Coat me in it

There is a coat that I really want. I don't need it. I want it. It's so lovely that when I saw it in the window of the shop I instantly coveted it and, erm, gasped. It's long, warm and very stylish, nipped in at the waist. It's tweed and won't get dirty like my cream winter coat, which has been worn to death and now has a shredded lining and costs a fortune to keep clean.

But it's a bit expensive for a person who doesn't have that much work on. I check the website of the store daily to see if it has been reduced, but it hasn't. I did, however, dream about said coat last night. In fact, I had three or four dreams about the coat. I kept waking up, falling back to sleep and there it would be in my subconscious, tempting me...

Argh. What to do?!

Blue

Today was one of those days when I wished I had stayed in bed...

• I've had one assignment slashed by half, at very short notice, and it has made me feel awful. It's an awkward situation where someone wants to save money and is questioning why I need X number of days to do something. I've taken X days to do the same volume for years and been praised and asked back again and again. But now? Now, all of a sudden, I'm being made to feel as though I've lied about the amount of time I spent previously (when I worked my arse off) and have been questioned about what I did. It's very depressing. I feel like a popped balloon. I haven't felt like crying about work for a long time.

• I had a headache all day yesterday as I didn't get enough sleep. Consequently, I didn't sleep well last night, which for me, is a bloody shitty disaster.

• I was absolutely dire in kung fu. I almost burst into tears in the middle of class; in fact tears did roll down my cheeks but I pretended they were sweat, not that it fooled anyone. N, the instructor, was infinitely patient with me. I think he was willing me not to cry. I was burning up inside as everyone seemed to grasp what we were meant to be doing and I ended up looking like a moron. My brain just wasn't retaining anything. It was like a vacuum. A couple of my fellow students said I was "doing well", but I know I wasn't. They were trying to be supportive but it just made me feel even more inadequate that they had noticed me struggling so badly, so much so that they (who are by no means brilliant) felt they could comment. I know they were trying to help, though... I know. But it felt rather patronising.

• I had a (surprisingly healthy) ready meal and some old cream liquor for dinner. I felt better – number – as the alcohol warmed my body and quietened my brain.

• I've had my hair cut recently; it was very long and is now shoulder length. Most people have said positive things about it but a couple of people have said nothing except "Oh, you've had your hair cut?" What am I supposed to say? "Er, no. I just have a wig on." Why do people bother saying anything if they think I look horrible? Why not just not say anything? The worst was one friend who said: "Ah, had your hair cut..." and then did this noise, a sort of elongated "oh" mixed with a "hmmm" while nodding slowly and unconvincingly. Yeah, that made me feel amazing – thanks. I'd never do that to someone – unless I wanted to hurt them. Main thing is that I really like my hair now, it is much more manageable and is finally in a decent style. S loved it and so do most of my comrades, so what does it matter? (It matters when it's one more criticism to add to a day-full...)

• Oh fuck it. I'm going to bed.

Dreamboot

I had a very detailed dream last night/this morning about a gorgeous pair of shoes. Actually, they were shoe-boots, which in waking life always gape around my ankles. These were tan, leather, had a sort of lacing thing going on and were wonderful. They cost £385 but I still bought them. I even had the slightly sick feeling I get when I'm buying something that I like to call an 'investment'... Expensive dream, that.

Old maid's knee?

I have to have my knee looked at today at the knee clinic. I'm quite glad that my car is an automatic so that I don't have to use my left leg at all. Instead it just stays there, tapping gently to the music that I pour through the speakers.

People have been scaring me with various tales of knee woe. One had an operation that took 18 months to heal; another had to have their knee drained. Drained?! And a third had to give up football (OK, so that was someone telling me about Paul Gascoigne.) And there are more tales, usually involving people's mothers. I am indeed old enough to be a mother, oh yes. But still. Also, they throw the names of conditions at me – old maid's knee, housemaid's knee and so on... one person kindly called it runner's knee, which sits more easily with me.

