I've been to Paris three times in my life.
The first time was as a teenager with my mum. That's when I fell in love with the French language, and with perfect blocks of fat, yellow butter.
The second time, I was living in Lyon as a student and travelled miles across the country for, of all things, a Justin Timberlake concert. I did not fall in love with Justin Timberlake. I could never love a man who pronounces merci as muuurrrrrseeeee. Just non.
The third time, I flew to Paris for lunch with my mum and my aunt. PARIS. FOR LUNCH. I bought a slinky, beautiful gown from the third floor of a 19th-century townhouse that was filled with dresses in every colour you can imagine, and then we flew home. It was by far the most glamorous experience I've ever had. It became slightly less glamorous around 5pm when, with our flight home still hours away, I thought I was going to pass out on the open top bus from exhaustion and trop de vin blanc, but it was still glamorous. Paris makes everything glamorous. Even open top buses.
Fin and I are going to Paris for four nights in late September, in honour of two not-insignificant birthdays. Fin has never been. I've never been with a man (unless you count Justin, of course).
I have a long and distinguished tradition of asking you, oh wise and knowledgeable readers, for advice and suggestions (see: vegetarian food). I have an equally long tradition of failing miserably to live up to said advice or act on said suggestions (see: vegetarian food), but that's never stopped me from asking.
So far, we've organised:
1. Flights
2.
You see why we need your help.
Sooo, if you could just send me a link to the perfect apartment for €50 a night, that would be great, thanks.
Failing that, I would warmly welcome your suggestions for any and all of the following:
→ Interesting areas we should look into for accommodation
→ Useful resources or blog posts I should check out
→ Great little places that nobody knows about that you just have to visit, ask for Jean-Claude, tell him I sent you, you'll love it
→ How to visit the Louvre for more than five minutes without wanting to repeatedly hit yourself in the face with a Mona Lisa keyring
→ The correct pronunciation of merci when you have a Tennessee accent
→ When would have been an appropriate time to get rid of my French-language Justin Timberlake poster
→ One good reason why I shouldn't buy those shoes with the bows
→ Anything else that may or may not be related to Paris and/or butter
Thanks in advance, you wonderful people.
(Yeah, I know, I just had a holiday. Well, as nice as it was to not have to go to work for two weeks, somehow painting shelves, walking the dog and finally getting around to sorting out your photo storage situation doesn't have quite the same ring as FOUR NIGHTS IN PARIS.)
SEE ALSO:
Images: 1. Vivienne Westwood Lady Dragons via Sarenza 2. Midnight in Paris by Eye Poetry Photography 3. Paris print by Rifle Paper
I'm on holiday. In case you were wondering.
It's not really a proper holiday. It is what people seem determined to call a "staycation." Except we're British, so technically it should be a holistay. Whatever you call it, we're staying at home, but not going to work for two glorious weeks. Hooray.
I'm planning on sleeping, reading, walking the dog and talking about, but probably never actually going to, things at the many festivals and fringe festivals and fringe fringes that take over Edinburgh every August. I have big plans to build some flat-pack furniture. I might even find time for some blog tinkering. The excitement never ends.
See you on the other side.
Image: Nest Decorating
And so it is with Mull. But first, I have to say this: I was wrong. Before we went, I would tell anyone who would listen that no, we weren't going abroad this year, we were going to Mull, always accompanied with a resigned shrug of the shoulders and That Look. It will be crap, that look said. It will rain, the cottage will be grotty, we'll be bored after a day.
It didn't, it wasn't, we weren't. I was wrong.
To be fair, it didn't start well. The first football match kicked off on the ferry, and it doesn't seem to have ended yet. Funny how Fin neglected to mention the European championship when we were booking the trip. Smidgen and I were united in our disinterest.
Then we arrived. And oh, it was good.
In the interests of full disclosure, I must confess that our delightful first evening, mainly spent exclaiming over our perfect cottage and its perfect views and its perfect lack of midges, was slightly marred when, in a fit of first-night-of-holiday exuberance, I whacked my half-full glass of red wine all over our friend's beloved Macbook. Awkward, to say the least.
Our new neighbour wasn't too impressed with us either.
Mull itself is a wild, gorgeous place. Single-track roads thread between vast hills and trickle down to the sea. Purple rhododendron have burst out of their gardens and clambered up the crumbling slopes. Ferries trundle back and forth to Iona, cradle of Scottish Christianity and transient home to an inordinate number of American tourists. Smidgen was a hit there, naturally.
