Alone again, naturally

I have been single for three and a bit years. Big whoop. It even feels strange to say it. I hate the maudlin 'im single' moments, which have come and gone (obviously, given that its been THREE FRICKING YEARS PEOPLE, water, bridges, so many bridges). I love being alone. I love being independent. I do. Otherwise i probably wouldn't be. But everyone around me, all my close girlfriends have boyfriends, and loneliness is inevitably creeping in. They always have had boyfriends if I'm honest, but for some reason this year it seems crueller than before. It's not like I haven't HAD boyfriends: I had plenty before uni, some nice, one very special indeed, some average, but I had boyfriends. It happened. The za za zoo was there. I zinged. I sparked. I never seem to any more, and any situations where I vaguely feel like I might have done get wildly blown out of proportion in my head til they drive me even more crazy, and then get deflated rapidly when I realise that actually, it was all in my head. Its intensely infuriating. Especially this yea,r when I've returned, thinner, more secure, more stable, and inevitably I suppose I had envisaged some brilliant Hollywood style romance.

My girls are full of gorgeously kind platitudes - 'there's no one at Oxford for you, are you kidding? You are so much better than any of them, babe, come on'. And the boys are wonderful too, to their credit. But without wishing to sound like a total weener, I would just like someone, somewhere to show an interest. at LEAST a vague bloody interest. Its frustrating to feel this way, frustrating more than anything because I am better than this. I am more than just a relationship with someone else; I've never defined myself through someone else, I've never felt the need to, and yet sometimes, on a cold evening on a lonely cycle ride back to my room, alone, whilst everyone else goes home to their boyfriends, I just can't help it. Grrr. How can this NOT be enough? I have a roof over my head and money enough to eat, wonderful friends, a course that I love, a better relationship with my body than I've had in years, and yet I sit here moping about the fact that I don't have a BOY to share it with? The strangest thing I suppose is that it still matters - one would have thought that after three years of this, of this cycle of disappointment and slight estrangement from everyone would have faded, but no. I'll get there, of course I will, because I just will, but when? When will this be ok rather than just a 'temporary' state of mind? It isn't exactly temporary at the moment. Its very much the normal state of things, the way things have been throughout my university career. Just typing that has made me feel better. So it isn;t temporary; it's just a fact. It will rapidly cease to matter. I have exams in the not-so-distant future, I have countless essays and endless translations, I have excellent friends who don't mind me crashing their dates (YES K). I am popular. I am fun. I am successful. I should probably stop moaning and go to bed. And so I shall, alone, again, naturally.

Xxxxx

An end, of sorts

I know I have said couuuntless times that this year would be the year of no more topshop, h and m and zara, and more jigsaw, toast and whistles (when they have sales on, obvooo), but didn't for one second think it would be this easy to stick to. On Friday, R and I hit Topshop in celebration of the fact that she had finished and we had a lovely garden/cocktail/friends/sunshiney event sort of thing to go to, but she had nothing to wear. I wasn't looking for anything, but was definitely expecting various things to just magically turn up as they always seem to. And yet nothing, and I mean NOTHING did. Everything felt cheap, looked like it belonged on a 16 year-old, and just was deeply, deeply 'un-me'. The one high point of the shop was that for the first time in 3 years I could actually fit into a pair of trousers there, which was rather fun and involved alot of shrieking and strange 'wahooo wahoo we are REUNITED, you have lost 2 stone, you can fit into topshop size 14 not that you EVEN CARE' dancing in the changing room. R couldn't really believe it. 'But you ALWAYS find something in topshop' she said, looking puzzled and slightly lost. And I always used to. Something which didn't quite fit, something which didn't quite work, but which zipped up, which was all i really cared about for most of last year. Because none of the clothes I loved, which were patiently waiting at home stuffed in my bottom drawer, would zip up. So I bought unflattering tea dresses from topshop and made alot of noise about buying lots of them, hoping that people would fail to notice me and notice the clothes and the false 'fabulousness oh i love to BUY things I am like the CARRIE OF OXFORD, so happy with all my THINGS oh yes oh yes but PLEASE DON'T NOTICE WHAT IS GOING ON UNDERNEATH THIS BECAUSE IT IS A VERY DIFFERENT STORY' instead. It feels so wonderful to be wearing my old clothes again, the ones I really love and bought because I loved them, rather than because they fitted.

Last week other R and I cleared out my entire wardrobe. There are currently 3 bin bags filled with things waiting to be taken to the charity shop. I still have plenty of clothes - we played the 'what would you wear to...' game and every scenario was catered for, which is both impressive and sliightly embarassing. Everything in my wardrobe make me feel lovely, light, happy and confident, and anything that made me feel even slightly squirmy was immediately chucked. My mother is over the moon, Daddy was completely puzzled by the whole process - he kept popping his head round the door at various stages and just sighing, whilst R (who at times I fear he loves more than me) told him firmly that 'the piles are all part of the process!!It won't look like this when I've finished with her!!', but I digress - and I feel like it was the perfect ending to my weight loss journey (ACCCCKKKKKKK criiiiinge, BUT THERE IS NO OTHER WAY TO PUT IT..). Obviously, the journey isn't over - I am not going back to the daily chocolate bars, the drinking, the cheesy chips or the daily croissants, but I feel I have got to a place where I feel safe, happy and ready for..er...action. As it were..

Xxxx

Home sweet...

Well. Being home is odd. I missed Paris as soon as the Eurostar pulled out, in direct contrast to my last few days there when I couldn't really wait to leave. I must have had a hideous face on during my cab ride across London, because my cabbie simply stated exactly what I was feeling 'Its not Paris, is it love?'. Non. It most certainly is not. Hampshire in full summer bloom is admittedly lovely, my parents are on brilliant form, the girls are slowly trickling home (for our last summer ever all together, for the majority of them have now graduated and have jobs..its beyond strange), and all is, ostensibly, well with my world. But I feel like I've taken a step backwards. I haven't, of course, because this year 'changed me', 'made me better' etc etc blah blah ad infinitum, but still, going from living alone in one of the most bustling districts of a captial city to living 20 minutes from the nearest sleepy exceedingly middle-class small town is quite a jump. Still, London is but an hour away, and there are plenty of fun things coming up in the next few weeks to keep me busy - various 21sts, a mini-break to Rome, another fun-filled trip up to Oxford... I suppose the one conclusion I have come to after a week back here is this -


So that is at least one thing sorted for my future... Xxxx

Back to the vintage

This post is for the love of of Parisian life, darling S, who has saved my year abroad from slipping into 'potentially one of the most miserable years of my life' and turned it upside down into 'the most awesome year of my life', mainly due to the fact that she understands me completely, knows me far too well, has brilliant taste in television, hobbies, art, music, clothes, and the best sense of humour ever. She can also cook the best roasted vegetables i have ever tasted. In short, she is completely wonderful and I would now be completely lost without her. So without further ado, here is a list of some vintage shops I have visited as a lady of leisure that she hasn't been able to make it to. None of them are as cheap as the classic ones in the Marais - fripe star, coiffure etc.. But I think they are better, in terms of their selection, layout etc etc etc.

