My friends Madame Giraffe was an enterprising little lady this past Friday, busy with something that actually required her to get dressed. You see I went to a meeting where I singlehandedly redefined optimism. Of course in my world singlehandedly means Neil doing all the work and me taking all the credit but I digress.

I dolled myself up and went to see Rusty’s French accountant to create what’s called an Autoentreprise. That’s French for a set-up for self employed people that allows them to be paid and then receive all the benefits a semi-socialist republic has to offer. Now if that’s not optimistic I don’t know what is. I mean who the hell will ever pay me for anything remains a mystery but here in France hope springs eternal.

Never mind that in reality it’s a big load of nothing. At least now I can call myself an autoentrepreneur, a pleasant alternative to ’freeloader’ or ‘lackey’. To get that fancy title I had to decide on a category of the particular service I planned to offer. Well now this was exciting, a do-over. I could become anything I wanted, well at least on paper. There were literally thousands of options to choose from. Everything from fabricator of effervescent wines to professional acrobat, honest to god it was there. Instead I thought what the hell and ticked the box next to writer. Now before you all start worrying about me limiting my options, fret not. Apparently cleaning lady can easily be added later.

I even had to have a name and a logo. Luckily I said ‘I do’ to a man who not only cooks but is also a branding consultant/art director genius.

 

He came up with this before I even knew I needed it. Oh that Neil, he’s a real go-getter as in go get me some dinner. When he first showed it to me he said, “See? It’s a Silver Fox!!” I’m telling you right now a foot massage and a few more dinners and that Husband Of The Year Trophy is as good as his.

So just like that I am now the sole proprietor of Bien Dit (well said). Of course I don’t have a single client nor do I have a hope of income anytime soon. But the point is I could if I wanted to. Let’s say by some miracle someone somewhere in France decides that they need an article about sour cream or … my arse. Well now I’ll be ready won’t I?

I guess this means that I’m officially a writer yet I don’t really know how to be one. Do I need to sit in cafés chain smoking while looking endlessly tormented? Will I need to wear tortoiseshell spectacles and a fedora? I mean how will I ever be accepted into the fold? I started researching the qualities that all writers seem to share, the key characteristics that will open the door to this exclusive club. So far all I’ve learned can be summed up in two words: poor and deranged. I’m a shoo-in.

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