I am desperate to get the joint better. I need to run to keep feet [eh, typo, or what? I meant 'fit']. Kung fu is keeping me fairly fit, from what I can do, but being at half power isn't enough... My capacity for doing press-ups is increasing though, so that's good.

I will have to return the recently-purchased platform heels (12.5 cm), partly because they are a bit too high, but mainly because – shame – I opened another shoe box last night and found a pair that I bought pre-knee and hadn't been able to wear (and had forgotten about). They are absolutely gorgeous. Mmm. I will have to impress on the orthopaedic doctors how vital it is that I wear these new heels. I don't wear high heels often but I would like the option. There's only so many months a year that a girl can get away with Uggs (well, the NZ version of Uggs)... And, right... anyway... I can't wear them to the office. They'd never take me seriously again.

Retail therapy

Ah, the last bit of the working week was a bit pants. Without going into too many details, something went wrong (OK, so that's really quite crappy as far as details go...). But anyway, anyway, anyway, it was a bit iffy when I got the post and opened a letter, and I was rather peeved. My stomach slumped, my heart sank and my forehead crumpled. Ha, I've been through worse.

Still, I couldn't focus on work, as much as I tried. So, I took myself off in my car and headed to the local shops. The local shops are very nice indeed. Mmm, yes. And it was a weekday and not many people were out and about so I had shop assistants – entire departments' worth – to myself.

There they were, bringing me shoes, telling me how good they looked (and they did...). And I purchased said shoes. I did. I forgot, conveniently, that my knee is basically royally fucked, and I handed over my shiny card in exchange for a pair of shiny new platform shoes. And then, I thought it was time to go, because, yes, I did feel a bit better.

But obviously not better enough.

I found myself drawn into the third shop along from the shiny shoe place – a shop that normally never satisfies... went in, browsed, and saw a gorgeous skirt. Lovely. Unusual shape and tailoring. I picked up my size, went into the changing room and, well, it was just a formality really. I felt quite smug as it was wrapped in tissue paper, packaged and handed over. Ahh.

I drove home, feeling quite a bit better than I did when I had set out. I may take the shoes back if the doctor bans me from wearing heels but I will still have my lovely skirt...

The rest of the day was a bitty workwise but I managed to accomplish some necessary tasks and then went to kung fu and had a brilliant session, despite the knee problem. I wasn't up to full strength but it was fine as the instructor kept in mind the knee thing and I managed to do a fair bit. Endorphins are definitely the best therapy of all.

F*ck me shoes?

Well, it says so on the news, so it very well may be true. High heels could improve a woman's – and a man's by default – sex life.

The pelvic floor muscles, which support the bladder, bowels and uterus are apparently kept in better shape if the owner wears high heels.

Christmas event one

OK, so I'm back home already and compos mentis enough to write my blog, but I did go to a party from fairly early on this evening, where I drank Champagne. I had a few canapés as well – they were OK, not enough to soak up the few drinks I had, though, so I'm eating bread and honey now.

I wore my high-heeled black suede boots and my sixties silvery shift dress. I liked the result.

Plenty of S's colleagues were at the posh bar (it was a work-related event hosted by his workplace). It was good to see the ones I knew, funny to see the ones I'd only ever just heard about, and interesting to meet a few new people, too.

I realised yesterday that I had nearly 10 events to go to over the ensuing fortnight. These will be detailed in this blog. Going to the party has made me feel festive. I think I'll put the decorations up at the weekend.

The dress

Well, I went out and got a dress to wear for the festive parties I have agreed to attend. It was remarkably quiet in the shops – there were parking spaces and none of the crush I had expected.

I looked in several shops and eventually happened upon a dress I liked – a champagne-coloured, beautifully cut number in a heavy material with a criss cross of straps at the back. As much as I loved it, it couldn't imagine it surviving those occasions without getting splattered with wine or food. If they had had it in scarlet or black, I would have bought it immediately.

Anyway, it was getting colder so I stepped up my hunt and came across one of very few dresses that didn't look like a tunic/tent. It's a lined silk satin number with beads around the neck and falling into a drape around the bust, with the waist and skirt cut on the bias, ending above the knees. It's gorgeous, elegant and striking (the picture does it no justice), and when I tried it on, it managed to detract from my coldy eyes and tired pallor. It is now in my wardrobe, waiting...