Metro Etienne Marcel -

Kiliwatch
Episode (both on Rue Tinquetonne ) - both vair trendy sort of urban outfitters style places - i got my perfect white and green fifties sundress from episode, adn the staff where wonderfully friendly.
Allison et Sacha (Rue Etienne Marcel) - it looks like one of those cheapy shitty shops full of japanesey tat but oh truuust me it isnt - rack upon rack of perfect liberty print blouses, plenty of dresses and skirts too.

Metro St Paul -
Noir Kennedy (Rue Roi de Sicile) - The same kind of idea as Kiliwatch - handpicked trend-driven quality vintage pieces, in a very kooky environment (old red telephone boxes as changing rooms, coffins in the window...). Surprisingly friendly staff.

Metro Bastille - Come on Eiline (Rue des Taillandiers). A bit of a walk, but very much worth it. The top floor is filled with reasonably priced designer treasures - mint-condition YSL smoking jackets for 150 euros for example, and then you descend the stairs... to vinatge HEAVEN. A huge cellar filled with black tie dresses, decent quality coats, blazers, skirts... One of those rare places that lives up to its reputation.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh I don't want to leave.

Xxx

Treat day

I love department stores. I find them magical. I am, obvs, not talking about Debenhams, House of Fraser or your bog-standard chain department store... I am talking about the greats. Selfridges, Harvey Nicks, Printemps, Le Bon Marche... They hold this magical sense of possibility I never feel in any other shop. I suppose its the enormous range - from Topshop to Balmain to delicious Foie Gras in the food hall. I think they are wonderfully democratic. Where else can you freely browse Marc Jacobs and Vivienne Westwood without feeling like a total knob. I know, I know, I should never ever be intimidated by the thought of going into a horribly expensive shop, and no shop assistant ever has the right to make one feel small, and I totally agree, but but but I can't shake the feeing of being a complete and utter fraud if I ever step into a shop like Chanel, or Hermes, or Lanvin. Whereas in a department store, I feel free to wander, browsing everything from the stunning homewares to the Nicholas Kirkwood shoes to Marc Jacobs to Marc by Marc Jacobs to the lovely coffeetable books at my leisure. So inspiring and a real treat.

So this is why, tomorrow, on my second to last day alone in Paris, before darling H and her beau arrive on Thursday to ease the painful cross-channel transition, I am heading to Bon Marche determined to find that special Parisian purchase that has, as yet, evaded me. The plan is to buy one or two reasonably expensive, lasting, high-quality items that I completely adore and will always remind me of this city. I don't yet know whether they will take the form of trousers, or a dress, or a jumper, or a bag... Oh the possibilities! Of course, I may not find these elusive things, or, more likely, I shall find them and then find myself unable to imagine spending such a huge amount of money (we are talking roughly 300 pounds to give you a ball park), but I am thriled by the prospect of merrily wandering around the stunning art nouveau interiors and having a good old rifle. I'll let you know how I get on...

XxxX

ohh faaack

This is probably the ultimate in self-indulgence and an attempt to jerk myself into reality about the amount of stuff i ACTUALLY have. Here follows a list of everything I need to get home -

hot water bottle
cath kidston suitcase filled with hair ribbons, bangles etc
white mini trunk with camera leads, laptop chargers,adaptors
8 dvds
2 wallets
42 books
4 pairs of boots (4 have already gone home)
2 pairs of high heels
2 pairs of sandals
1 pair of slippers
1 pair of brogues
1 pair of trainers
1 pair of ballet pumps (I have thrown 5 out..)
2 rag rugs
2 Jo Malone candles
1 pair of trainers
1 laptop + charger
food scales
scales
hairdrier
over 50 toiletrie-related items
travel scrabble
3 towels
1 set bed linen
Feather pillow with a geese-print cushion cover
6 photo frames
6 bras
3 sweatshirt/hoody type things
1 pair pj bottoms
1 dressing gown
25 pairs of knickers
9 bras
2 pairs shorts
1 string bunting
approx 40 tops
15 dresses
10 skirts
2 pairs leggings
4 playsuits

...I cant bring myself to count cardigans, jumpers, silk scarves or scarves. I am exhausted and have retreated to the safety of my sofa, iplayer and the Junior Apprentice.

PANIC!

Xxxxx

On my own again..

ah me, my little apartment feels very empty after 5 days of fun with R and K and S, who sort of semi-moved in as well in a sort of fabulous foursomey way. We had lovely weather for the whole of her visit, which has now, appropriately for my mood, clouded over into humid mullish grey. I have a thousand things to do before I leave in 10 days, and H and her man are coming out for the last three of those, truncating my cherished 'alone-in-paris' time somewhat (in the best possible way, obvo..), but today I am far too exhausted (and sweaty) to do anything but tidy and contemplate the mammoth packing task which lies ahead. I think I am somewhere in the hinterland between acceptance and complete denial of how many things I actually have here, so expect an inventory-style post later, which is an attmept by me to impress a sense of urgency/seriousness about how much stuff I somehow have to actually manage to get home in the next 7 days. EEK.

More interesting posts to come, I promise!!

XxX

What I think about when I think about leaving Paris.

I have literally drafted this blog post about two trillion times. I have 2 and a half weeks left in Paris. Merde. The sun is shining, R is arriving on an early eurostar tomorrow, life is wonderful. So far, my 'list' of things to do is being ticked off nice and neatly, some things being big disappointments, and some being as brilliant as I expected. Cafe Marly, I appreciate that due to your admittedly fabulous location underneath the arcades of the Louvre, you don't have to make an effort with food, service or coffee, but don't you think you should? I was shown to my table by the rudest waiter ever, and then perved on by another whilst I was trying to quietly read some Moliere. The whole thing was bizarre and very disappointing. Then again, my meal with K at Scoop, on Rue Marche St-Honore, was scrummy and a great slice of French-Americana. You win some, you lose some..

