A Day In The Life: Vintage Bags and Boys

It’s 10am on a Saturday morning in the Marais.

I feel rested, for some reason not hungover, and ready for a day in the life of London’s favourite wannabe Parisienne. Curtains slightly ajar, the sunlight streamed in as I lay in bed, thriving and luxuriating in my freedom (and my king-sized mattress). As I opened my windows, a smile slowly crept up and widened on my lips and in my eyes as I was greeted good morning by a ceiling of the brightest azure. The cool, crisp air mingled with cigarettes, espresso and perfume fluttered from Rue de Turenne straight into my bedroom window. Inhaling, I felt an overwhelming sense of calm, yet excitement.

This sultry simplicity was my new normal.

After a minute of sticking my head out the window and indulging in the sunlight kissing my face, a number of trivial, worry-free thoughts fleeted through my mind such as 'I wonder if that baguette is still fresh enough to eat (I had only bought it a day before)', and 'can I leave it another few days to wash my sheets?'. Washing sheets took a lot of courage in my little flat, but every time I did I truly did feel intensely in control of my life.

Next on the agenda was getting dressed: a real joy in Paris. I remember leaving all but one pair of sweatpants at home, and those were saved for emergency breakdowns. I threw on a pair of Levi 501s, boots, dad’s cashmere, and my leather aviator jacket, trying my hardest to not try at all. The Parisian mantra. A dab of my favourite musky perfume oil on the nape of my neck and my wrists, and a dash of crimson red lipstick, and I was out the door. Coffee. I needed coffee, I hate to admit it but I did start to feel a hangover creeping up on me, making me conscious of my ageing soul. Remnants of lime scooting across Paris, a very silly idea induced by one too many glasses of some cheap pastis at 3am started to flashback in my mind. But today was a new day. 

As I closed the courtyard door behind me, I was greeted with the Marais village locals, an elderly woman I saw almost every day, whose facial expression never seemed to change, and a shy little man who worked at a florist, he always smiled at me mid-floral arrangement. I directed myself round the corner to my local cafe where I had become friends with the barista, a tiny little spot I’d go to alone every Saturday morning for a cafe creme and a catch up with Alex. She made really great coffee. The place had a distinct charm, it was an old “cordonnerie” (shoe repair shop), with a run-down wood exterior and only about 3 little stools inside. Very exclusive. As Alex and I chatted away about the weekly happenings, gossip at the Vogue office, and which celebrities she had served coffee that week, I wondered what I’d do with my day. 

Paris felt like my playground, I relished in having unplanned days with lazy coffee mornings, especially those with perfect cold blue skies where it was just crisp enough to wear a really good jacket. 

The post-coffee buzz hit me as I traipsed along Rue de Bretagne, cigarette in hand, into the monthly flea market. Flea markets are my haven. I convinced myself that the sheer joy of sifting through fur coats, designer handbags, and clunky gold jewellery was an extremely valid creative outlet. My inner stylist was let loose, free of judgment and confines. As I strolled along, eyeing up every potential gem and conjuring up lookbooks in my head, Charles Aznavour’s La Bohème started playing on the corner of Rue du Temple from an old vinyl. 

In the modest temperature of 10 degrees, an intimidatingly beautiful lady was contemplating buying a very thin chain knit gold backless cocktail dress that she was modelling - she appeared to come straight out of the J’adore Dior commercial. My mind drifted off to wearing the dress in summer, barefoot in a field with long grass… I gazed at her in awe, thinking it’d be criminal for her to not buy it. 

Further along my expedition, a man playing the harp punctuated the fresh late afternoon air with a soft melody, making crowds stop and smile. 

Streets upon streets of treasure hunting awaited me, and I very impulsively bought myself a vintage Dior saddle bag - it gave me a look that I simply couldn’t say no to. It was love at first sight, and it definitely played hard to get on me and my intern salary. But it was almost my birthday. This incredibly stressful day was topped off with a big glass of red with friends. Life really seemed to be playing its cards right. 

The golden 5pm light trickled upon the city, just as I was comfortably sat in an ideal spot for my favourite activity: people watching at a terrasse. Hours seemed to pass with laughter and judgement of everyone who passed by. 

After a few glasses, I noticed that twilight had become night, and the crowds changed seamlessly from families and lovers to nocturnal animals. Men in fur coats and earrings chatted to scantily clad women with enviable cheekbones and long, thin cigarettes in hand, with inimitable attitudes to match. I had dragged my friends off to a different bar, we were drunk on life and Bordeaux by this point. We made friends with strangers, casually sharing lighters and anecdotes. We danced in the crowded bar to Dalida and Madonna, and I then saw someone I knew and had previously found very attractive. We had had eye sex in the past - he was chic, arrogant, and French as f***. He would have been a good end to a great day. 