We walked to hidden beaches, tiny churches, mausoleums and standing stones. We bought vegetables from the back of a van and petrol from a man who pumped it for you. We learned the etiquette of the narrow roads, noting the different styles of wave (the Whole-Hand, the One-Finger, ooh, the Blessing - fancy) and cursing those who drove by without acknowledgement. They must be new to the island, we agreed. They didn't understand.
There was one breakdown of the mechanical variety, and another of the hung over kind. The less said about the gin-fuelled Chinese conga line, the better.
I have never been so glad to be wrong.
If you're thinking of a trip to Mull, we stayed in Ardchrishnish, which I would sincerely recommend, and travelled there by a Calmac ferry piloted by our friend's cousin. Scotland really is a ridiculously small world.
So, I'm back from Mull, and I have to tell you: it was SENSATIONAL. I take back every bad thought I ever had and every snarky comment I ever made about spending my precious week of summer holiday in a cottage on an island in rain-sodden Scotland. The sun shone, the birds sang, the cows gave Smidgen the stink-eye; it was perfect.
So perfect, in fact, that I couldn't possibly bring myself to tarnish the experience by doing something as sweaty and unpleasant as running. I was on holiday. I think we can all agree that holidays are not for running. Holidays are for eating. And drinking.
But time and athletic pursuits wait for no man, so on Sunday I duly donned my pink t-shirt and ran my race. That's right: RAN IT. It wasn't exactly a fast time by international standards, but given the lack of training and week of holiday excess that directly preceded it, it wasn't bad. As I crossed the finish line, I was beaming. Who needs training?
Ha. Ha ha ha.
Believe me, I'm not smiling now. I'm hobbling. Every time I stand up, my muscles pop and shriek. I keep letting out inappropriate moans in the office. It's getting awkward. I'm shuffling around the place like the only single man at the seniors' disco. So apparently training isn't such a terrible idea after all. Who knew?
When I've recovered full use of my limbs, I'll be back with a thrilling rundown of our holiday (in short: eat, shower, eat, spectacular scenery, eat, drink, eat, drink, sleep, repeat). Until then, I just want to say a heartfelt thank you to all of you who supported me, sponsored me, shouted at me (Ellie and Penny, I'm sorry I didn't listen to you) and generally reminded me the world is full of good people.
Thank you. From me, from my mum, and from all of us affected by cancer.
Bored of holidays to gorgeous, sunny places? Tired of the same old delicious food and crystal blue waters? Sick to death of strolling hand-in-hand watching the sun set on yet another balmy, tropical evening? Yeah, I thought you probably were.
That's why, just for you, Fin and I have decided to forget all of that travelling-to-new-and-exotic-places crap and stay right here in solid, dependable Scotland. Who cares about sunshine! Sunshine is for losers! I never liked it anyway!
No, I am NOT protesting too much. I am also totally fine with the fact that I sent Fin and his friends to the supermarket to get supplies for our group trip to a cottage on the Isle of Mull and they came back 90 minutes and £160 later with nothing but booze and Doritos. Totally. Fine. With. It. (Sorry about that noise. It's just my teeth grinding.)
Our plans are pretty loose at the moment, so any suggestions for things to do in Mull and Iona are welcome. Suggestions for things to do in Mull and Iona when it's almost certainly going to be raining are actively encouraged. On the list so far: drink a lot of booze, eat a lot of Doritos, under no circumstances watch any horror films set in isolated locations.
Not on the list: the internet. This unfortunately means I'll have to cut back on my usual hectic blogging schedule (my, how times have changed), but I'm sure you'll cope.
Have a fabulous week, folks, and if you're off somewhere sunny and glamorous, well, try not to be too jealous of me. I know it will be hard. If you're very lucky, I'll bring you back a midge.
{Neenah + Andy's engagement shoot by Kristen Marie Photography in Seattle. I can't help thinking I'd feel right at home in the Pacific Northwest.}
(Alternative title: I Finally Found the Cable For My Camera)
It started off grey. Low-lying clouds drifted up from the valley, seeping between the trees and into our bones. We moved carefully through the murky half-light, our bodies slowly remembering how to do this thing.
All was well, for the first two hours. Then came a phone call, tears, an ambulance. Sa clavicule, elle est cassée. Fin and I looked at each other and looked away, heartsick. Glad it wasn't us, guilty for our gladness.