I also bought merino wool tights and a thick-knit cream merino wool zip-up cardigan to wear in the office in which I am based – they just can't keep the temperature constant and I often sit there in three layers and a scarf. Not good. Anyway, all I need now is for the postman to bring me a cheque from two companies that haven't paid me for a while, and I shall rest easier knowing that when Mr Mastercard pops round again, he will be sent away satisfied.

Faint – but with fab hair

Ended up sprawled in the bath in my night clothes this morning, while my hair was saturated in hair dye.

I had been having breakfast, with dye-damp hair piled on top of my head, when the blood rushed from my brain, from my limbs, and I felt horrendous. I have never passed out but must have been very close to doing so.

Had I not been in a hair-dying situation, I'd have somehow crawled to the bedroom, or called for S. But no, my tresses (and arms – on account of slumping with my head in my hands) were covered in this deep, dark stuff that was ready to be washed off, and I imagined that if I left it, it would burn my scalp away. So, cold and perspiring frighteningly, I let some time pass, barely able to move. Then, I walked – very slowly – to the bathroom, careful to hold the walls (but not stain them in the process) to keep me upright. I felt, with every step, that I might fall, and was terrified that I'd hit my head in the small bathroom, and S would find me out cold or worse. It was that bad.

Eventually, I slid into the bath, clothed, and lay there for a while. Then, with my head swimming, I shifted underneath the shower head and let warm water flow over me, which soothed me slightly. It took ages for me to have a shower as my body felt like jelly and my arms and legs were like a rag doll's. Even typing this – an hour later – my fingers feel bloodless. My face is white.

It's very odd. I've been eating well... so I don't know what caused this. I just hope it doesn't repeat as S and I have a longed-for day off and he's taking me out to a lovely place celebrate our third anniversary of nuptials.

I shall wear my red dress and damn this bizarre dizziness.

Green dress, aching head

I've succumbed to some sort of virus thing. My head feels as though it's got some kind of balloon inside that expands and causes awful pressure that blocks my ears and gives me heavy, dragging headaches above my eyes.

Trouble is, as a self-employed person, illness is not an option. But having to work when ill means that your working days are very long as you struggle to do things that would take you half the time normally, and you don't rest. Somehow (and this has happened to me several times), the weekend, or a holiday arrives and you are laid low. I spent most of yesterday on the sofa.

* * * * *

Googlers have been searching for pictures of Cecily Tallis's green dress in Atonement. I know because a couple of them have come here.

Here it is again, on the very slim Keira. It is a backless creation and is lovely. There doesn't seem to be much information about the dress out there. But The Dress, it seems, has become a star in its own right.

Atonement

Ian McEwan is not everyone's cup of tea (what writer is?)... I find his books either turgid or very good, a bit similar to my reaction to Nick Hornby, who failed miserably (in my humble opinion) with How to be Good. I am anal about books but that one went flying across the room and was sent to the local Oxfam store very quickly. The sight of its cover set my teeth on edge after about page 20.

I enjoyed McEwan's Amsterdam. Enduring Love was OK, but I didn't like it as much as the former. I didn't get as far as buying Saturday, but I did buy Atonement when it was published in hardback, years ago, on the strength of Amsterdam and the black and white picture of the girl on the cover.

I am not sure why I never read it but it may have something to do with hardbacks being a little too heavy to read on the Tube. Plus there was never enough room in my bag.

So, I decided to see the film of the hardback. I deliberately avoided reviews, didn't pay the blurb on the cinema listings much attention, and put away my irritation with Keira Knightley.

My friends (two men, who had no idea what the film was about) and I watched the first part of the film waiting... It was drawn out, soporific, threatened to be dull and full of ingredients for criticism, and I thought they'd slate me afterwards for choosing the film. But my goodness, it turned around. Some devices used in the film were irritating (the echoing "Come back to me...") but overall, bloody hell, that opening half hour was essential, just to contrast with what followed.