Five minutes and a large gulp of a G&T later, I plucked up the courage to look for him inside. As I was on my way to the end of the bar where he was sat, I bumped into someone else, who instantly made me forget that the other guy existed. I turned around and said ‘sorry’ or something of the sort to this man. Then I noticed how incredibly handsome he was. He replied in English but had an accent, I couldn’t pinpoint it, but he wasn’t French. We started speaking, and I felt a spark that I hadn’t felt in a very long time. I couldn’t explain to myself why I was so intrigued by this person. He was alluring but calm, I wanted to know more. 

After talking for a while, I found I didn’t want to stop talking to him, so I asked if he wanted a cigarette, a textbook yet a highly effective flirting tactic. 

It was raining outside. We stood under the heated terrasse, smoked a Vogue, and the conversation was flowing. I realised I had been away from my friends for a while, then one of them found me, and mouthed ‘HE’S SO HOT’, with a gaping jaw from behind the guy. Trying not to laugh, I casually introduced her to the mystery man, and then she left us to continue doing what we were doing. 

I still couldn’t quite tell if he was flirting with me, or if we were just getting on very well. I hoped it was the former. Ten minutes or so later, I noticed my hair getting wet, and my mascara smudging slightly from the rain, and I did have to get back to my friends, so we said bye, and I went in for la bise, (a kiss on each cheek). 

But then he kissed me. 

I was caught off guard, in the very purest sense of the phrase. 

It was a real kiss, the kind of kiss that is very difficult to have with a stranger. It also didn’t feel non-committal like most kisses with strangers tend to feel. 

I needed more. It was exciting and new, yet disconcertingly familiar - I already felt invested. 

I conveniently bumped into him moments later, and the next thing I know is that we are in an Uber with my friends, on the way to a club. In the red, velvet-clad room we danced, kissed, and talked. Back at my flat, I didn’t notice the time go by so fast, but by the time we had left the living room it was 8am. We spent all night talking. Sat by my window with a glass of red and a cigarette, I played Suzanne by Leonard Cohen, one of my favourite songs, and a song that I always associate with red wine and cigarettes by that particular window. 

He said that this was also his smoking song. I felt like I knew this stranger already. I was scared by how much I already liked him. 

The next day, after only two hours of sleep, he left me in my bed with a kiss.

I spent all day feeling disgustingly hungover, I dragged myself to the loo to throw up and felt too sick to eat. I had a rehearsal for a play that I just couldn’t go to because the state of my head was too terrible. I managed to scoff a bowl of penne arrabiatta in bed that afternoon, and then remembered I had a birthday party to go to that night. After a lot of water and sleep, I dressed up again, I paired a vintage corset that really struck the balance of renaissance chic and breast-accentuation with flared jeans. I checked my phone, and just as I was leaving the man texted me, he wanted to meet again that night. I got butterflies. 

He was leaving Paris the next day, I had to see him again. 

The birthday party was on the border of the 7th and 15th arrondissements, I was in the 3rd. I was late to meet my friends, and I really could not imagine drinking alcohol ever again. 

At the party, I made small talk with the group of French strangers, ate some pizza, drank lemonade, and I had left by five past midnight, post a skewiff rendition of ‘joyeux anniversaire’. 

I metro-ed back to meet the man at a little bar near my flat, and as I was walking there I felt a pang of nervousness, what if it wasn’t the same as last night, why did I care so much, will he stay at my flat again?

I found him at the back of the bar, still as hot as I remembered. Good. I managed to drink about three-quarters of an Aperol spritz, a rogue choice for 1am in November, I know. He did, shockingly, end up in my bed again, after long conversations about anything and everything. It was strange opening up so much to a total stranger, it was strange that it didn’t feel strange at all. 

As we lay in my bed, it felt intimate, and I suddenly felt very disorientated that he was leaving Paris the next day and I may never see him again. 

Our kisses got slower and more tender, and the conversation became deeper and more intimate. This was not something I experienced every day. In fact, I don’t think I’d ever instantly felt like this with someone. 

Those two nights felt like one really long, surreal night. 

When we said goodbye, my initial reaction to what had just happened was contentedness, I knew it would be a fond memory. But then my mind started spiralling into thinking that I had to see him again, when or where I had no idea… but my rationality pushed that thought away, I told myself it was a really good whirlwind romance, and that I’d always smile when I thought about it.

The next day I was sat at my desk at 10am, recounting to my friends the delicious story of my weekend in my not-so-perfect French. I couldn’t concentrate all day. 

6 months later, the rest is history. 