We awoke on the third day to fat snowflakes fluttering down, filling the air like confetti. It fell, and it fell, and it fell. We bounced and tumbled and whooped through knee-deep snow. Our car got stuck. We retreated, gratefully, to the hot tub. I cannot overstate how good it was to sink, groaning, into that steaming pool at the end of the day. A drink didn't hurt, either.
Finally the clouds parted. The snow of the previous days had been bullied into submission and the pistes were all but empty. The only sound was the thrum of our skis trembling over the grooved surface. I swished and swooped from one run to the next. Even my mum took to the slopes, for the first time since she left France to come home and begin cancer treatment three years ago. She skied cautiously, carefully, but still - she skied.
Fin began skiing 8 years ago, under the questionable instruction of me and my dad. This year, for the first time, I caught glimpses of how it will be one day when he can effortlessly keep pace with me. I can't wait.
(No, I didn't help him. I was too busy laughing.)
French alpine food follows a basic pattern: meat, cheese, or meat + cheese. In an exciting twist on this theme, the meat above was served with a generous crumbling of salt, a token leaf or two, and a slab of butter. No bread, just... butter. Oh, France.
It was all going so well (broken collarbones and motoring mishaps aside).
And then it got cold. Very, very cold.
That's 9.30 in the morning, just to be clear. And it got colder. So cold that the very air around us seemed to freeze. Tiny particles shimmered in the sunlight like glitter. Every breath chilled me to the bone.
When we stopped at lunchtime - in a hilarious café where the electricity went off every time they used the putain micro-onde (the "fucking microwave"), so that Fin had to continuously flick a switch in the fusebox above his head - it was so cold that the water in the toilet bowl had frozen. Yowza. When I took my glove off to try and take a picture, I lost all feeling in my hand within about ten seconds and didn't get it back for an hour.
This is me. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Hey, Kirsty, maybe you should have laid off on the cheese fondue". And you would be right. But as well as the thin layer of fromage that congealed around my body over the course of the week, I am also wearing:
A thermal vest
A thermal base layer
Another thermal base layer
A fleece
Another fleece
A ski jacket
Thermal long johns
Salopettes
A scarf
A hat
A balaclava
Goggles
A hood
A smile (you'll have to take my word for that, though.)
That's six layers just on my top half, and three on my head. Like I said. Very, very cold.
When we stopped at lunchtime - in a hilarious café where the electricity went off every time they used the putain micro-onde (the "fucking microwave"), so that Fin had to continuously flick a switch in the fusebox above his head - it was so cold that the water in the toilet bowl had frozen. Yowza. When I took my glove off to try and take a picture, I lost all feeling in my hand within about ten seconds and didn't get it back for an hour.
This is me. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Hey, Kirsty, maybe you should have laid off on the cheese fondue". And you would be right. But as well as the thin layer of fromage that congealed around my body over the course of the week, I am also wearing:
A thermal vest
A thermal base layer
Another thermal base layer
A fleece
Another fleece
A ski jacket
Thermal long johns
Salopettes
A scarf
A hat
A balaclava
Goggles
A hood
A smile (you'll have to take my word for that, though.)
That's six layers just on my top half, and three on my head. Like I said. Very, very cold.
And very, very fun.
For those who are interested in these sorts of things, we stayed in the amazing Chalet La Giettaz in La Giettaz en Aravis, in Savoie, which I would recommend a million percent. We flew easyJet to Grenoble, hired a car and drove there in under a couple of hours. We skied in Megève, the Espace Diamant and Le Grand Bornand. Did I mention the HOT TUB?
Images of Fin skiing and of me wearing everything I own by Kieran Burchell
Did anyone else watch We'll Take Manhattan last night? The much-hyped BBC Four dramatisation followed David Bailey and Jean Shrimpton as they shagged their way around New York in 1962. Somehow, they found time in their busy sex schedule to squeeze in a bit of ground-breaking fashion photography and to single-handedly bring down the British class system. There was also a teddy bear. And a lot of hairspray.
I'm still not sure the film really explained what made this shoot so iconic, other than something complicated to do with the film format and the controversial inclusion of a rusty fence. To be honest, I was too distracted by our leather-clad antihero's jolly Dick van Dyke accent and Karen Gillan's gravity-defying hair to pay much attention to what was going on. Although I did notice some nice use of light (see, I'm learning!).