I think I am ready to leave. I cannot wait to get back to the girls, long mobile phone conversations, driving on the right side of the road, country air, the sunday papers, my mother's cooking, my bed, my house, a big bathroom.... But then I can't imagine my life without the best falafel in the world literally 50 metres from my door, being able to stroll over the river and up past the Pantheon to S's (my most favourite Parisian walk ever), and an astonishing diversity of culinary options for every night of the week. I am currently obsessing over what to do on my last two days - where to have my last Parisian meal, who to spend my last Parisian day... Unusually, I feel like planning it meticulously would be wrong. This is strange as I adore a plan and can't quite cope without having one. I am not spontaneous on any level at all, and like to get up in the monring knowing exactly what I am doing for the rest of the day. For instance, today, I have finished a translation, cleaned, and am about to go and find the Rose Bakery followed by drinks at a friends this evening. Yet when people press me with what I am going to do with 'my last week', I just say 'whatever I feel like doing' and genuinely have no idea. I don't really subscribe to the whole 'something really special to mark my amazing time here' school of thought, I suppose because I have done special things the whole time I've been here, and the whole thing has been just so special and unique. And that's a lovely thing to realise.

Acceptance

Weightwatchers is going OK. I am not still experiencing the heady rush of losing weight ever week, asI was to begin with, but its going ok. Its difficult, and yet more easy than I ever thought it would be. I never feel like giving up, simply because it works. It actually works. Even if the scales don't reflect it, I feel lighter and lighter and lighter, and some of my clothes are now very baggy, and others which were too tight are now finally fitting, after three years of being shoved to the back of my wardrobe. It has been really hard letting go of the scales and instead relying on how my clothes feel - something I always said I would do after losing a stone, but is, in fact, in reality a lot harder than one might think. Thank god for my supportive, amazing friends who happily listen to me witter on, agonised by the scales, and gently shove me into the right direction, listening and never ever saying the wrong thing. All the diet books I have ever read have cautioned against telling friends or family and instead advise you to do it alone, or with a buddy, but I knew, and have yet to be proven wrong, that none of my friends would be funny about it, because my friends love me, and in the words of H when I first, nervously told her about it, 'I don't think you need to, but if you think you need to, I will support you and help in any way I can'. Who could ask for any more. So firstly, I suppose, I really want to thank the girls. All of them. For everything. For understanding that I am not drinking, or always willing to eat a cupcake, but equally for understanding that that does not stop them doing so with me there, and that in fact it is important for them to do so with me there, so I can learn how to cope with not always eating a cupcake or getting pissed whenever I feel like it, because like it or not, my body hates alocohol more than most, and eating a cupcake a day may not make some of my friends put on weight, because they have quick metabolism and blah blah, but it will make me do so. And I, simply, have to accept that.

I suppose acceptance is what it all comes down to. Not acceptance of my body shape - I don't have a problem with my body shape. I love my body shape. Yay waist, yay boobs, yay hips. That is pretty unalterable. I can never ever wear peg-leg trousers, or smock tops, if I want to look the actual size I am rather than double it. I will never know the ease of not always having to wear an enormous bra. And that has never been a problem. I mean acceptance of what I need to do to feel happy within myself, and acceptance that it is worth doing, because I deserve to feel happy. I didn't like having flabby arms, or back fat, and now that I don't, I feel so much better. (Incidentally, where does it go?? I feel like that episode of Dr Who where the little fatty aliens come out of peopel's skin. Its the strangest feeling). This is unfair. Life is unfair.

Some people aren't good at music, or sport, and I am, or rather my body is, not good at eating things without putting on weight. That is life. It is pretty unalterable, there is never going to be a point where my body turns round and magically starts metabolising at double the rate it did previously, just like there is never a point where someone who is tone deaf is ever going to turn around and not be tone deaf. Or vice versa. But here's the thing - accepting this fact has been the most liberating thing i have ever done. It has totally changed the way I look at food. It has ceased to be a battle, and become a fact of life I live with. While I am eating a salad, others might be eating a steak. I'm not depriving my body, I am helping myself accept my body for what it is. I know there is alot of stuff about body acceptance around, but I don't think any of it quite focuses on this crux. In order to accept your body, you have to look at the bare facts. I am never going to be a hard-bodied size ten because I am not willing to starve myself and exercise myself into the floor to get there. I am perfectly happy where I am, or rather getting to where I will be, which is something I can maintain with ease and feel happy for life, and thats fine by me. I can admire Venus or Serena Williams, who are maginificently Amazonian, just as I can admire Gisele, who, for whatever reasons, be it genetic, or a marvellous plastic surgeon, or a serious exercise regime, is banging. Everyone is different, and that should be accepted and celebrated. I have never understood the female-on-female envy. Again, I am lucky in my friends - the scene in Mean Girls where they all cluster round the mirror, bemoaning their pores and hips, and Lindsay Lohan comes up with 'I have really bad breath in the morning', always makes me silently gives thanks that my friends, during my teenage years or at university, have never ever indulged in this. Everyone has just looked different and got on with it. Becasue everyone does look different. That's the joy of the human reproductive system. Diversity. The media has lost sight of this, in their ceaseless divison of 'plus-size' and 'skinny models' and 'normal people'. What really matters is how someone feels in their own body, because that shines through ever pore of their being. Look at America's Next Top Model - the girls who do best know how to use their body for their craft, not the ones with the killer killer bods. Look at athletes, who are hyper-aware of every muscle, fast-twitch, slow-twitch, and how they need to use them to win. Look at girls on the street. The ones who love their bodies, be they model-thin or something far from it, are for more attractive than others. Perhaps not immediately, but as soon as you strike up a conversation, it becomes clearer than clear.

Acceptance. Its pretty awesome. And thats quite enough two-bit philosophizing for one day..