Love, Performance, and All That Jazz

There are many problematic tropes in Cinderella, but my main frustration lies in the fact that the screen goes blank at the most intriguing part of the film. The prince and the princess sink into each others arms and kiss, drifting off into the distance. Fin. Exeunt… no more to be said for their love story. This ending convinces and feeds our human addiction to narrative to believe that this is how stories end. There is no point even thinking beyond this moment. 'All you need is love' they said. 'Loving is easy'. So we are told. Are we supposed to assume that Cindy and Prince Charming live 'happily ever after'? Well I suppose on some level we are. And maybe they did... I mean, a love based on a guy meeting a girl at a ball, thinking she's fit, having a boogie and then finding her shoe which she lost are irrefutable signs that they are MeAnT To bE. 

Is there a reason why Disney saved us from the sheer disappointment of watching them have their first fight, pay their first mortgage, file for divorce? Well sure, that would make it realistic, God forbid, and the comfort we find in fairytales is how far from reality they take us. I’m not a cynic, I promise… in fact I’m quite the opposite. The most cruel part of romantic films or fairytales is that they set up the starry-eyed folk for disappointment. 

I am dangerously and sometimes self-torturingly guilty of confusing real life with cinema, to the extent to which I often find myself living in a what is nothing short of a rom-com. Love then becomes a business for which the likes of Nicholas Sparks, Richard Curtis, and Disney are primary investors. I silently but surely trickle into living a cinematic life that I’ve only ever come across, and only have reference to, from the films and books which have impacted me. Analysing characters is the best way to analyse yourself and your friends, they are our most common point of reference. 

I am not saying that adding fresh basil and maybe a splash of vodka here and there to your otherwise bland pink-sauce-life doesn’t make for the most incredible experiences, but there is a line and it must not be crossed. (Not sure if that analogy worked, live and let live… but vodka infused pasta sauce is big fat yes.) 

I mean to say: when it is a disorientating 18 degrees in February and you spontaneously decide to go to a rooftop bar and order an Aperol spritz at 1pm in your otherwise mundane university town, this absolutely must be cinematised; place yourself in the Gaie Marais in springtime, and with one big whoosh of warmly welcomed escapism, you’re there.

BUT, here comes the but. I like big buts, they really cannot lie… there are limits to this candy-coated life. 

All the world is in fact not a stage. Take my word for it. My word over Shakespeare’s, a no brainer. (Even though his intentions were ironic, so actually we are on the same page.) Kapow.

The performative aspect of love has been the demise of my romantic life thus far. Typing these words finalises my convictions. Save the performing for the stage… (and for the 20 minute showers during which I know a rendition of the entirety of ABBA Gold/my Academy Award acceptance speech shall be perfected, only bidding adieu when the hot water runs out.)

‘Real life can be pretty great too’, a good friend of mine recently told me. A few days before I had told him that I was in love with him, even though this wasn't the case. Let me *try* and explain myself. I simply couldn’t understand what compelled me to say these words without meaning them. I do admittedly speak in hyperbole and I’ve *on multiple occasions* said ‘I am literally in love’ after the first date, but this was different. I actually said the words ‘I am in love with you’, to one of my closest friends, without remembering that I said it, huge shoutout to alcohol. I had to be told by him that I said this. That was a fun conversation. I can choose to be embarrassed about this, or I can choose to put it down to an exclamation, hugely misplaced but nonetheless, of love. 

What compelled me to say these words, was wholly my idealisation of this straight, male friend. This ideal drifted away into a deep, dark and dangerous ocean of romanticisation. My brain morphed him into a character for my character to fall in love with and I couldn’t see anything with clear vision. I only saw things through my lens. My cracked, steamy, warped lense. It’s a basic film script in itself. Could I be more of a cliché? ‘When Harry met Sally’ is a film for a reason, it is meant to be unapologetically if not hugely unrealistically feel-good. What Rob Reiner didn’t tell us, is just how much this idealistic portrayal of friendship-turned-romance can distort an innocent brain and how much influence it has on the way we interact with other humans. The minute my friend told me that I needed to stop idealising real life situations, it was the first time I heard it, and hopefully the last time I’ll have to. This time it will stick if not by will then by sheer force.  When I told my friend that I was in love with him, I realised that I had overdosed on the idealising, and that I needed to be prescribed a reality check. 

A personal anecdote for anyone who asked for it and gifted to the majority that didn’t: I went to a party a few weeks ago where I met a good looking, tall, charming boy. Our entire interaction was uninspiring. Our conversation was almost scripted. It was momentarily exciting, as it always is when meeting an attractive, charismatic person, though the bottle of pinot noir I downed hitherto without a doubt elevated my judgement. Sigh. Our conversation was not dissimilar to playing tennis badly, if you missed the ball or didn’t come up with something sexy and witty, or both, to say in time then you lost. ‘It was easy to write to Nick, but also competitive and thrilling, like a game of table tennis. We were always being flippant with each other.’ Sally Rooney’s narrator Frances in ‘Conversations with friends’, voices the inner psyche of the first few exchanges between potential lovers, capturing the back and forth nature of them, and how constantly stimulating they are. 

