They're taking the Hobbits to Gare du Nord

Recently I've had the pleasure of going abroad for a week. A three hour train ride took me and my better half to a metropolis not only rich in history, astounding monuments and great food, but sadly also in overcrowded subways smelling of urine, dubbed television shows (I now understand why most of them lack a proper understanding of the English language) , and worst of all, those women who wave their hand right in front of your face and who after probably thousands of rejections still do not understand that nobody wants to sign their bloody petition. I am ofcourse talking about the city of love, Paris.

Bad photoshop of actual events

With great pleasure I strolled down the Champs Elysees, witnessed the grandeur of the Notre Dame and bought some great new records at Galerie Lafayette. After several days had passed, I was however to be faced with the inevitable. Whilst slowly traversing down the parisienne walkways, I could not help but feel intimidated by my nemesis arrogantly towering above the rest of the city, bearing witness to my every footstep like the eye of Sauron. With each step taken towards the iron giant, I came closer to realizing that this was really going to happen. A standoff between the Eiffel Tower and me. Now here's a fun fact: I am afraid of heights.

As with most things in life, there is a certain irony to this. I am six feet and three inches tall. If I was any taller, I would probably be afraid to look down at the floor as well. Here is another thing that has struck me as peculiar. Why are the most interesting things in a country almost always abnormally high? The Empire State Building, the Burj Dubai and the London Eye (thank God I went there last year instead of this year) are all immense physical structures, and I prefer not to go anywhere near them, let alone experience their bedazzling heights. Screw New York, next year we're going to Legoland.

There are more than threehundred steps on the staircase leading to the first floor. The first few steps were easy, but it was gradually getting harder. I told myself not to look down, but my subconscious knew better, resulting in a severe tickling of the belly, and breathing not unlike that of Darth Vader. With my sweaty hands I firmly clasped both the railing and, well, my girlfriends hand. After what seemed like infinity, but in all likelihood was more along the lines of five minutes, we arrived at the first floor. Proudly I strutted around and rejoiced in taking in the spectacular view of the Trocadero amongst others. Most importantly, I did not break down. I did not lie on the floor in fetal position. I did not foam at the mouth. One thing remains true however. One does not simply walk into the Eiffel Tower.

The great Frith made the world, and also Steve Jobs

*For reasons further explained in the remainder of this blog, names of suspects have been changed due to privacy issues, until their guilt or innocence has been proven.

Yesterday morning I awoke after another long and satisfactory night of semi-hibernation. Using what little energy left inside of me, I rolled over to my right and leaned down to grab my iPad. Seeing one of only a few power outlets is located next to my bed, I thought it to be a proper location for recharging purposes, to ensure many pleasurable early morning news-reading sessions. Repositioning myself into a comfortable and ergonomically correct position, I unlocked my iPad and noticed something peculiar. The battery was almost dead.

Surely it must have been me at fault. Like a child trying to jam his wooden rectangular toy into its uncorresponding circular socket, I frustratingly started ramming the adapter piece into my iPad. Still no response. After brief further investigation, I had found the reason for my agony. Tiny scratch and bite marks rendered the apparently very fragile piece of equipment useless.

Youthful suspect Bill Gates*

Given the evidence, I had a certain individual of the rabbit kind in mind, but I still needed clarity. I walked downstairs and stood eye-to-eye with our culprit. As time stretched in seemingly infite ways, tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood up straight like a mob of meerkats scanning the surface of the Kalahari Desert. Anger was surging through my veins and wicked thoughts nearly got the best of me, until in the back of my mind I started hearing Art Garfunkel singing Bright Eyes, conjuring up long lost images of hares in terrible agony (Watership Down has one hell of an impact on an angsty 16-year old).

After turning the other cheek I headed downtown to replace the tampered-with original. Woefully, I soon found out that a new cable would set me back a whopping thirty euro's. Several lessons are to be learned from this peculiar day. One: Steve Jobs is a ripoff. Two: Bunnies prefer Windows. Third: The price for replacing a cable is higher than the price for replacing a bunny.