However, I am assured that Bailey and Shrimpton were quite the cool couple in their day. So you can imagine my excitement when I spotted this little detail:
That's my girl! Because what's the first thing you're going to pack for your once-in-a-lifetime modelling tour of Manhattan with your married lover and the fashion editor of Vogue? Why, your knitting bag, obviously. Told you knitting was cool. I like to think she's knitting a snood for one of her dogs (two sheepdogs, an Airedale, a Schnauzer and a German Shepherd, apparently), but sadly my hypothesis wasn't confirmed. We'll never know.
In other news, tomorrow we are jetting off on a little adventure of our own. The French Alps probably couldn't be less like Manhattan if they tried, but I still can't wait to spend some quality time there with the Hubster, my family and huge quantities of cheese.
I'll be back in a week or so, bone-weary and goggle-tanned. À bientôt, mes amies.
{Top image: Jean Shrimpton for British Vogue shot by David Bailey (who else?). Bottom image via the BBC.}
You remember that damn snood I've been knitting for weeks? Well, this weekend I finally finished it. Hooray! I'm a bit embarrassed to admit how proud I am. But just look at it, all grey and snuggly and perfect. Perfect from certain angles, anyway. I hope winter lasts forever so I can wear it all the time! And no, please don't remind me I said that when it's snowing in July.
If anyone wants to whip themselves up something similar, I used about a ball and a half of this wool in 'Wren' and I'd be happy to share my completely made-up and not-remotely-professional pattern. If I can remember it. Just email me.
(I'm not pregnant in that picture, by the way; that's just how I stand. Ask Lauren.)
In other weekend news, I packed for my ski holiday. Oh, I didn't mention my ski holiday? Yeah, I'm going on one. With Fin, and my parents, and my brother and his girlfriend and his friend and his girlfriend and a van full of wine. I suspect we'll need it.
We're not actually leaving until next weekend, but my dad is driving said van all the way to the French Alps this week with our bags and skis and snowboards (and wine) onboard, thus saving us approximately ten billion euros in easyjet baggage fees, so we had to pack this weekend. This makes a change from my usual packing procedure, which consists of making endless lists of all possible holiday capsule wardrobe combinations until it's midnight the night before departure and I'm desperately cramming damp clothing into a bag because I've been too busy making lists to actually do anything productive, like washing.
Actually, that's pretty much exactly what happened this weekend. It just happened six days before departure instead of six hours. Whatev, I still call that an improvement.
So, that was my weekend. How was yours?
This weekend, my mum and I are going on a jaunt. We are hopping on a train out of Edinburgh, waving farewell to its stairways and spires and air of refined elegance, and heading west. Back to the city where she was born. The city where I came of age, met my husband and learned the finer points of comparative constitutional law. And drank. A lot.
Every time I return to Glasgow, I take personal offence at things that have changed. How dare they replace the places I used to go with new places where new people go? Who do these new people think they are? Don't they know it's my city? What do you mean I don't live here any more, what does that have to do with anything? Why are you asking me to leave? Please can I finish my cocktail first?
The sad truth of it is, I simply don't know it any more, not like I used to. Glasgow is not the kind of city that sits still, gazing wistfully out of the window as it awaits your return, perhaps doing a bit of embroidery to keep it occupied. Glasgow moves on. Glasgow gets a makeover. Glasgow is snogging someone else before your train has even left the station.
So, I'm asking you for help. Glasgow people, what are your favourite weekend haunts? Anywhere we really ought to go, any hidden gems we should seek out? What are the cool kids (and their mothers) doing these days?
To narrow it down a little, we will be staying in the West End (old habits die hard) from Friday to Sunday and will be mainly focusing on eating, drinking, chatting, shopping, eating, wandering and drinking.
At least some things haven't changed.
{West End Map by Alice Dansey-Wright via They Draw and Travel}
THURSDAY
Race from work to the station. Run over several tourists' feet with wheelie suitcase.
Decide that a small pasta salad, a G&T in a can and a jumbo packet of crisps constitutes a balanced dinner.
Frantically read several chapters of How to Be a Woman on the train in preparation for Blook Club while simultaneously applying multiple layers of glittery nail varnish. Get weird looks from man on train.
Read the childbirth bit. Cross legs repeatedly. Resolve never to have sex ever again.
