The day is glorious after a hazy start. Our precious half hour break between three lectures and a tutorial is spent as it should be; gossiping on the steps of the Panthéon. The sky is purest blue and the view of the Eiffel Tower is blocked through the hazy sunshine.

Unfortunately, the one thing that can really spoil a day like this is actually having to go to a class afterwards, being told that it is the most difficult class of them all and that there is a ridiculous amount of work to do, in a ridiculously short time.

If it had been raining on the way home, I would have no doubt grumbled about that but truth be told, even as I pass the breathtakingly beautiful Jardin de Luxembourg on my way home, I don't notice the weather anymore. My hackles are up, I can feel the stress of doing this degree, in another country, in another language surge through my body and I begin to question myself, my choices. The stress does not feel like pain, it feels like my nerves are being frazzled into pieces. I long for idle rainy days in Glasgow, doing nothing.

I buy my baguette, as always - the lady behind the counter looks somewhat more soignée at 16h30 than she does at 7h30, when I saw her last as I was buying my baguette. I tentatively cross the road to get to the apartment, so busy checking that I am looking for traffic in the right direction after all, I don't notice the commotion up ahead. It hits me though, soon enough.

A class trying to sell their 'baking' (- it was clearly out of a packet, but then again, they must have had to put it in the oven at some point?). I am accosted by three nine year old boys, all sporting the haircut all French boys seem to get at some point in their young lives, little round spectacles on and a tan that would make Posh Spice envious.

"Madame, Madame!", they cry. I forget that these days, I seem to count as a "Madame" and I nearly fall over them.

"Un gateau, un euro!"

I have to laugh. One is holding a tray bigger than he is, his friend is trying to help him balance it and their mate is doing the talking. Down the street, what seems to be the mothers and nounous collecting the children are being accosted too.

"D'accord, d'accord, attendez un moment s'il vous plaît!"
I reach into my bag.

"Qu'est-ce que vous pensez est le meilleur?" I ask.

A resounding response confirms that it is, indeed, 'le chocolat'.

I give the chatterbox a 2€ pièce. He looks concerned and says, "But madame, we don't have any change."

"That's okay, thank you very much for the cake."

As I try to figure out how to balance my bag, my baguette and my chocolate cake in order to make it home, he runs off, delighted down the street to tell his teacher of his sale.

There are going to be days when classes are a nightmare for them, but hopefully, they can savour the delights of their baking sale for a little while longer, I hope. If not, then for yesterday afternoon, I was certainly able to appreciate it on their behalf.

And the chocolate cake was indeed, very good.