A Lovely Little Poem, Possibly my Favourite

Ok so I do admit that I found this poem on another blog, but it is pretty fantastic. And straight to the point. Two qualities rarely found in poetry.

French Women Don’t Get Fat and Even if They Do They Still Look Nice

I took the Eurostar to Paris yesterday for a spot of shopping and perving on fine-boned French men. The usual trek around my favourite store in the world, Galeries Lafayette, was as wonderful as ever – I can confirm that their new(ish) shoe department really is a joy to behold. Apparently is it the largest in the world, and honestly ladies, nowhere else even comes close. The only gripe I have is the layout, which is a tad confusing for those not blessed with a natural GPS/any sort of spatial awareness – much like myself.

While foraging in Lafayette and Printemps I stumbled across a fantastic new label - The Kooples. Aiming to mix Parisian fashion with that cool London edge, it boasts a collection of mainly black separates for girls and boys. Beautiful tailoring, unusual fabrics and a bloody amazing brand image - this label is going places. I fell in love with the most sensationally tailored tux jacket, but then remembered that I am technically a pauper and cannot afford such things. One to watch for definite.

I also made the trip right across town to the Petit Palais to see the new YSL exhibition but the musee turned out to be closed due to it being the 8th of May. Being a good Catholic, I really should know what religious holiday this date corresponds to, but I don’t. I think the Virgin Mary was involved though.

Now, on the Metro I spied several women dressed in questionable fashion, usually with a decidedly shit choice of shoe. But somehow, and don’t ask me how, they pulled the whole look off, reeking of chic. At first, I blamed the dusky complexions, messy hair and skinniness but after a while I realised that even the heftier ladies looked great. Confidence appears to be the only common denominator. Confidence and the addition of a good printed scarf. There’s a lot to be said for covering up – a lesson for us all in the UK. No one wants to see a pale boob hanging out of top or a generous muffin top spilling over a jean edge. Some layering would do us all a world of good. And for God’s sake put away the pink feet and the sandals. It may be May in London but it’s only 10 degrees out there.

Stolen Purses and the Morals of the People of England

Now really.

Getting an iPhone stolen is bad enough, but to get your purse lifted out of your bag in the same fashion just a few weeks later is more than a coincidence. I really don't know what I've done to piss off the universe but seriously, it's bleeding me dry. I was merrily dancing away at Walkabout in Shepherd's Bush yesterday evening (yes, my social life swings between highly glamorous and the spit 'n' sawdust style £1-a-shot bars. I like to term it "partially classy") when it all went down. Opened my Chloe for a split second to pull out my coat ticket from my purse and in a matter of moments said purse was no longer there. God damn it.

To be honest I was more concerned about how I was going to purchase that lovely Chicken Legend I had set my sights on than cancelling my cards, but Mother Dearest stepped in and did all the dirty work for me remotely. And my lovely friends supplied the chicken. The thieves really threw a hard punch by picking possibly the only girl without a bank branch in London and on a bank holiday weekend. It was truly evil. And it certainly wouldn't happen in the homeland. Then again, neither do most things.