Keira did what Keira does best: fragile, posh and, when she was swishing about in that green dress, very English rose. James McAvoy was brilliant, as were Romola Garai and Saoirse Ronan.

The Dunkirk scene, which will be talked about for years (and has got to be Oscar-worthy), was compelling, amazing and somehow conveyed the sheer madness and horror of war through one shot (shot only once) that lasted seven minutes.

The rest of the story is difficult to describe without giving away too much. Suffice to say, when you realise what has happened, the thing for which the girl on the book has tried to atone (and its effects), it is unexpected. I am so glad I didn't read the book, or that moment would have been spoiled for me.

© Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved.

As it was, I recounted the story to S the next day, surrounded by leaves such as the ones above, and surprised myself by crying as a few scenes came to mind – the ones at Balham Underground Station (it was indeed bombed during the war on October 14 – 68 bodies were recovered from the sludge; 600 people had been sheltering...); the one where Robbie (McAvoy) is with his friend, trying to sleep at Dunkirk, the revelation, the beach... among others. Yes, this may be fiction, but people have been through some of this stuff, and it really is heartbreaking.

I'd recommend Atonement – the film – for its entertainment value, for its score, beauty, sadness and its ability to move, if you are at all movable.

Cynics will say blah and blah, but cynics always do; they are never satisfied, always superior but culturally vultural. And what's to recommend that?

Dresspiration

I am working – as some of you may know – on five assignments.

I therefore need some inspiration, some reason, some sort of carrot, to keep me going. For now, it will be this that enables me to shove my nose down on to the grindstone:


I am not even sure whether I really, really like it. I love the colour. Oooh, I adore deep red (the colour of wine)... Ooh.

Thing is, I can work out how much I have earned of the fee I'm charging (for one particular piece of work) in direct proportion to the dress. So far, I have paid for the waist down. Just the sleeves and bodice to go, then...

Update (three minutes later): actually, I've just realised that I have indeed already paid for the dress (in terms of work completed). Oh damn. Now what shall I use to spur me on? Shoes? Boots? I'm just too good, me...

Because I'm worth it

After the day/weeks I've had of late, I felt I needed a new toy. This is not simply an indulgence. It is a necessity.

Obviously, it's good that I haven't just gone out and bought another pair of boots or shoes. Where would I put them, anyway? Indeed, there are several salient reasons:

• It is red (my favourite colour).
• It will be compatible with my iMac, which is not the case with my current MP3 player. Too complicated for words.
• It will enhance my commutes (many hours of my life...).
• It benefits charidee (I have to admit, ashamedly, that this is simply coincidental).

Paris: part two

If the second day of my Paris break was sunny and a joy to behold, the third (last) day was sunnier and the joy even deeper.

The downside was that I hadn't slept well again, really not sure why, so I switched my alarm off as soon as it sounded at 8.30am, hoping I could rest a little more. Thankfully, I had forgotten to hang the 'please do not disturb' sign over the outer door handle before going to bed, and was woken by a chambermaid knocking to see if I was there as she wanted to clean the room. It was about 9.45am. I stumbled to the door, she took one look at my sleep-swollen eyes and backed away, apologies falling from her smiling, embarrassed lips. If she had not arrived, I may have slept until past breakfast, and that would have been a waste of time, money and lovely food.

Having made the effort to stand up, I progressed to the window and was greeted by a beautiful day. So, I showered and made my way down to breakfast where I filled my stomach with some of the most delicious bacon and scrambled egg I've eaten in ages. Plus fruit, bread, cheese, pastries and lots of black tea...

I was sad to leave my garret room (albeit an executive suite...) with its stunning views and lovely interior, and sad, too, to check out. The hotel staff had been superb. I hope to return. The time I had this far spent in Paris had somehow cleared my head, given me energy and – yeah, OK – given me back my joie de vivre, which had been hiding, suffocating and fading away underneath a pile of work and exhaustion. Oh, and another thing was that people were talking back to me in French! I had studied the subject when exams woz exams – GCE O-level, not GCSE sub-level... I managed to get an 'A' and to this day regret not studying French at A-level and beyond. The language is, to my ears anyway, magical. It was rewarding to converse in French (where it all came back from, I don't know). I understood more than I could speak but I did sit my O-levels more than 20 years ago, so that was OK. It was strangely empowering.

