“So, what do you do?”

The question is posed politely by a stranger at a friend’s party.

I’m tempted to use this moment of possibility to invent a whole other life for myself. After all, the questioner will probably never know whether my response is real or made up.

It’s as though the question cracks open a door to other paths, different choices made when faced with a fork in the road.

I could, for instance, give a mysterious smile and reply casually: I’m a jazz singer based in Paris.

Because once, long ago, this possibility beckoned.

When I had completed my teaching degree at Wits, I headed to Paris for three months. I’d worked part-time in a home décor store for three years to save for this long dreamed-of trip.

My aunt and uncle lived in an outlying suburb of Paris. I went to stay with them.

For a shy, naïve girl, it was a good balance of adventure in a foreign city with a safe, comfortable base provided by family.

Every day, I’d catch the train into the city, my grubby Fodor’s Pocket Guide to Paris in my rucksack, the list of that day’s places to visit scrawled in my journal.

Every evening, feet sore from walking, head filled with the fascinating sights and sounds of this impossibly beautiful city, I’d catch the 7pm train back, my uncle would fetch me from the station, and we’d head home to a delicious home-cooked dinner.

As the weeks went by, the pull of this city, the tree-lined avenues, the smoky scent of chestnuts cooking on a street corner, the film-set quality of the Christmas lights and shop decorations, the thrill of peering into the windows of apartments in the VIe arrondissement, catching glimpses of sparkling chandeliers, awakened a longing to make some kind of life here.

I looked around for part-time work, made calls in my English-accented French, and was offered trial sessions teaching English to 5-year-olds at a community centre, not far from where my aunt and uncle lived.

The manager of the community centre offered me a part-time job. I had just finished my teaching degree, and had dreamt of being a teacher since I was about eight years old. I could speak French and English. A dream job!

When I put this to my aunt and uncle, they kindly said I’d be welcome to stay with them indefinitely.

An alternative life, filled with colourful experiences and mystique, played out in my mind’s eye.

I’d have free time to keep exploring this city I was falling in love with. I could take up singing lessons. Perhaps even get a gig in a smoky jazz bar, off one of the cobbled streets. In the early morning hours, I could start writing that book I’d been dreaming of.

But the practicalities of working with small children instead of the teenagers I’d been trained to teach were daunting.

Plus, I had a teaching job waiting for me in South Africa. Because my studies had been funded by the department of education at the time, I owed them four years teaching in exchange. The job they had lined up for me was starting in a month.

So I turned the Paris offer down, regretfully left my cosy room and kind family, and headed home to my first paying job.

And I loved it. I loved working with teenagers, planning fun lessons, and having thought-provoking classroom discussions.

A few months into my teaching job, I moved into my own flat. I framed the black and white photos of Parisian scenes I’d bought from the bouquinistes on the Seine and put them up on my walls.

On still summer evenings, I would open the windows wide, light some candles, put on a CD of soulful jazz, and dance around the lounge, lip-syncing to Randy Crawford. Who needs Paris, anyway?