his call on the weekend.

In the meantime, if anyone figures out how the French manage to get by on so little sleep and exercise, let me know.