Me (grating courgettes): ‘If I had a robot, I wouldn’t have to do this by hand.’
Me: ‘A kitchen robot. Can’t you say that in English?’
Christian: ‘No. It doesn’t fit the definition of a robot.’
Me: mumbled complaints about English language.
And these little suckers (chocolate-dipped hazelnut marbles, courtesy of Clotilde) are evil. Even more so when you put them in the freezer for 15 minutes before eating them. Our poor waistlines…
I hope you all had a very merry Christmas!
Go here if you want to experience the evil deliciousness of Clotilde’s recipe.
On my very first day moving to Paris (age 19) I got a cab from the airport to my teeny 20th arrondissement apartment (la di da, didn’t want to take the bus). And I got the taxi driver from hell.
‘People here don’t care about each other Miss, it’s every man for himself. People just walk all over each other. Why, people don’t even know their neighbours; you know, people die in their homes all the time and aren’t found for weeks.’
Skip 2 years later, and Christian and I are living in a teeny and old apartment in the 11th. Around Christmas time the mailman comes to sell us a calendar (like every year, everywhere in France) and blurts out that the previous tenant, who had been there for 50 years – you’ll never guess – well she died in our apartment, and she wasn’t found for a few weeks.
After dropping that bomb he said ‘Merry Christmas’, turned around and just walked down the stairs.
That story makes me chuckle now, but you can bet it didn’t at the time. I don’t think I went to bed quite the same that night. Oh, and I decided I also had no intention of buying a calendar again from that mailman.
(Image is from here).
As you may recall, since moving here I have to spell my name to people on almost a daily basis (there aren’t a lot of Sabines around? Or do I say it funny?). So whenever I see it (or hear it) it feels like a mini event. Or maybe I’m just highly excitable.
So, it follows I like this Poppet dress from her new summer collection, and want it.
More Poppet here.
PS: Poppet is the cutest name for a store. The owner also seems to be the cutest thing (aside from being a serious maker of darling clothes): she plays the banjo, particularly to her dog, and she rocks white socks with sandals. Yay!
Last Sunday Christian reported Lisa Simpson had fallen out the window. My plastic Kinder Egg Lisa Simpson, that I kept on top of my computer screen as a mascot (with the help of some white tack). I just love her: she is such an outspoken pain in the ass source of inspiration to me. So what if she’s a fictional cartoon character (fictional eh?).
Anyway, Lisa landed on a balcony a few floors below. And she’s still there. I check everyday. And everyday I grapple with the following dilemma.
Do I attempt to get her back? This is embarrassing on a few levels: I have to involve the building manager because I don’t know the number of the apartment she tumbled to. Since I intend to live in my apartment for a while longer, I’m not keen on suffering any plastic mascot history between me and building staff.
Do I write a little note and fabricate a harness with weights attached, and drop the note out my window to the same balcony, beckoning the occupant to drop Lisa Simpson in my mailbox? But the note could be whisked by a sudden gust of wind and end up on someone else’s balcony, where Lisa Simpson did not fall. Then he/she who read the note would think me a nut.
Or do I let it go and accept she will bring happiness to whoever lives on the seventh floor and has that giant balcony? Or be tossed in the bin (that’s a heartless option, but it could happen).
In the meantime, Christian promised he would replace her. He’d better start hitting the supermarket for those Kinder Eggs I say.
(Image is from here).
I had plans for this morning, and I have to forego them because I’m feeling run over by a bus. I blame the disgusting fake strawberry-flavoured cough suppressant syrup I took last night. Yes, I’m pointing the finger at you Rikodeine.
Which by the way did little to suppress the coughing fit that hit me at 2:30 AM. I got up to wait it out on the couch so I wouldn’t wake Christian up. Christian woke up anyway, and came to check on me because he had ‘never heard anyone cough like this‘ in his entire life. Nice!
So no trips to Kmart and various Brunswick op shops looking for shoes, no meeting up with friends for coffee, no grocery shopping (that one I won’t miss too much). Instead, more coughing, sleeping, and in my waking disillusioned hours consoling myself by looking at beautiful things online. Like this headband.
I can’t breathe and am still coughing much (pass the whisky!), so out of desperation I took some drops that are supposed to be good for what I’ve got.
Except, I still can’t breathe so I suspect they did nothing for my nose (or cough). I think their really high alcohol content went all to my head instead. I am in one of these mental states where I know I would burst out laughing if anyone said anything to me. The slightest thing is striking me as completely hilarious for no good reason.
I will need to severely limit my social interactions for the rest of the day because I risk offending every person I speak with. Even though I might disagree with myself right now, it actually isn’t funny.
(Image is from here).