Xxxxxx

Nothing to weaaaaaarrrrrr

What happens when we have 'nothing to wear'? Its clearly bollocks. Everyone know this. And yet it happens to everyone. You stand in front of your stuffed wardrobe, and nothing, nothing, nothing fits or works or makes you look the way you want to. It happened to me pretty much every day of last year in Oxford, when, for some reason, somewhere deep down in my psyche, a doubt had comfortably settled down to fester in an armchair, resulting in my feeling so insecure in my appearance that to step out of my house every morning involved a battle with my well-stocked wardrobe. Every single morning, and this is not a word of a lie, I would change my outfit at least three or four times. Every. single. morning. Which, considering that my days consisted of studying in the college library and tutorials, followed by perhaps a night out for which I would obviously change again, was completely and utterly ridiculous. This wasn't a battle between pyjamas and clothes, it was far more subtle - tea dress, or high waisted skirt? shorts and tights and ballet pumps, or shorts and tights and boots? which boots? R used to sit and stare at me, occasionally saying, in complete bemusement 'but you wore that last week so SURELY you LIKE IT, so WHY CAN'T YOU WEAR IT TODAY?' I never had an answer. I still don't - I have theories - serious underlying weight issues being the most obvious and plausible one, just pretending that it was an integral part of 'me' and that it was just totally what everyone, like, EXPECTED of 'me', the me that shopped at least twice a week to 'destress darling' and was always upbeat and ready to listen to anyone's problems other than my own, another. In Paris, I don't care as much. Actually, I do -if anything I care more - this is PARIS people, where, if you wear tracksuit bottoms to the supermarket on a saturday morning to get milk, 5 different french ladies aged from 30 to 70 will stop you and tell you off (TRUE STORY), but I don't find myself changing in front of the mirror 5 times every morning. It happens from time to time, and I still think about clothes far more than I should, but suddenly, I have found myself waking up and putting on something with relative ease, and none of this nailbiting obsessive self-criticism, which I didn't even realise was self-criticism. I don't know where it has gone, or whether it will return with a vengeance next year, but I know I'll be on the lookout for it, and I know I don't want to wasting half an hour EVERY morning getting dressed. For special occasions, bien sur. But not every morning. I have a degree to finish, after all...

So. The 'I have nothing to wear syndrome'. Where does it come from? Canny marketing ensuring every time something significant happens in our lives, we immeidately 'need' a new outfit to make us feel good, when, actually, most of the time, you'll just need up wearing your most favourite old trusted garment rather than the really expensive one that you panic-bought? This weird festering self-doubt? Or is it just a self-perpetuating fact of life? Every girl, even K, who happily wanders around in jeans and primark body warmers most of the time (and looks GREAT WHILE SHE DOES IT, even if she doesn't think she 'has any style at all'), has doubts and funny moments. We can all understand it, because clothes do speak volumes, no matter what anybody says. Anything you wear makes a statement and allows anyone who meets you or passes you on the street to make a judgement. No one goes to an interview for their perfect job without thinking about what they are wearing first. No one wants to run into the current theoretical love of their life in tracksuit bottoms and a toothpaste stained hoodie. And no one, I believe, no matter what they say, doesn't in some way connect how they feel to what they wear. If you go and see a posh show, or go out for a nice meal to celebrate something, chances are you will not be doing so in tracksuit bottoms. So clothes clearly matter, but there is a very very fine line between clothes mattering, taking a bit of time to groom and look presentable, and an obessive self-destructive wasteful endless cycle of trying stuff on, taking it off, trying it on again and beating yourself up about the fact that you have all these clothes but you don't even like any of them, and that you will never look exactly how you want to look. Next time you find yourself in front of your wardrobe, tearing your hair out, with a frustrated girlfriend sitting on your bed (here I feel it is appropriate to acknowledge my deep gratitude to all my girls who have had to put up with this for as long as they have known me, MILLE MERCIS, your tolerance as ever astounds me), tak a step back. Acknowledge that something else is probably going on, and put on one of your tried and trusted outfits, no matter how dull and boring it might make you feel at that moment, and leave the house IMMEDIATELY, stifling your inner squeals of 'BUT IT JUST ISNT WHAT I WANTED TO BE WEARING I NEVER EVER LOOK RIGHT'... Trust me, it will feel good to have broken the cycle a bit, and you might even realise that actually, what you are wearing is 'you' and you are pretty great. (criiinge? sure. but its true.)

Xxx

Photo from Laura Bailey's Vogue Blog - I love the way she dresses.

My problem,in a nutshell

I dream of dressing like this girl -



But in reality, the following things are undeniably true.

1. My face does not and never could support a gamine crop. My current ear-skimming choppy bob-y thing is as short as I can ever ever ever go.
2. Anything high-necked and sleeveless makes my generous boobs look....horrific.
3. I am lucky enough to have a natural waist. Which is not something I am complaining about, but it does mean that anything paperbag/which doesnt end EXACTLY at the point of my waist makes me look four times as wide as I actually am. I never ever need to 'create curves' through dressing. And anything which might 'create curves' when worn by me, a curvy person, just renders said curves utterly farcical.

Ah, me. Life is hard. Sure, she could never make the most of a vivienne westwood dress, or do justice to a pencil skirt, but she can look easily, breezily cool. I can't. Ever. And that's fine, and I only mind a little bit...

Xxx

All by myself..

Yesterday, I got a message from a girl in the year below me asking me for advice about finding a flat in Paris. It was mostly just the standard 'how expensive is it/how can you find apartments/where's best to live' kind of questions, but one really struck me - 'how have you coped with living alone? Isn't it a bit horrid?' Its not the first time someone has asked me that, and I am sure it won't be the last. In the words of Ms Bradshaw 'later that day, I go to thinking...'

I live alone here for one main, and very simple reason. I didn't know anyone else who was coming here who I liked enough to live with. Of course, a week after moving in I rekindled a wonderful friendship with the marvellous S, who I was at 6th form college with, and had I known that she was going to become my constant companion and that we would get on so well that we rarely do things without each other, we would, in all likelihood, have lived ensemble and happily ever after. As it was, I didn't know this, so thought I'd do Paris like a Parisian, and live alone in a cute, neat studio, with all my shoes and books for company. Its had it's ups, and its had it's downs, but overall I think I can safely say that I have adored it. I have always loved my own company, but of course living alone in a foreign city is never as simple as that.