So, today was shopping day and my first target was to buy candles at Diptyque. I sneezed after inhaling one particular version and couldn't stop, which was slightly annoying for me and the sales assistant. Eventually, I chose two that didn't cause an allergic reaction. The dapper assistant asked if the candles were for me or were a gift so I said 'a gift', knowing that they were a gift (ahem) for me... This meant they were presented wrapped in delicate pink and purple paper, tied with ribbon, and he also threw in some fragrance samples with a wide smile.

Next, I walked towards Notre Dame en route to St Paul and Le Marais again. My ultimate target was Place des Vosges, which had been too packed the previous day when I was out with Inz and V, what with it being the weekend. The sky, as the picture below shows, was clear and blue. I was even wearing sun protection cream. Yes, it really was that hot.

Approaching Notre Dame © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

Notre Dame is beautiful. Well, what else can you say? It draws visitors like a magnet by dint of what it is and where it is, surrounded by the Seine, and visible from several of the bridges that cross the river. The only thing that spoils it is the crowds of people outside its front, so it was a pleasant surprise to discover this area, to the side, where it was quieter and weirdly hushed.

Notre Dame © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

It was one of those mornings that made your eyes open wider and your lungs expand. People walked around smiling, or perhaps it could have been the case that I had a smile plastered on my face and they were simply smiling back.

Seats around Notre Dame © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

Could this street (below) be anywhere but in Paris? It was on the way to Place des Vosges, its surface still wet from the rain that must have fallen (mercifully) the previous night.

Narrow street, Paris © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

On my way, I spotted this traffic light. It made me do a double-take, especially as my long sight is no longer what it used to be. But, yes, there it was, a heart-stopping sight. The lights then went green so I stood there fiddling with my camera until the cars stopped again. People watched me watching the traffic light, possibly thinking I was slightly eccentric. Good.

Heart traffic light, Parisian street © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

And then, I reached Place des Vosges, with its archways and tiny shops and galleries, many of which were extremely expensive and exclusive. I bought a couple of things (yes, they are presents, yes, they are for me, and they were within my budget)... and had a very long and pleasant chat in French with a middle-aged man who explained the history of a company to me (in French), with me able to make observations (in French!) back to him. For that moment, at least, I felt like a bloody genius, especially when Monsieur fell for my haggling in his mother tongue. I was triumphant.

Place des Vosges, Paris © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

I had, by this point, walked for a few hours but didn't want to waste time sitting down for too long. I had Shopping to do and needed to get to Rue de Rennes to buy some presents – not for me this time, but some more things for S, who deserves plenty of extra treats for helping me through my sleeping disorder. I got on to the Metro at St Paul and got off at St Germain-des-Prés, wandered up Rue de Rennes, as per Inz's instructions, found some lovely stuff for S, which involved spending some time in a specialist chocolate shop among other places, and exhausted, went back to the hotel.

Having eaten no lunch, I stopped off for a takeaway croque monsieur and a mille-feuille from a café near my hotel and encountered the only rude Parisienne of my entire trip (apart from two snooty ones in a shop in Le Marais but that's slightly acceptable; they did at least say hello, while conveying "you cannot afford this"; little did they know, the silly idiots, I am a woman with a budget, I have not had four weeks' holiday per annum for five years and this was payback time. I felt like Julia Roberts in the shopping scene in Pretty Woman, but without being a whore, of course).

Anyway, the sour-faced café woman, who looked at me as though I was an alien, handled the pastry with her fingers and was rude (in French, which, yes, I understood). "Take it! Take it then, go on!" she demanded, holding out her sloppy, heated, cheesy offering. Bitch. I glared at her as I left and muttered something Anglo-Saxon in her direction. While waiting for my taxi in the hotel lobby, I ate some of the croque monsieur but chucked the pastry in the bin. At least the sealed bottle of Badoit was uncontaminated by her ugly bitterness.