Nothing about my interaction with this boy was natural, even though at the time I was convinced that it was… we were playing up to what we thought we wanted to be and be seen as, consciously or not. Every look, every nuance, every tiny detail of body language was paid attention to. I felt very self conscious, but not at all self aware. This situation is by no means unique, I almost feel like I had lived it a thousand times. Even though the novelty of plain textbook flirting is fun, it is when you realise that you know exactly how the story ends, that the romantic in you starts to wilt like a rose that hasn’t been watered. After me and Mr Bombastic (much better than Mr Big, sorry Carrie) kissed for a hot sec, everything seemed to dissipate, because the futility of our connection was realised. 

We shared in what some situations is the most immense intimacy possible. I’m not being naive pretending to think that kissing someone you just met is an alien concept, I’m just questioning why this is the social norm. The basis of the flighty connection people make at a party or in a club is usually purely physical, it is rarely (but not never) a genuine, ‘I want you in my life for longer than just tonight’. How can it be if you’re basing your judgement of them on yours and their drunken and elevated state? In these dystopias, human interaction is distorted: people who you never speak to or wouldn’t even stop on the high street become your closest friend, ‘let’s do coffee soon!’....mmmmmkay. These socially warped environments are in no way an accurate way of forming opinions of people. I find myself baffled and amazed at what good actors we all are. 

Picture this: girl meets a classic Don Juan, translated into what would probably be a good looking, charming boy who is painfully in denial of his Etonian roots, so he covers up his tracks with a rogue earring and/or a terrible haircut. Sound familiar? He charms her, he woos her, he Daniel Cleaver’s the s*** out of her, the very definiton of ‘f*** me, I love Keats’… until she realises that all she needs is some normality, she just needs to fall in love with the sweet, normal, nice guy. Although as ‘normal’ and ‘relatable’ as Bridget Jones tries to be, her story is in fact just another fluffy rom-com that manipulates our minds and takes our hearts for a ride. However 'tragic' she is, we all know exactly how the story will end from the beginning, perhaps the purpose of these films are to inject in use a false sense of security and hope and belief that true love is effortless; that all it takes to be happy with someone is love and nothing else. The archetypal characters are too one dimensional for the film to end in any other way than what we predicted from the start, although there is a certain comfort in this. They are feel-good for a reason. 

This got me thinking, are we all merely travesties of Hollywood rom-com characters? Hollywood has without a doubt warped our views of romantic love, so much so that I have witnessed relationships which have thrived off nothing but a narrative. It is terrifyingly easy to fall in love with an idea and not a person. It is also terrifying how easy it is to fall in love with memories and circumstance, which are independent from the person. It's all just terrifying.  

The very definition of a ‘one night stand’ is ‘a single performance of a play, show, or the like at a particular place; esp. one given by a touring company, band, etc.; a town, theatre, etc., where such a performance takes place; also in extended use’. 

A performance did you say? I’m intrigued. Once this idea sunk in, it was completely mind-blowing but simultaneously made absolutely perfect sense. It’s opening night, the curtains are drawn, the ones on stage and in the bedroom. You flash your best smile, you play the role of the dreamgirl, the protagonist, the clichéd version of who you think you are and who you want to be in this moment in time, and… action. Badabing and just like that everything you say is a sweet nothing, you are a real life animation. It feels nostalgic before it’s even over: the amount of times the storytelling aspect ends up being the most exhilarating part is uncountable. It’s dramatic, it’s compelling, it’s fueled with narrative and description to the extent to which you can’t tell whether you are telling an anecdote or a film synopsis. In Notting Hill, another film whose problematic nature is overlooked because of its undeniable charm, Julia Roberts’ character says “Rita Hayworth used to say, ‘They go to bed with Gilda; they wake up with me.” Going to bed with a character and waking up with a real person sounds almost painfully familiar. 

‘And he was crossing the street at the exact same time that I was, and we stopped in the middle and kissed’… ‘Oh my gosh that sounds just like a movie.’ Non, ma biche. You just happened to be crossing the road at the same time, it’s really not that strange. Where to draw the line between fantasy and reality? Go too far on one end of the spectrum, and you are lacking in grounding or clarity, but too far on the other and your life is colourless. The common comparison of saying someone is ‘just like a character from a film’ is evidence in itself that when someone is a slightly saturated version of what is considered ‘normal’, they can only exist in reference to characters because we are taught to believe that real life is less exciting and glamourous. Throw on a trench-coat, red lipstick and a cigarette and boom all of a sudden it’s Holly Golightly. 