Last year, living in a house with 4 other girls, I used to love closing my door, switching off my phone, and zoning out with one of L's SATC DVDs or a trashy novel. But that was always an active choice - I didn't have to be alone at that moment in time, I just wanted to be. Here, it is sort of the opposite. I am definitely alone more than I am in company. At first, I had one friend. Now I have... three. Its not that I haven't met people here, its just I haven't really liked any of them, and the idea of spending my precious free time and hard-won money in the company of people I fundamentally disliked seemed far worse than spending time in my own, exclusive company. But that's not meant to imply that I have a wonderfully assured self-confidence or am arrogant enough to enjoy my own company above anybody else's. Far from it in fact. I think this is probably the crux of the 'down' parts of living alone. You can't run away from yourself, or merrily bury yourself in a girlfriend's boy drama, because the only person there is you. And therefore, you start to face up to you - who you are, what it actually means to be you, what annoys you most about yourself..... before this descends into psychobabble, I suppose what I am trying to say is that living alone is, for me anyway, the most effective and lasting way of realising who you are as a person. Not just the best bits that your friends always compliment you on, and not just the worst bits that you know deep down inside are stopping you from getting on with that long-cherished dream, but the whole of you. The little things, like how if I don't clean or do the washing up, it will just sit there. Forever. Until I actually do it. With no one to make excuses to. The fact that if I am in a bad mood, rather than shaking it off, I will wallow for hours, combing facebook for pictures of all the fun other people are having while I am cooped up alone, with no invitations to anything. I can do this for whole days at a time if the mean reds are particularly bad. The fact that sometimes, nothing, not a Nancy Mitford or a Jilly Cooper or an episode of SATC or Women's Hour can cheer me up like a brisk walk down the Seine can.


If I had the chance to do this all again, I'd still live alone - though admittedly having two friends living two minutes away down a parallel street means that I am never far from company should I desperately crave it. Now I am a lady of leisure, with no job, no commitments, and alot of time to do exactly what i want, living alone has really come into its own. This morning, I got up, danced around to glee for half an hour, ate standing up staring at my wardrobe, talked to myself loudly whilst doing so, and now I am happily sitting browsing blogs in a pair of rattu old leggings and a tank top. Some people say, when I mention that I live here alone, that they could 'NEVER' live alone. I think they are cowards. It is brilliant. Seriously scarily grown-uppily brilliant. In a foreign city, I can highly recommend it. Just remember the following things - skype is a life-saver, bunting and photos can make anywhere feel like a home, and buying flowers for oneself has the most unbelievably cheering effect.

All from we heart it

Last one i promise....

Design sponge/The Glamourai/Bodie and Fou/Vogue Blog/Jezebel/Vogue Blog/

(I LOVE this british vogue staffer's style!!!)

More pictures

Google/Google/Color me katie/Chictopia/Design is mine

Pictures

All the images I have saved to my 'my pictures' folder at work... I needed to put them somewhere for posterity. So here they are.. In a series of posts. Dull for all of you, I am sure, but great for me, its surpirsingly intriguing to see what has caught my eye over the last 8 months (has it REALLY been that long!?)


Design is mine/Google/Bodie and Fou/British Style Blogger

Vive l'été

Its 22 degrees, the sun is still shining outside the office window, I am planning to stroll home through the Tuileries as a fail-safe way to shake my itchy grump.... SUMMER IS COMING!! Youpi!!!

A List...

I have realised that if I declare things to the magic of the internets, something about it being in the public domain forces me to actaully stick to my promises (Weightwatchers and my newest set of money vows being perfect examples). YES INTERNET!! You are great, great for skype, for facebook and for keeping me on my version of the straight and narrow, or the rocky path to self-acceptance, or some other twee path/journey related metaphor. SO. In anticipation of 6 gleeful weeks of freedom in spring-filled Paris, starting from next week when my stage finally finishes, here is how I intend to fill my days - with things I have yet to try or discover and must before my time in this blissful city is up. I want my pretentious little moleskine to be filled to the brim with all sorts of secret and not-so-secret spots, rather than just my 15 or so favourites I keep coming back to time and time again....

1. By eating -

• Classic french food at Café Marly, Café des Musées, Bistro Paul Bert, Le Nemrod, Brasserie Lipp, Café Charlot and Ma Bourgogne, all of which are much-lauded and of reasonable-ish prices.
• Macarons at Ladurée and Pierre Hermé. I went through une folie Ladurée last November, but have never been for tea in one of their wonderfully twee restaurants. I haven't even tried (shock horror gasp) the famous Monsieur Hermé's avant-garde creations, so simply must do so before I leave, in order to be able to give a well-informed and judged opinion.
  
• Apparently outstanding frenchified american food at Scoop.

2. By seeing -

• As much of the Louvre as possible. I have yet to go... which is utterly shameful, lazy, and just plain stupid given that the queues will now be énorme, judging from the hordes of tourists getting off at the Musée du Louvre stop on line 1 every morning.
• Pere LaChaise cemetery. K and I were supposed to go on her last trip to Paris, but we are lazy lazy ladies, and it was (probably) raining. Still, we must go and see Balzac's grave because we studied La Peau de Chagrin in first year, and so somehow it seems essential.
• The interior of the Pompidou. I walk past it nearly every day, and yet have never been inside. I will no longer have the 'I don't want to waste my weekend queueing excuse..'
• The Jeu de Paumes, because I adore its neighbour/twin building (The Orangerie), and would love to see how they have used the space to exhibit modern art.
• The Palais de Tokyo, because it looks like an incredible place to people watch and the cafeteria is also allegedly hyper bien.

3. By walking -

• in Les Jardins du Luxembourg - I want to find the famously elusive Fontaine de Medicis and pretentiously read Eliot whilst lounging in a chair. Its the kind of thing i live for.
  
• on the Promenade Plantée, which is a converted old RER line leading from just off Place de la Bastille all the way down to Bois de Vincennes. I have walked a bit of it already, and it was beyond divine, beautifully planted and with wonderful views, but I don't like doing things by halves..
• down Rue Faubourg St-Honoré, and gazing at all the lovely windows and amazingly well-dressed old ladies.

4. By shopping (or window-shopping) at

• Some of the fabulous outdoor marchés - bvd Raspail's organic one, the big one up at Place de la Bastille, the one on Rue Mouffetard which makes me long to live there..
  
