My right wrist looks a bit like one that has suffered a 1000+1 unsuccessful suicide attempts; the culprit is my I-should-know-better-but-never-do-character and this:
I bought it at the markets for 15 Euros and the seller informed me that the red stones were "resin de corail". Well, whatever it is, half of the red tint is now on my skin. My friend A., in her pragmatic French way simply told me that I should not have paid "un centime de plus que 5 Euro, et encore !!".
Soaking it in vinegar didn't help, going back to find the seller didn't help either: he was gone, no doubt looking for another goat!
Which brings me to a little warning from the "do-as-I-suggest-not-as-I-do" department:
The many local Paris markets are an absolute delight of sounds, colour, scents and temptations, but only buy if you know the seller or else expect to find that the lovely bananas have died on the short way home, the strawberries (apart from the 3 top ones) have no resemblance to the ones that looked so fresh on the stand, the echalottes are older than you and the potatoes have turned green faster than a political opportunist.
You see, the market people don't like you to perform "self-service" and they are very very fast at spotting their tourist from afar: s/he is the one that dresses like s/he thinks the French dress.