So, that was nearly that. The taxi arrived, I thanked the front of house staff at the hotel for a wonderful stay and before I knew it, I was hauling my bags around the Eurostar terminal trying to find somewhere to sit. I gave up on duty free – I couldn't leave my baggage, not in this day and age and all that, and my fingers were already strained and purple from the effort of carrying the things I'd bought.

When I found my seat on the train, which took longer than it should have as I was initially in the wrong carriage as the Eurostar staff hadn't bothered to number them on the outside as they normally do, I took out some paper and sketched out a storyline and characters for a new novel. The woman next to me, who was French, and had terrible halitosis, kept glancing over at my frantic writing and smiling at me. I just wanted her to keep glancing at her book and not breathe in my direction, but it was nice to be seated next to a friendly, if smelly, face.

From Waterloo, it's easy for me to get on to my London train and get home. Dear S was there on my home station platform, beaming, if looking a little peaky and thin. He had been ill while I was away. Poor S, he doesn't look after himself very well when I'm away. He eats poorly and loses his ability to sleep like a log. It was lovely to get home. I began to tell S some of my tales but as he had been – and was still – unwell, I encouraged him to sleep, which he did soundly after making protestations, while I pottered around in a state of rejuvenation, tiredness and happiness. I slept like a dream that night, too.

Paris: part one

Am writing this quite slowly because this is a French computer keyboard and also there is a woman waiting – hovering – as she wants to use one of the two keyboards in the plush lounge of this gorgeous hotel.

Good, she has gone. I mean, it is not good manners to hover. By the way, cannot find the apostrophe key hence this will all sound a bit formal.

I have had a wonderful day today. I should start at the beginning of the trip but hey, I can always fill in more detail later. (Keep mixing up the a and q keys as they are in odd places as fqr qs qn English hyphen speqking journqlist/writer goes!)

Anyway, when I arrived hier, it was COLD. Yes COLD. Like the kind of cold where you see your breath in the air, feel your fingers lose sensation and wonder why the hell you did not bring your long red woollen coat. Three degrees I think. Inz met me 20 mins or so after I arrived off the Eurostar at Gare du Nord and guided me and my heavy case to my hotel, which, it turns out is better than I could have hoped for and has really satisfied the many needs of this clean freak who values spotlessness, cleanliness and comfort in a hotel to an extreme degree. Oh, and I was upgraded to an executive suite. Mon Dieu! The view from my room is great. You get the Eiffel Tower in all its glory (and indeed it is glorious when all lit up at night; plus it gets all sparkly like a fireworks night sparkler sporadically, not sure why, but it is stunning). If you click on the one below, you'll get an idea of what I mean.

View from hotel, night, Paris © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

So anyway, after a brief visit to the flat that belongs to Inz for the time being (she's moving home soon), we had a meal at Comptoir, where Moroccan and French food is successfully fused. It was wonderful to see and catch up with Inz. However, after an early start to the day, poor sleep the night before plus the travelling process, I was deeply tired, and needed to get back to my hotel to relax, as I could barely speak (or eat) by the time we had our dessert. I was so fatigued that I wasn't convinced I could return to the hotel seule without getting lost or mugged, but it was OK bar my nervousness. The joy of standing under a hot shower and washing away that travel dirt feeling (in a sparkly-clean marble bathroom) was immense. I then phoned S for a long chat filled with details of life in Paris and London, and sank into the comfortable pillows.

As I closed the shutter and curtains before getting into bed, I wished for no repeat of rain (not unexpectedly) today. More rain and the same degree of coldness would have rendered my trip somewhat dreary, which is not what you expect from Paris.