I believe that dreaming, especially day dreaming, are important and necessary and I think escaping into the world that exists only in your head is an incredible thing to be able to do. I would also like to reiterate that cinematising life is sometimes harmless and even exquisite: e.g. walking around Montmartre, of course you are going to dip your hand in a bucket of grains in the greengrocer and feel the sensational texture which Amelie thought was one of life’s most simple pleasures. Or being on a boat in Greece, it would be wrong to not pretend you are Donna Sheridan. Or being a single girl in New York City, do I even have to say it.

I saw La La Land for the first time in a little cinema in Paris, and when it was over and I stepped back into reality. The soft streetlights flirted with the cobblestone street that was glistening from the rain with such effortlessness, and the Seine looked so beautiful and for lack of a more perfect word, perfect, that this simple experience of leaving the cinema almost felt cathartic. Paris can so easily become a cliché, but it really is everything they say it is and more. It is also a normal city and one can live a very normal life there but every so often arise moments of stillness and appreciation and they should be welcomed with open arms. Having just seen a film that fluttered between being heartbreakingly real but also quintessentially Hollywood, I felt a rush of hope and excitement and tranquility. Life is amazing, even when it’s story doesn’t end on a perfect note. It doesn’t even have to, it shouldn’t have to. 

Roland Barthes quite rightly argued that the very phrase ‘I love you’ is highly performative. It is said with the desire for a reaction, it is said with the expectation that the person to whom it is being directed returns this sentiment. It is centred around you not them. It should be said as an end it itself, tell someone you love them just because you love them, not because you want the validation of you them saying they love you back. You can’t force emotions onto people, and there is no pride lost in showing love. Barthes said, ’I-love-you is without nuance. It suppresses explanations, adjustments, degrees, scruples. In a way - exorbitant paradox of language- to say I-love-you is to proceed as if there were no theater of speech, and this word is always true (has no referent other than its utterance: it is a performative).’

Blair Waldorf, another profound French theorist, said, ‘Three words, eight letters, say it and I’m yours’, when her being with Chuck was at stake. 

The very possibility of being together depended on whether these words were said out loud. They were felt, but they had to be verbalised in order for Blair and Chuck to be in a relationship. 

Labels and All That Jazz come from an ingrained insecurity that ones relationship must be defined in order for it to exist. When people label their relationship, they make it ‘official’.  “Official: having the approval or authorization of an authority or a public body.” Why do we put so much emphasis on having other people know our relationship status? Why do our 500+ Facebook friends need to know if we have a boyfriend/girlfriend? Why do we care so much? Labels are for other people, hardly ever for oneself. 

I've often found myself coming back from a first date and feeling like I’ve just been at a job interview or an audition. With red wine and more cleavage. How much can you convince me that you’re the person you seem to be. How long will I have to wait for you to message me… what shall I wear? And how will this affect  how I’m coming across? A first date is a performance, if it goes well there’ll be an encore, if not then I guess you have to just keep on at it. Swipe, swipe, tequila and swipe some more. 

CONCLUSION… not sure, let me know if you think of one!  

A little something to everyone I love and everyone who has pissed me off.

In an ideal world… I would have complete faith in humanity, and I wouldn’t have a perfect body or perfect hair and skin because these ideals wouldn’t exist in an ideal world. ideal. ideal. ideal. ideal. ideal. Has it lost meaning yet?

In my humble 20 years of life, I’ve realised 3 important things.

1. People can be shit. 

2. People can be incredible, and make you feel better than ever. 

3. You really shouldn’t rely on people or even circumstance, to an extent of course, to be ‘happy’, whatever that means. It’s all in your head. 

Since when was it ok to betray people? Since when was it ok to betray your friends? Since when was it ok to feel entitled enough to make choices you know would hurt other people? Since when did people in a place that is honoured for being a cosmos of intelligence, contain so many self-righteous arseholes?

I’ve had a major case of the ‘ugh’ recently. I’m pretty sure it’s an epidemic. 

We live in a place where ‘facetune’ - an app made for people to edit the way they look and make sure they look perfect in photos to post exists and is widely used, by a lot of people I know. People point out and make fun of badly edited photos not seeing the bigger picture, that although you find this funny, imagine the amount of anxiety someone had to feel in order to think that in order to publish a photo online they had to edit their real selves. 

In a place where people who are supposed to be best friends say shamelessly nasty things behind their backs, and often people feel the need to be something other than who they are just to fit in, even at a university level. 

In a place where when someone has knowingly hurt someone else they do not even have the decency to apologise, as they are scared of what people would think, and because they are cowards.

In a place where hearing ‘they’re so irrelevant’ is normal. 

Where things like ‘I’m so glad people have money here’, is an accepted phrase to hear in a club. 

It’s fucking disgusting.  

Do not get me wrong, a large portion of people and of life is wonderful, but that’s not what this is about. Some things just need to be said, and some people need to feel shame. It’s just not my place to go up to individuals and kick them in the balls, or change their shampoo for ‘nair’, however much I’d want to. Nah, I’d rather keep it classy and let people come to terms with the fact that they’ve been an arsehole with the solace of a computer screen. You are welcome! 