Try to eat pasta salad using only the little wooden sticks you use to stir your coffee. Harder than you might think.
Race to Leicester Square to meet friend. Run over some more tourists. Drink some wine.
Back to friend's flat. Drink some more wine. Drink some chocolate liqueur. Regret it almost immediately. Fall asleep on couch at 2am.
FRIDAY
Arrive at work, thirty minutes late. Discover the computer I was going to use is gone. Say "SHIT!" in very loud voice. Realise senior partner is sitting behind me. Bollocks.
Work.
Lunch with lovely internet lady.
More work. Yawn.
Race to hotel to meet Lucy. Knock wheelie suitcase down Tube escalator. Act like it's not mine.
Arrive at hotel, thirty minutes late. Rush to get changed. Apply eyeliner unevenly. Keep adding more eyeliner to 'balance it out'. End up looking like I am paying bizarre, eyeliner-based tribute to Amy Winehouse.
Arrive at Any Other Party, thirty minutes late. Squeal. Hug. Drink. Chat. Laugh. Drink. Gush. Bond. Giggle. Drink. Swoon. Act like total loser when introduced to wedding blogging royalty. Cringe. Drink. Hug. Hobble. Sleep.
SATURDAY
Meet lovely internet ladies for breakfast coffee at 11.
Meet lovely real-life lady for lunch at 12.
Back on the train at 1, back to the book, back to the flat for Strictly. Jason and Kristina to win, obv.
SUNDAY
Sleep. Up. Finally finish the book at 1. Off to Blook Club at 2 with YET MORE lovely internet ladies.
Chat chat chat chat chat chat chat. Start off with coffee, move on to the hard stuff when someone brings up the boobs. Chat chat chat chat chat. Tales told, trains missed, gossip shared.
By the time I get home, six laughter-filled hours later, I can barely speak. I have no words left. I am blissfully content. And fucking knackered.
I'm off to London tonight, and more than a wee bit excited about tomorrow's Any Other Party. My outfit is packed. The deed is done. No going back. If you want to know what I ended up choosing, well, you'll just have to wait and see.
I'm never quite sure what I think of London. Do I love it or loathe it? I can't tell. It's crowded, dirty, unfamiliar, overwhelming. Cultured, glamorous, limitless, dazzling. It's wild young things in butterfly colours, wankers in city suits. It's everything to everyone, but I'm not quite certain what it is to me.
Whatever it is, I expect to have a damn fine time.
I'm not taking my laptop with me, so no post tomorrow. Those of you on twitter, keep an eye out for #AnyOtherParty, if you feel so inclined. I'll be back next week with all the gossip. See you then.
Images: 1. Stanislaus S Longley (1927) 2. Donna Muir and Su Huntley (1987) 3. James Fitton (1937) 4. Clifford Ellis and Rosemary Ellis (1936) 5. Stanislaus S Longley (1933), all via the London Transport Museum poster collection. I do love a good vintage travel poster.
Lounged around, extensively.
Went to San Francisco and had dinner with my number one blogging crush.
I'm not going to lie, I was crapping my pants. But I think I played it cool. Kind of.
Got badly lost on the way to Napa.
And on the way to University Falls.
And on the way to Boulder Creek.
And on the way to Elkhorn Slough
(which, incidentally, the Americans insist on pronouncing "Slew". Strange people).
Successfully managed not to punch my stepbrother-in-law in the face
when he asked us when we were going to "start pupping". Yeah.
We all know how I feel about *that*, even without the dog references.
 |
| *For the avoidance of doubt, this is RAIN, ok people?* |
Had to change my clothes in the back of a car, after a gentle little stroll to see some seals
left me soaked to the skin through five layers of clothing. Including my underwear.
California, I thought we had an agreement about the rain thing?
Snuck out to the boardwalk after dark with my husband,
where I went on and on and on the rollercoaster,
and giggled at Fin giggling at me giggling at Fin,
and never wanted it to stop.
Until I thought I was going be sick. Then I kind of wanted it to stop.
Put on approximately three stone, consisting entirely of fried food, Pop Tarts and wine.
(This is based on no actual weight measurements. It is entirely possible that my clothes
may simply have shrunk.)
Bought precisely two things: a hat, because it was sunny, and a jumper, because I was cold.
I think this might mean I'm growing up.
The pictures are mine. The hairy ankles are all Fin's.