In any case, despite my medication and underlying exhaustion, I did not sleep very well and also lost two hours due to the BST and EST time changes, can you believe, and some inconsiderate twunt decided to do plenty of door slamming at 5.30am (EST). I was extremely grateful that I had packed my earplugs and, from about 3am, slept fairly well (bar the door slamming) until 10.08am after waking from a dream in which I had slept in until a day-wasting 3.23pm. I was so happy at the sunny/ non rainy view and the decent hour at which I had woken that I (literally) jumped up and down with joy as I watched the glinting rooftops and Eiffel Tower through the window:

View from hotel, morning © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

After a lovely brunch (plenty of choice for breakfast, hot and cold, which you could get until a very civilised noon!), I took the Metro to Abbesses and walked around Montmartre for a couple of hours. Beautiful. I felt as though I had walked to the top of the world (all those stairs!) and felt as though I was indeed on top of le monde as I sat in the sunshine and soaked up and breathed in Paris. OK, so there were plenty of tourists but I'd been here many times before (this was my seventh – or eighth? – visit) and this experience was not about trying to get the entire Sacre Coeur into a camera frame, but rather centred on watching what went on around the massive white church.

View from Montmartre, Paris © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

I now think I have sufficient perspective on the city that allows me to say I have favourite parts of Paris. So, I looked for the unusual angles and corners of what is one of my preferred areas of Paris (Montmartre) before having a strange three-cheese panini thing (too stodgy) and hot choc (mediocre) lunch, then mooching some more (the area around Notre Dame and the Seine):

Park, outside Notre Dame, Paris © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

Above is the park just by Notre Dame. It was early in the day and had an air of serenity. Below, a greyish view of Notre Dame as the sun faded later that afternoon. Annoyingly, I have many superior photos but they were taken as portraits and only upload sideways despite me re-saving them after rotating them on screen. Hmph.

Notre Dame and the River Seine, Paris © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

Later today, I met Inz and her French friend, V, in Le Marais (another of my most-loved bits of the city) during the late afternoon. We walked, talked and had a thoroughly enjoyable couple of hours. I bought a few bits pour moi (naughty, naughty; tomorrow is meant to be shopping day...), and some extremely posh balsamic vinegar for S, who will hopefully liken it to honey. "Eet ees like caramellll..." said the sales assistant. The shop from which the posh balsamic bottles are from is exquisite in terms of its olive-y selection and price. I had no idea so many things could be made from olives. Inz and V ended up buying bottles, too, so lovely was the taste.

Finally, we sat in a café – well, outside a café – and drank thick, dark hot chocolates as we discussed the French presidential elections, British politics and the quality of hot chocolate before saying goodbye with two-cheeked kisses.

To be continued...

Me and the City

I love this coat... Apparently it's a vintage number from SJP's wardrobe, so I can't buy one. Carrie wears it in the episode of Sex and the City where Miranda and Steve marry, and Samantha tells the girls she has breast cancer. I think it's the one she wears when Miranda's son is born and she breaks up with Aidan, as well.

OK, so it's not Shakespeare and it won't change the world, but so what? So many memories of mine are tangled up in SATC. I watched and drank and watched and cried and watched and laughed. R and I used to talk on the phone religiously after each episode, like drug addicts comparing their visions, I imagine.

I don't expect many people will understand, and does it even matter? But that series was definitive for me. When I watch it, it takes me back to the large living room of the flat I owned, alone, for eight years. The room where far too many bottles of vin rouge were imbibed as candles burned dangerously down to their wicks and I awoke in a haze, just about able to get to the shower and then bed. Phone conversations were long, every detail was important and bedtime didn't matter. Now, I'm alone at home as S makes his way back from evening cricket practice with a new amateur team. He sounded peeved at the prospect of getting home late, knowing I'll be in bed (and who knows, possibly asleep!) by the time his key turns in the lock.

Anyway, I have eaten fairly well (salmon with dill sauce, olives, antipasti, garlic bread), drunk a bit of wine and finished with some tiramisu left over from the neighbours' no-show. All this while I watched Coronation Street (two episodes), Eastenders, America's Next Top Model and Sex and the City (two episodes). Yes, it's the cerebral equivalent of a big Mac and fries washed down with a bottle of full fat Coke. Fan-fucking-tastic.