You know what, and it might sound really lame and really obvious, but being nice is actually really cool. Being a good person gets you fucking far. I don’t mean being superficially nice to people, murderers are capable of that. And ‘getting fucking far’ isn’t having the most money or power. Pablo Escobar was the richest and most powerful man in Colombia but he lived in fear, hiding and anxiety. 

It is people accepting mediocrity, and excusing the unexcusable that gets us nowhere. When did people start excusing cowardice, betrayal and dishonesty? And why? For fear of conflict? For fear of losing their reputation? Ok, move along dear. 

Standing up for people you know are wrong because its the easy option is also bullshit. Sorry for all the swearing, I personally think its fucking necessary. When people I love get hurt, even minorly, I’m not going to stay quiet. 

The ‘me too’ era triggered me, as well as a lot of friends. I’m not victimising or blaming here. But we are so devastatingly twisted into thinking that we SHOULD do certain things because other people do, without realising that actually, no, I’m not okay and not comfortable with that. The ability to realise and vocalise this is so important. There is no such thing as shame when it comes to consent. When something is right it just feels right. End of.

Sex is weird. People have it so casually yet it caused some of the biggest arguments, problems, complexities. Sex is never casual, even when it is. But people would have it with someone they met in a club who they previously ignored in the library. What is it about entering a club that changes the way people act and react? It is like a different world. Do I sound like I’ve been living under a rock? OR am I just consciously choosing not to accept the bizarre ‘normalities’ that we have become used to? Hmm, difficult. I am not condoning casual sex at all. It can be fun and spontaneous and amazing. But only when its actually liberating and empowering and appreciating of sexuality not when you do it because ‘its the done thing’ or ‘this is just what happens’. no. fuck off. 

The fact that unavailability, playing games, being hugely indirect, and acting socially superior are seen as attractive honestly leaves me in despair. It's particularly annoying because I am sucked in by this too. There's such a thrill. I hate it. I love it too though. There's no winning here. 

From a year of being so in control of myself, of what I want to do and where I want to be and who I want to be there with. With such control yet such freedom, it has just made university a really really weird place. I sometimes feel like I’m in year 7 again. I wrote this in July and it made me sad because I don’t remember what this feels like.

“I love spontenaeity.  I love not knowing who I'll meet tomorrow, where I'll be or what I'll be doing. I love mindlessly watching sunsets, breathing in the hot, intoxicating sea breeze and feeling the wild white horses massage my feet. I could spend hours stargazing, watching balls of light twinkle and listen to the soft humming of crickets lull me to bed, skinny dipping with strangers and feeling more than alive. I remember that night at that jazz bar in Paris dancing all night with a permanent smile glued to my face and I’d never felt that happy before ever. I don't like routine, but I know that it's something that keeps us sane, and makes us more grateful for all the wonderful insanity. I love the no judgement vibes. I love that right now, I’m one million percent unapologetically myself and all my crazy and its celebrated not scorned upon. I never want to let go of this feeling, I don’t want to burst the bubble and live in reality ever again”. 

I don’t even remember what that feels like anymore, and I don’t know what made me say that routine makes us sane because I’m in a routine and I feel more insane than ever. Is life meant to be a routine? Are we supposed to stay with one person forever? Or do people come into our lives as lessons, good and bad but nevertheless something can be taken from them. Even bad experiences teach you things. 

As usual, this is a stream of consciousness and I don’t really expect it to flow or make sense because if I could do that I’d be doing better in class and not procrastinating by manically breaking my keyboard to fart all over this document. 

But I hope that even if it wasn’t an enjoyable read, it was maybe a tiny bit relatable? If not I hope I helped you procrastinate? 

h a s t a   l u e g o   p u t a s  xxx 

This took a turn...

I’ve been doing a lot of going round in circles lately. Dabbling in the sludgy grey puddles of the infamous ‘coulda woulda shoulda’. And at the end of the road...I found nothing but a cul-de-sac.

Let’s talk about retrospect, and how everything seems better in it. When we look back on experiences, people, situations, they’re built up up to be superior than they actually are.

It’s far too easy and even more dangerous but completely inevitable to romanticise something which actually carried a modest amount of flaws.

We want what we can’t have, and what we can’t have is so much more attractive than what is easy to gain. #LaChasse #FuckLaChasse

Maybe I shouldn’t use the inclusive ‘we’ (I’m sure most of you reading this are far more sane than I) but I am almost certain that I’m not the only one guilty of this. Yearning after the past, even if it wasn’t that great to begin with, subconsciously knowing this to be true but we lust over it anyway, it’s nothing but self-torture. Be it a dress we lost, a university that we didn’t get into, a boy/girl with whom it didn’t work out. IT. WILL. BE. FINE…

…PROBABLY…!