• The vintage shops up near Bastille on Rue de la Roquette - particularly Come on Eline, which I have heard fabulous things about (I LIVE IN HOPE, people, I LIVE IN HOPE)
• Marché aux Puces de St-Ouen - its famously expensive and it seems you have to wade through a bit of an...interesting area to get to it, but having been to the Vanves flea market last weekend and having loved just shamelessly perving at all the marvellous antiques, I can't help but think this would be a really fun place to just poke around and be nosey. The rumours of hugglers and racailles en route won't deter me - I work in St-Ouen and am a line 13 habitué. (St Ouen is a notoriously nasty banlieue, which is becoming increasingly industrialised due to cheap office space, and line 13 is the metro which can take you there, or to numerous other less-than-desirable banlieues. Travelling on it each day is a real eye-opener and gives you a real idea of Paris's huge social issues).
• Repetto. Which shouldn't need an explanation.
• The A.PC. surplus shop. Again, no explanation necessary...

5. By wandering ... everywhere; I am not going to renew my navigo (like an oyster card, but topped up for a flat monthly or weekly fee), and am going to go by foot as much as possible. I would say i'll start biking, but that, frankly, is never going to happen here - my road sense in Britain is shakey at best and I don't think its worth risking life and limb, and equally velibs are infuriatingly heavy, and mine always seem to have a flat tyre. So walking it is. I just need to replace my threadbare black ballet pumps and I shall be good to go.



XxX

Photos: My new favourite thing (its a blog), Bardot in Blue (excellent blog), Google, Google, Repetto, and Facehunter..I think.

Dreaming

I keep trying to come out with a post about 'home', and what 'home' is to me, and why I find it weird that I now think of Paris and Oxford as my 'home', as well as my actual 'home' with my parents, which feels increasingly like my chilhod 'home 'and not my current home (something perhaps to do with the fact that my bed there is still a single pine children's bed, and that my bedroom walls are the ultimate early-noughties combo of lilac and pale blue..), but I can't make it work. In short, I am tired, homesick, looking forward to finishing my interminably dragging job next week, but having said all that i am in LOVE with Paris, my parisian friends, my flat, the Jardin de Luxembourg in the sun, and am enjoying dreaming of how my home will look in the future. Perhaps something like one of these....


I love the mismatched crockery and earthy tones. (Apartment Therapy)



Isn't this tucked away bed wonderful? Though the idea of not having a bedside table would worry me slightly... (Apartment Therapy)

Now this is my kind of bedside table! I am not a fan of LV, but something about their trunks and luggage is just impossibly chic.. (Design is mine)

And finally, my perfect desk, only I'd change the Tiffany-blue boxes for some chintzy floral hatboxes, or old children's suitcases. (Design is mine)

XxX

Vintage shopping - a cautionary tale

I have always thought of myself as a bit of a vintage girl. I have a 'vintage' hourglass figure, which limits my wearing of uber modelly trends (the days of boho and smocks were bleak, bleak times for me), and makes nipped in, neat fifites silhouettes by far the most flattering. However, for all my declarations of undying love for vintage styles, vintage clothes, and vinatge shops, vintage just doesn't seem to love me back.

I began to realise this whilst on my first trip to the vintage mecca of 'Beyond Retro' on Brick Lane aged 18, searching for the perfect coat for university. I had read countless, countless accounts of 'how to create the perfect wardrobe', which all extolled the perfect vintage find as a way of adding an individualist touch to one's wardrobe, I had seen countless famous people's wardrobes stuffed with wonderful vintage items, I had avidly noted any 'vintage shopping tips' in articles... In short, I was ready. I was prepared. This trip had been a long time coming, and I was finally able to branch out from Covent Garden, the Kings Road and Oxford Street. I was a grown-up (ha!!) on my way to university and vintage clothes were going to be my future. They were what I would spend my days cycling around on my bike in, my nights partying in, my hangovers luxuriating in. I had plenty of money in my pocket and was fully expecting a glorious haul of perfectly pitched vintage items. Of course, I was deeply disappointed. I fell in love with dresses at first sight. I then tried them on, and, of course, they let me down, not fitting properly or just not fitting at all. After 4 hours trawling the entire Beyond Retro warehouse, I retreated back to the safety of Hampshire and ever-reliable Topshop and ASOS, broken and defeated. But come Easter, the siren-call of vintage tempted me to London* once again, this time to Portobello Market, as a result of L's constant exhortations of its brilliance, and her amazing Julius Caesar necklace which she had picked up there for a song. Once again, it let me down. I found nothing, nothing, nothing, apart from the typical 'oh i haven't found anything and I saved up all this money so I suppose I might as well buy this because it has horses on it and I love horses' silk scarf. Which, like all my others, sits in a big Cath Kidston bag hanging from my wardrobe handles and never gets worn.

In short, I gave up on my dreams of being the girl in the fabulous vintage ensembles, and focussed on other more fulfilling pursuits, such as the art of writing an essay after a night out, how best to waste an entire day when you have two essays due in, and just university life in general. I stuck to Topshop, ASOS and Gap, branching out to Jigsaw and Toast when they had sales on. Occasionally, I'd nip onto Ebay and debate endlessly the merits of the 'perfect' vintage dress, think about it for 24 hours non-stop, and chicken out before placing even one measly bid. I thought I was done with vintage, and felt fine that way, if plagued by occasional twinges of envy at someone's wonderful fur coat or cute tea dress they'd found in some utopian charity shop.

