This little piggy goes to market...

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.