Satisfaction then becomes impossible. 

Before moving to Paris, my life was a series of a lot of unanswered questions, personal and not, so I was counting on to moving away to my favourite city as an answer to my problems, an escapist attitude to what I was leaving behind. Luckily, I did get the internship I wanted here, and my first choice university, and it seemed like everything was falling into place. 

So why did I/do I still feel so lost/vulnerable? I had it in my mind, that by coming here, everything would melt into place, seamlessly. But that’s not real life, that’s only the limited vision I had before actually experiencing moving away. The “crisis” so to speak, stems from the fact that on a superficial note I have nothing to aim for at the moment and I am in a strange sort of ‘gap’, of having everything I want but still feeling…

I can’t explain it.

I don’t have to explain it.

Maybe it is because we have stopped being human beings, and have evolved into human ‘doings’. No one ever just ‘exists’. What does that even mean, to just, and only ‘exist’? I don’t think its possible. 

(Dear Diary…)I remember, I moved here on January 1^st, having packed until 4am that same morning which my Eurostar was scheduled to leave at 1pm, (putaaaaain). There I was at St Pancras international with two huge suitcases (I did not need to pack 6 coats but I won’t admit it and I’ll wear them all anyway just for my own pride and dignity), I was nervous, slightly scared, immensely excited. A couple of hours later I was at Gare du Nord, it was freezing, it seems as though I had forgotten how to speak French, and my uber went to the wrong street. I wanted to cry. #firstworldproblems but also it's all #relative. 

I underestimated just how much of a leap I had just taken. All I had dreamt of for so long was living out my fantasy life in Paris, working in fashion, drinking gin and tonics on pavement cafes with a cigarette just for decoration, and my fur coat. That’s a great photograph to take, I’m sure of it. Then I realised I am not one of Degas’ muses, I will actually have to live a real life here, and I didn’t at all think about that. 

I am having a magical time here, there are moments of complete heart eyes, watching a sunset on the Seine being one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen, or having a fresh orange juice and coffee on a sunny morning and watching the beautiful people of Paris take over the cobble stone streets, or meeting complete strangers and making friends or just conversation, reading in Abbesses from the top of the Sacre Coeur with a view of the whole city moulding into a digital age Amélie Poulain. 

It is a city that would make falling in love so very easy.

Instagram is a great way to convince oneself and others that they are living the life of their fantasies. Something a friend of mine said the other day made me think of this, she said ‘if you don’t want to double text, just delete the conversation and start a fresh’. Basically saying that what you can’t see doesn’t exist. This made me think of how when we post photos of us having a great time, no one really knows what went into that, how much is being concealed. 

I was talking to a friend who spent Christmas in New York and their Instagram made them look like they were having the time of their life, but actually they said the trip wasn’t at all that fun, they felt ill and were having relationship problems, but of course they couldn’t publish that online, and why would they. The idea of “Christmas in New York” already sounds dreamy, but they are just words and ideas we are idealising from the connotations they foresee.  If you think about it, you’re creating an identity, and you are free to create the image of the person you want to be, not necessarily the person you are.

We have a complex that our online profiles must be the very best version of ourselves: it’s a vicious competition, survival of the fittest. *cough TINDER* the brutal, online selective breeding process based on looks, (mainly) (possibly universities/schools if you’re an elitist snob). 

Another example of how instagram is ruining our authenticity: I know someone who was supposed to travel to X but then changed their mind last minute, however still posted a photo pretending they were in X, for the world to think they were. I leave judgement up to you, but I want to know what makes being in X cooler than not? Of course, for the sake of make believe, and everything with which Hollywood and her side chick, the Media, feeds (manipulates) us with, we are conditioned to believe that our lives have to look remarkable to the rest of the world. It forms an intrigue, and we are all somewhat intrigued by intrigue. Frankly, it frightens me how much we care about our online reputation, (even though I have succumbed to the devils of social media). That’s why I wanted to make this blog, and why I called it ‘uncensored rhapsodies’, a thesaurus aided, posh version of ‘basically no bullshit’.

I am a culprit of idealizing my life on social media. Most of us are.  I would never lie, but my Instagram is no doubt a fabrication. It is a lot of who I am on a surface level of course and I try to be as authentic as possible and as much myself as possible, but it’s still a premeditated version of my life. Much like fashion, social media is exciting, fast, always changing. It does keep you awake but suffocates you at the same time.

