Chez moi. Coucou Paris. I'm at home. My baby
girl is sleeping next to me under the Parisian
eaves. The ceiling windows are open. And I'm
waiting for my Jonny to bring up tradition,
croissants et pains au chocolat. Because he doesn't
just give me "Paroles" --get it? The morning breeze
is seeping in and the uncomfortable butterfly
I had had in my belly for weeks had been magically
subdued five minutes after my arrival back in
the city. Bizarre. Because all the troubles I
associate the butterfly to are still very much
there and I'm by no means avoiding them. Eleven
days ago, one day after my boyfriend left London,
I lay down in my bed on my own and I felt extreme
discomfort, like my body was screaming from the
inside. I tried to surrender my mind and stared
at my open wardrobe facing the bed. My clear
vinyl Hermes Kelly, surrounded by quilted Chanel
bags, stared back at me. And I thought: Hey,
I could live without all that. Guess what I couldn't
live without anymore? Myself. The true self I've
been trying to deny for so long in the name of
reasons and responsibilities. So I texted my
son at his last student house in Bristol: "I'm
contemplating moving to Paris. I don't know what
I'm going to do yet, but I don't feel like I'm
doing anything meaningful in London", to which
he replied, "That sounds pretty cool, doesn't
bother me at all, might move to Europe in a few
years". I was impressed, but not shocked, and
proceeded to call my daughter who said, "On one
condition, Jojo needs to fix the internet". That
Jojo boy called me the same evening for me to
reveal my grand plan. He, of all people, knows
how hard our London -Paris separation could be
for me, yet he was the first to understand that
I wasn't doing this solely for the relationship.
He knew I was doing this for me. And all that
I heard from him was words of support and a couple
of funny jokes. A couple. Since then, I've been
brainstorming with, actually more like I've been
announcing to, important people in my life. My
saddened yet incredibly understanding housemate.
My ex-husband who didn't even blink and immediately
said he thought I should definitely do it as
if he had been practicing the response for months.
My beloved girlfriends and network of support
over the years who all thought I'd do great.
And my cherished Parisian friends who already
welcomed me back home as if the visa (and the
domain name for my new venture idea) would just
fall from the sky. And they will. I need a wee.
This is all too exciting. I'm back. Yes, let's
call it exciting. For the not so very first time,
this Libra is going to decide and take actions
before thinking instead of weighing all options
for eternity minus a day. I'm done thinking.
I'm done being on the fence and I'm done being
slapped by the universe for resisting what resonates
with my heart in the name of anything. Time to
come home to myself, in the place where I feel
most belong. And it's certainly time to send
a raven to get breakfast delivered. Get ready
slowly to chill by and maybe take a dip in the
Seine with my kitty and my babies. But before
I wake everybody up, let me share a quote (by
the French dramatist Sacha Guitry) I saw at
a random car park the day I arrived in Paris
to live here for the first time nearly a decade
ago: 'Being a Parisian is not about being born
in Paris. It's about being reborn there". I am
Parisian. Et je suis chez moi. Paris. Les 17
huttes. 2025, je t 'embrasse.