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Isn’t trust a weird thing? We think nothing of it as children we just get on not giving much thought to anything. We occasionally come to decisions but by picking Lindsey to skip with first rather than Gillian we do not wreak irreparable psychological damage. At what point does it become an ‘issue’? At what point do we start having ‘issues’? Many argue that issues have been constructed by melodramatic television shows giving so-called depth to characters, but they can have a very real effect on human emotions. We feel pain and hurt and joy and love and we willingly ride this rollercoaster in our everyday relationships.

A lot of people look back to their younger years and sigh saying ‘when it was all so simple’. I remember not wanting to wish my childhood away as such but to dream about the day I had my own place, drive my own car and pick the sweet cereal when I went shopping. That time is now, but although I don’t miss my childhood I miss the uncomplicated nature of my ability to just be, exist- trust.

Not that I forget my angst ridden existence as the tortured teenager. I don’t wish those feelings on anyone, but at some point between the innocence of little me and my not much older current version my perspective changed. Now I know this is an obvious statement to make. Of course I have learned a lot, experienced many situations and met some pretty educational human beings since then. I just wonder whether any of us can stay in a mindset that is open to trust without extraneous factors like fear clouding it.

In the last while I have come to realise that people have a considerable effect on my behaviour. We all learn from others and we can all make informed decisions based on their reactions and judgments. I have been able to make life changing decisions supported on the basis of strong friendships. I have learned to body swerve the potentially draining people in favour of the rewarding individuals. Leaning on your friends is an essential part of practicing trust, even when on occasion you are let down do not let it dissuade you. True friends will have reasons; real friends can explain and ultimately feel the need to do so. Experiences like this are key to re-developing that sense of trust and aid in that overlooked approach of not taking life so seriously.

Techno is like meat and cheese. I just looked blankly then turned to the empty dance floor ‘but I am feeling it, I like it, I want to dance’. Connie shook her head ‘it’s not ready yet.’ Music is hardly an oven dish but apparently it was from the deli section of your local supermarket. ‘Meat and cheese’ she repeated. The techno lovers- an assorted bunch of males littered the outskirts of the floor bopping up and down in a self conscious and awkward manner. Admittedly this is my favourite part of a club outing, of which I hadn’t been for a while and had clearly lost touch. I aim to make use of the dance space enjoy the freedom and if I am honest, the audience. But apparently the meat and cheese were not to be tasted.

‘Techno is like a good cheese’ she elaborated looking at her slightly fuzzled but deadpan expression I knew she was being sincere, if a little rich in her vocabulary. ‘…you have to wait on the meat’. The music builds and until it does so you may as well consider it an olive or side order of bread and therefore out of etiquette you must be patient and not eat….or in this case dance.

By 2am the rules had changed the cheesy meat dish had been devoured along with some fine wine and we were dancing the perspiration off our faces. Although actually a good wine would’ve been great- we found we are best to work with metaphors. As Connie’s hand outstretched for change from a 20 euro note for two drinks served in plastic cups remained empty.

Throughout the night the crowd mutated from the bespectacled parker wearers to what felt like a frat boys day out. Shirt collars protruded from Pringle jumpers, rolled up sleeves revealed Rolex watches, but the group seemed to be having a great time applauding the DJ every time he managed to move from one repetitive beat onto a slightly higher frequency. That- or the euphoric moment he sampled a ringing telephone. Connie in her painful slabs of reinforced wood or wedge sandals bowed out for a cigarette and after a few minutes dancing alone I opened my eyes to get the distinct impression that I was becoming the cheese in a French boy baguette. My exit was marked with the universal sign of sticking fingers down my throat. Time ticked away all the while and apparently the DJ’s had changed over to the main act- seamless!

The music pumped on as did the guy dancing behind Connie who decided to introduce her to some meat of his own.

Our exit was also marred by some bourgeois preener insisting we join his private party at one of Paris’s exclusive night spots on the Saturday. I had made efforts to keep walking but on taking a second to look back he was writing his number with liquid eyeliner onto Connie’s forearm. ‘His name was Cereal and he asked me if I liked cereal for breakfast’, so we learned that although the pick up lines are weak they still muster the strength to break the language barrier. We took a taxi back to the hotel and after prizing off my heeled instruments of torture I conked out face down.

I was glad that I had participated in the French techno experience. I had seen one of Europe’s most progressive DJ’s in Paris’ brand new clubbing venue of which I had been informed many Glaswegian clubbers would donate a body part for. I just know that I still prefer my cheese and meat to line my stomach as against to appreciating it in an audio format.