Here, and everywhere else. Here. I'm here with
you, Paris. A bit sleepy today, and almost bailed
out of writing the memoir after the 70s dance
party at La Coupole last night. But no hangover.
I drank cleanly. Champagne only. I've been in
you for a week already. This time. I... had to
fly to Edinburgh for work the other day. A last
minute assignment as usual. But I flew straight
back to you the next day. Here, my life in London
is fading. This time anyway. I even made my cool
daughter spend a few days of her half -term here
recently, whilst her brother was exploring Hong
Kong and China, and my boyfriend was staying with
my much -loved flatmate in London, which she
nonchalantly enjoyed. To breathe the Parisian
air and the arts, to meet my beloved friends,
to consume proper baguette and touristy French
food, to experience going up and down the fifth
floor without an elevator, and even to catch
Flash Invaders' street arts on her phone so that
her ibu (read: mummy), is not at the bottom of
the score list in the game anymore. From Di Attic,
my vintage corner in Wimbledon, is doing rather
well in my absence and pays for its own rent
with those hand-picked vintage clothing and
accessories, mostly sourced from Paris. But it
seems I spend less and less time in London. My
life in London is fading, especially with my
extensive travels, for work or otherwise, and
yet, I don't know what I'm doing in Paris. Well,
not really (you seem surprised), apart from hanging
out and catching up with friends; spending quality
time with my boyfriend and, sometimes, with his
parents; sourcing vintage items From Di Attic,
going to museums (I have annual double pass to
Grand Palais and the Louvre now), galleries, cinemas,
theatres, art events and parties; eating out
or cooking and sometimes inviting others for
a meal or an apero; walking to parks, cafes or
to no destination in particular; and, apparently,
writing for the blog and recording for the podcast
too now. Wait -- doesn't that sound like I live
here? Maybe. But what about work? Oh yes, I travel
a lot for work anyway. And I have now started
flying to wherever work might be from Paris whenever
I get a call and I feel like doing it. And the
children live in two other different places anyway --
for school and otherwise, for now. Wait -- have
I, unbeknownst to myself, made Paris my first
home? Wait, what? Okay, I'm shocked. And I don't
think I can write anymore right now. Also, I
think I'm hungover suddenly -- must have been the
odd sips of tap water. No? No takers? No one
cares how many words I write. Or if I write at
all. Apart from me. And me is very important. So
let's continue on for a bit longer. So that I
get a chance to wrap my head around the dangerously
harmless fact that I, en effet, live in Paris while
traveling to different places every so often,
for work or otherwise. So that I find a space
in my mind that is at peace, knowing that I'm
not just running around and floating about aimlessly.
Well, I'm still running around and floating about,
but at least not aimlessly. This is how I live.
And Paris is... Where I live. Unless living is
dictated by where you make money and pay your
rent and taxes, because I ain't paying VAT for
my Louis Vuitton and Chanel purchases in France.
Ah, what a revelation. And what a rollercoaster
to get to this point of understanding. Wait,
one more thing. What would happen to living in
Paris if something happened to the relationship?
Oh, don't worry. Trial period is over. Joking.
Trial period is never over. You know what's over,
though? My worrying about where home really is.
Because it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter
when you're living authentically, true to your
own (chaotic or otherwise) self. Paris. Le 8 juin
2025. Je t 'embrasse.