And then I came to Paris, and moved into a flat in the heart of the Marais, about three minutes from some exhaustingly copious vintage shops. I fell for the dream again... And spent the large part of my first three months in Paris trying on fur coats which would be too big for a 6ft man, let alone a 5ft4 girl, in the hopes of finding 'the perfect Parisian fur coat', that I could wear to watch chilly rugby matches in next year. It became a line.'Can we just POP into Fripestar to see if they have 'my fur coat'? It took me a casual 4 months, and the one I did find is nothing like i imagined - curly lambskin (sorry, fur-haters, PLEASE dont hate on me..) with 3/4 length sleeves and a loose swingy shape. On my search for this gem, I have bought roughly 5 items which don't fit me, and never will, due to lack of changing rooms, deceptively low prices, and an overwhleming sense of desperation, a summer dress which i adore, and the perfect checked playsuit which I can't wait to wear. I am still searching for more summer dresses, a vintage satchel/bag, some more things which scream 'hello, I lived in Pairs last year and i am chic and impossibly tasteful' and the ever-elusive BROWN fur coat. Why has my vintage shopping here been more succesful? Probably because I go at least once a week, on my way home from work, and therefore don't feel the pressure I did on my London trips. Or maybe perhaps I am older, a bit wiser, and more certain in what I want and don't want. Certainly, I've learnt the hard way that vintage shopping is nothing like high street shopping, where you can think 'I would love a pair of woven leather sandals', pop into topshop, and find them with relative ease. Vintage shopping is a tricky balancing act between keeping an open mind and retaining a clear sense of whether you will actually wear that funky looking 80s blouse, or ever have the time (or, in my case, rather whether you are actually ABLE) to adjust that dress which has an amazing print but is too long/short/has a funny neck. It takes discipline and a true sense of style, both of which I lacked prior to this year but am hopefully developing. Luckily, some clever peeps, like Modcloth and Anthropologie, have realised that, for lots of people, vintage is scary, too time-consuming, and too disappointing, and have cleverly cornered the market for all things 'vintage style'. But the catch with these shops is the price you pay for this 'vintage style'. Fair play to Anthro and Cath Kidston, both of whom spotted a gap in the market and have cornered it with extremely well-disguised canniness, but... ain't nothing like real thing baby, ain't nothing like the real thing... don't you think?

For all my disappointments and self-loathing after yet another ill-advised 5 euro skirt purchase, I always feel like I am screwing someone over somewhere when I buy a 'reconditioned' vintage peice from somewhere like Anthro, or Pedlars, or Cath Kidston. I'm not, because the inflated price is the result of one of their employees going to a flea market, sourcing the stuff, arranging it prettily, etc etc etc, so maybe this feeling is the feeling of me screwing over my bank balance, because I am too lazy or impatient to look for the goodies myselef. Blah. I've backed myself into a stupid corner (and written a stupidly long post). I love anthro things. Love, love love. I also like Cath Kidston, in restrained doses. I'll happily buy something from both of them - the skirt on the right being the perfect case in point from Anthro - if I like it enough. It just doesn't have the same thrill about it, I suppose. The bragging rights that come with the perfect vintage piece are, to me, as attractive as the piece itself. (I am not sure what that says about my obsession over others' opinion of me, or my levels of self-absorption, but whatever it is I am certain it isn't good).

My original idea with this post was some kind of kooky extended simile with vintage being like a boy you just couldn't stop loving, even though he was a twat/broke your heart/trampled all over it merrily/always let you down and refused to ever meet your parents, but I got bored and thought it trite. However, the similarities are striking. Annoying? Difficult? Impossibly unreliable? Yes, but also totally irrestible and always justifiable (on some retarded level). Something I'll alwasy fall for? Absolutely, and the same is definitely NOT true for heart-breaking boys... (see, it totally doesn't stand up to extension.oh well)

*Obviously, just for clarification, I went ot London in between these two trips. And before them. And since them. I am not some weird social recluse or freakishy financially discplined shopper (as you well know, if you read the rest of this blog)... I just didn't go to vintage shops. I went to things like plays, adn exhibitions, and yummy restaurants, and saw friends, and things like that.I do have a life other than obsessing about clothes, promise.

Photos: Cherry Blossom Girl, The Sartorialist, Vogue Blog - the picture sums for for me WHY vintage summer dresses will always be a winner, and Anthropologie.

Lovely.

Yesterday was a tricky day. I am tired, and filled with malaise, and my plans for summer employment have unfortunately fallen through. All this was made much better by darling S, my closest friend here in Paris, and our discovery of the Pink Flamingo Pizzeria on Rue Veille du Temple - perfectly thin, crispy base with parma ham and fig topping. Om nom nom. We then watched the Great Ormond Street documentaries recently shown on the beeb, wept alot, felt very small and insignificant, and then she went home and I watched the Glee 'Madonna' episode and laughed so much I snorted peppermint tea down my favourite cashmere cardigan. I am nothing if not classy. It was the perfect salvation-bringing end to a rubbish day.

Friends and fun here are something I have found difficult. I like fun. I love love love my friends and am loyal to a fault. I am used to having a large group of friends around me, plenty of social activites to say no or yes to according to my whims, and lots of variety. But Parisian 'fun' and my Parisian friends are very different to all this.

A 'fun' night out at home would typically consist of a large group of all my friends - boys and girls, lots of drinks, a nightlcub, some silly dancing, Mcdonalds at 2 a.m., and then hollyoaks omnibus the next day, curled up in wonderfully wallowy self-induced pain on the sofa with the girls. Obviously there are other things as well - barbeques, dinner parties, movie nights, snowball fights... Here, fun goes more to the tune of a lovely meal in a nice restaurant, a long stroll, perhaps a few glasses of wine, and then home to bed and an episode of SATC, alone, followed by a long brunch the next morning, all with the same one or two girls, who, out of the many people I've met here, are the only ones I genuinely like. (I hope that doesn't make me sound like a total bitch..) I rarely bother with 'clubs' here, they are extortionate and have excruciating door policies, and I prefer not to leave the fate of my night in the hands of a bouncer with an ego problem, preferring a bar and long long chats over cocktails. Explaining this to friends at home sometimes makes me feel slightly teenagery and squirmy - 'Will they think I'm a loser because I just don't like clubbing here..' Of course, this is just me being ridiculous. No one cares about what I do apart from me, and I think all my friends are relieved that they are no longer subject to my astonishly powerful hangovers, which always involve alot of self-pity, vomiting and moaning. Nevertheless, I find it a strange development. I wonder what will happen when i return to my old stomping ground next year - will I throw msyelf back into Jaegerbombs and tequila with gusto, or step back, preferring a slightyl more measured and less......bucolic approach? I am assuming the latter, as I feel rather 'been there, done that'-ish about the former, and Weightwatchers is obviously not compatible with such a lifestyle.

