WEBVTT

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I don't miss Paris. I don't miss you, Paris.

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London's quite all right. We have similar weather

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some days. I don't have to meet an artist for

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un double espresso at a coffee table outside

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in the sun by some charming petit arc for breakfast

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after midday and discuss how I feel about life

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currently, today, right this second. Or mumble

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to a friend without shame or guilt on an impulsive

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short tram journey to the suburb I do not have

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a valid ticket for to practice my French and

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to check out how the art of music is taught to

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the general public with a subsidy there: "I'm

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sure I'm in the right place right now", whatever

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that means. There are hundreds of artisanal coffee

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shops in all shapes and forms all around here,

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mostly without a seating area. We don't make

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a lot of money in this city for a chit -chat.

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And I can also just make my freshly ground Sumatran

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coffee, supplied by your family -run company

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in Dorset, in my Dolce &amp; Gabbana x Bialetti

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moka pot, and delay spending another five quid -

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oh oui, we are still more cher than you whatever

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you dites (I'm soutenue like that) - until

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the next ten minutes of my practical, as opposed

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to my theoretical, existence. I don't miss you,

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Paris. I can walk faster than I talk and I know

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how to queue or use an elevator. There's a lot

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of those here. And why would I miss going out

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in the evening to an artsy venue, cabaret, open

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mic, themed house party, mostly within walking

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distance, performed or hosted by friends or by

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soon-to-become-friends-after-je-dis-bonjour.

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We have endless shows in the West End--yep, endless,

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like those invites to l'after you throw at me

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(I'm good at saying no to anything these days,

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l'after all), and costly, like the historic steps

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and cobblestones in Montmartre my designer shoes

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never get a chance to complain about. I don't

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have to impulsively meet up with a new friend

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I can instantly connect on a soul level over

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a walk, a thrift tour, or an apero by the

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Louvre, or any convenient place within 15 minutes

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of our current location. I can make an appointment

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to eventually lunch or brunch with a friend about

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two months in advance through going back and

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forth quite a few times in the city and even

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travel for over an hour on the tube each way while

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I'm at it. What - what is this achy feeling inside

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between my chest and my belly button anyway?

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Too many days (two!) without going up and down

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the fifth floor manually? Manually? Well, there

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is a boy -  there is a multifaceted joy

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up there. And sometimes it's downstairs too,

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on the ground, walking with me anywhere I choose

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to. With its light heart and vivid jokes designed

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solely and clumsily to make me forget about things

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that do not matter - money, calendar, reason.

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Can I forget all that? Like forgetting the feeling

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of not being able to dream when I'm there because

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I can just live every moment without even realising

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that I breathe - I simply breathe and live there?

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Well, I can dream when I'm here, about anything.

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I just close my eyes, regulate my breathing,

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sometimes put on some non-jazz music, and see

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what I want to achieve and I know I'll achieve

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it. Like all the things I've achieved without

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you since I left you in 2019. I can at least

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try again. Now I visited you five years later,

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last October, for a quiet solo birthday walk

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down the old streets with my new self - because

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my daughter insisted that "I think Paris would

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make you feel very happy," after I told her my

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New York plan fell through, and even after I

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insisted that I was done with you - for a week,

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and you think you can make me forget everything

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I thought I wanted or was required of me? My

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recent monthly weekend visit since November was

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extended four times for free. Eurostar princess

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here. So that I ended up staying for two weeks.

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And I am now back in Wimbledon. Where I thought

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I belong. Steadily shaky. Stomping all over reality.

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Dreaming of what could be. Because I don't miss

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you, Paris. I belong with you.