It is so hard… or even impossible, to look at something, objectively, without jumping to conclusions. Something always relates or makes us think of something else, we create stories in our heads from assumptions that we make. For example, a red rose is immediately linked to love or the romantic. As is a yellow rose to friendship. Who created these identities from something which is merely a flower? Maybe I’m over analyzing Instagram, arguably a trivial platform; but I have definitely scrolled through my feed, seen a photo of someone somewhere looking insanely cool by superficial conventions, with no idea of how much effort or editing or retaking this photo took to achieve its ready-to-be published finality. I think if something is too posed it loses its edge and authenticity and the ‘je ne sais quoi’ we are all obsessed by. Subtle nuances are so attractive. 

The point I’m trying to make is how social medias are just ego boosters, (arguably) healthy alternatives to anti depressants, showing the world that one is apparently enjoying their life. It’s an addiction. A competition. Social media is like heroin, once you’re hooked, it’s almost impossible to quit.

The other day I was sat in a pavement café in Montmartre, with a café noir and my laptop, writing. I dressed for the occasion, even though I was alone. I wore bright red lipstick for myself, and to be deliberately seen by myself. There is a luxury to being alone. Everything is what you make it. Right? There is a glamour to the solitary. Having said this, and while I self admittedly felt cool by standards of cool, I felt really homesick that day, and I romanticised my sadness by playing it off as a lonely glamour, a self-reflection. I would have rather have made something of my state, transformed how I felt into something, made the most of it in some sense. 

It is all about perspective, choose to see things the way you want to.

Right now, I’m basing my decisions and choices, small or large, on what I want, need, and desire without the underlying notion of what anyone else wants, or what would impress them. Its liberating. Do we all yearn for companionship? It is part of the human condition? Or is being alone a declaration of the ultimate freedom and power?

I am being forced to become more aware of the way I think, and react. It’s quite cool to understand yourself, (and realise that you’re even more complicated than you originally thought). I’m not trying to be a twat on my clichéd gap year saying I’m rediscovering myself in Paris, but maybe, despite however generic, I actually am and I just happen to be in Paris? It happened to Romy Schneider, so why can’t it happen to me? It is so easy, almost too easy to base your decisions (consciously or not), on other people and what they would prefer, and this makes you lose a piece of yourself.

Respect yourself enough to realise you should stop trying to change your appearance to someone elses or society’s liking, if they don’t accept you for who you are… they know where to go. 

Don’t doubt yourself. I’ve realised theres no point. 

Maybe I’ll post something light hearted soon, or maybe I’m too good for that. 

Not sure, we’ll see.

A tout ;) x

Hey u

I’ve decided I’m gonna strip for you —

Hope that was a satisfactory ‘attention grabbing’ opening I was always advised to start off a piece of writing with.

I will not literally take my clothes off for you, but I will tell you my naked thoughts.

I think (with absolutely no knowledge of whether this is true or not so don’t take my word for this or anything else for that matter) that there’s a gap in the market for a 19 year old drama queen, overthinking, slightly psychotic but good-intentioned, in-amidst-finding-herself-on-her-gap-yah blogger.

I have never been good at structuring essays, this can be backed up by all my teachers at school, *AAAAND the self-deprecation begins*, probably because so many thoughts come in at once that if I tried to put them on a page I would end up with something closer to a Jackson Pollock. Below is an accurate representation of my thoughts.

So I’m going to introduce myself… Hi! Hello! Lovely to meet you, I hope you are mildly entertained by my written verbal diarrhea/self-therapy.

I am currently on my GAP YAH. I’m in Paris, interning at Nina Ricci *ooo lala, oo la la indeed* for 3 months before heading off to Central and South America with my best friend for 4 months of getting ridiculously drunk in some beautiful places. I’m then going to study French and Spanish at university.

I’m super excited I won’t lie.

I’m starting this blog for a few reasons; one being that I have always wanted to, but thought do I REALLY want all my Facebook friends including family members, people I know for a fact who dislike me, people I think are really cool, and people I've gone out with, to read about my life and my weird inner thoughts? I don't want to completely jeopardise my reputation.. But then I realised, with the help of a certain Freud (thanks Sig), that I bet a lot of you have similar thoughts to me but are repressing them because of that bitch we like to victimise, our old friend SOCIETY!

I’ll leave this introduction with the thought that we are not in control of our thoughts, we can only control how we react and rationalize them. If this is true I can’t really be blamed for what I do.. or can I?

I hope you enjoy, or learn not to hate my opinions on… fashion, love or its non-existence, life (shameless ambiguity), the deterioration of countless things, my unique philosophical views, my adventures minus the too tragic and too slutty parts which I’ll save for the real no-bullshit blog (the voicenotes I send to my best friends on whatsapp, because this really is another fake attention seeking thing, minus acai bowls and pictures of girls wearing red lipstick and stripey tops who think they’re French) and the fact that you will slowly but surely.. oh so surely realise that je suis un peu crazy, and I majorly overuse ellipsis… playing it off as artistic license.

I’ll see YOU later  À bientôt lovers x