This whole paragraph sounds a bit preachy, and I don't mean it to at all - i LOVE a night out with a big group of friends, and miss dancing in a big group, arms round everyone, singing at the top of my voice, but clubbing with one or two others just isn't as fun for me. I think, grudgingly, that this is actually a question of confidence. I hate feeling like the lumpy friend in a nightclub, and yet I always feel like the lumpy friend in a nightclub here. Eek. Even writing that sentence makes me curl my lip in disgust. I'm not the lumpy friend, I never have been, and yet it is a feeling which I have found astonishly hard to shake here, hence my quest for better self-image and the Weightwatchers (which continues, wonderfully, to be easy, wonderful and is working, though more slowly than it did initially). Is this Paris? Or is it me? It certainly isn't my friends here; they are a select bunch, who are all supportive, gentle, and very good at understanding that I will never be up for a massive night out, and that I'll always be drinking Perrier. It certainly isn't my friends at home, they just think (i think..) that I'm being frightfully grown up and finally fully embracing my middle-aged tendencies (my inability to ever stay out past 1 a.m. is well known..) I suppose part of my dilemna with the whole 'night out' situation is that I know I can't feasibly go back to my slurring ways with shots - at least not quite to such an extent.. without undoing all my hard work with Weightwatchers, and it all being for nothing. SO..where does that leave me? Happy, and just in a very different place to where I was a year ago, perhaps a more 'grown-up' place. Sure, I can't wait for some amazing 21st birthdays in the summer, I can't wait to return to Oxford and celebrate the end of everyone's exams, but I am glad/happy/proud (?) to have discovered that a less frenetic and more minimalist approach to fun and friends can be just as enjoyable. This year has been a real journey, to lapse into cringe therapy speak, one which has continually surprised me, and this development - that I need neither a large group of friends nor a super-charged social life to be happy - has surprised me most of all. XxX

Miscellany no. 2

I am tired, tired and sad because one of my few friends here leaves in two days and its R's 21st today, and I want to be with her not here, but I am also exciiiiiiiiiiiited because spring and K are coming (she moves to (almost) Paris in 2 and a half WEEKS!!) and inspired by a weekend of perfect weather and people watching. So in place of a pointless and dull slef-indulgent moan, I give you things which i love, and why I love them. I have other things to say but I can't be arsed to say them coherently, so you'll have to wait for my thoughts on the following topics (i know you can't wait) - vintage shopping, more on weight, Susie Orbach, and the depressing mediocrity of the general election.

I love bikes. I love girls on bikes. I love riding bikes pretending to myself that I in any way resemble this girl and her bike, when the truth is a) i can never ever wear pleats on my hips and b) try as I might, waisted sirt + high neck + boobs = weird truncating effect which knocks a good 3 inches off my already petite height, and c) My bike is not some elegant heavy-framed pashley style thing, its an eminently practical ugly road bike, which does not allow for good bike riding posture. (Copenhagen Bike blog thingy - google it, its great for pretty people on bikes)


I love Cyrstal Renn. I love this swimming costume. I love how she looks so happy and healthy and glowing. I love that I am beginning to feel like I could feel like this this summer in a bikini. (YAY Weightwatchers). (Jezebel somewhere)


You all know about my undying love and affection for Bridge. This make me want to grow my hair again. (Google)


Layering like this never ever works in real life. And no one but no one but NO ONE will ever look good in thigh-high socks, unless they are H or some other fortunate lanky thing with incredible legs. However, I love the flowers in the bag, the bag, the tweediness of the whole thing and the hat. (J Crew).

Publish Post

XxX

Money money money

I am useless with money. I am not sure where this has come from. My parents are seriously sensible. My mother's two weaknesses are Toast and bookshops. My father's are boats and kit of any kind. However, they aren't the sort to go out for meals, or buy something without it genuinely being necessary. I, on the other hand, will happily go out for supper and lunch every day of the week, can always justify a new item of clothing, and definitely have to try very hard to rail against my 'have money MUST SPEND IT' instinct. Whilst I am fortunate enough to be able to say that this completely hazardous approach has never landed me in trouble, it's something I frequently attempt to change. Yet the changes never seem to stick.

Take, for example, my Lent no shopping / no eating out vows. They lasted, oooh, all of three weeks. I broke the shopping one after considerable debate, and don't regret it, because the H and M garden collection was limited edition and my new dress and blue shorts are items I was, in fact, genuinely searching for. My eating out transgressions were similarly reasoned - in a foreign city with new pals, being sociable often involves going out for meals, as we all live in teeny studio apartments. My problem, I suppose, is one of restraint and balance. I am quite a black and white person in pretty much everything - either incandescently happy, or deeply, obviously sad, and any academic work is either very good or completely awful. This polarity extends to money as well. I don't mind being useless with money, I just find it a bit embarassing. I am always the first to suggest a meal out, will always pick the brand of pasta sauce that I like, rather than the cheapest, and I love to treat people. Great, in fact wonderful, why on earth is the jammy cow moaning?? I hear you cry. Well, because, it isnt really very grown up of me to be like this. Its actually rather shaming and extremely silly, and I am pretty sure that one day I will just sit down and think 'Why the fuck did you buy all those clothes, and why can't you cook anything other than the real basics?'.

I have tried the whole spreadsheet-budget malark, and read pretty much every article going on the subject. Yet each and every time, the hedonist (or, perhaps more cynically, the part of myself completely and utterly shaped by ceaseless bombardment from advertising screaming 'you're worth it!') seems to win. Which is a bit silly, really. Clothes-wise, I genuinely need a new pair of black ballet pumps, some summer sandals (I somehow doubt that Senegalese plastic flip-flops will cut it in Paris) and a black blazer, but apart from that I really shouldn't be spending a penny. Instead, I should be saving, like any sensible person would, for the proverbial rainy day. But the rainy day leaves me depressed, and I simply think 'Well, when the rainy day comes at least I shall have (insert that perfect item of clothing you have just seen on ASOS and simply must have here) and it will make me smile always'. So, instead, I shall save for something tangible, something real, something I have alwasy dreamed of. That way, if the rainy day comes along, the money will be there, but if it doesn't, I will hopefully have something to contribute to a week's holiday to New York. L is about to be whisked there by her big sister for a week as 21st gift, and if I didn't love her so much I would be savagely jealous. New York is my dream destination. I want to go in summer 2011, and if I do sensible things, like buying subscriptions to Vogue, Elle and Grazia, rather than buying them each and every month (or week), not buying clothes unless there is a genuine need (which is clearly distinguishable from a want, because a need is a dull thing to shop for and a want a visceral thrill) and actually budgeting my weekly supermarket trip and planning my meals out, it shouldn't be too hard to save up a tidy sum. I intedn to strengthen my resolve with a piece of paper in my wallet reminding me how much I have already spent this year, on not very much at all, and hopefully, hopefully, that should do the trick...XxX