It's The Last Day Of Winter

I mean, 'winter'. The average temp was 19.3C (67F for those playing at home) and there was only one night that I actually felt the cold reach my bones (the Hilton opening night, when I wore my gorgeous Betty & John jersey wrap dress, and well, yes, open-toe shoes because they are such a good match).

It has been glorious, there's no other word for it. Blue skies almost every single day. No rain - it started sprinkling the other morning and I was confused by the sound. And no wind, phew, since that's what I hate the most.

Highlights of this winter include buying some lovely essential black knee high boots from Witchery; a perfect day out with Natalie starting with brunch near the airport, shopping in Chatswood and concluding with Champagne at Ravesi's, overlooking the beach; lots of red wine; and not actually feeling that it was ever winter - just variations of spring and autumn.

There are two seasonal songs that are important to me. One is Summer's Almost Gone by The Doors which I play on the piano every February 28. The other is Wintertime Love by The Doors:

Wintertime winds blow cold the season
Fallen in love, I'm hopin' to be
Wind is so cold, is that the reason?
Keeping you warm, your hands touching me
Come with me dance, my dear
Winter's so cold this year
You are so warm
My wintertime love to be
Winter time winds blue and freezin'
Comin' from northern storms in the sea
Love has been lost, is that the reason?
Trying desperately to be free
Come with me dance, my dear
Winter's so cold this year
And you are so warm
My wintertime love to be
Come with me dance, my dear
Winter's so cold this year
You are so warm
My wintertime love to be

My Own Experience With Chariots

My infatuation with La Coquette continues, as I spend my days devouring her blog. This entry, End of the Plastic Bag Era, reminded me of what happened with Richard, my French ex-boyfriend.

We lived in a gorgeous converted warehouse in Pyrmont, and our nearest shopping centre was a 3 minute drive - or 15 minute walk - away. He detested laziness, so the 15 minute walk was the only option. Back then a weekly shop was de rigeur, so we'd easily have 8-12 bags...heavy bags...to share between us. At first he'd put everything bar two bags for me in a backpack and off we'd tromp home (me, unhappily. I always hated this and figured hey, he's cute, he's French, he knows what we're doing. Actually I hated him thinking I was lazy, which he always made me feel). Then one day he was struck with an epiphany and decided to buy a wheeled shopping cart (if only I knew it was the done thing in France, and had the cute name of chariot, the francofille in me would have justified it). Similar to this one, but red tartan, like all the other nanas. I was 19, he was 32.

It was the same kind of embarassment as when your mum stops too close to the school gates to pick you up. I was hoping people would focus on his tan and perfect smile and not the nana convenience.

Look At This Photo!

Courtesy of French Word-A-Day, how beautiful is this photo!

This Week

Downloading And Listening To: The Killers (didn't like them before, must be the mood I'm in).
In Love With: Aussie Lass and La Coquette (I think I have a crush on these francofilles).
Bought: Mikael office desk from Ikea - you're allowed to buy office desks from Ikea; a soopadoopa Bodum measuring jug. It has measurements for flour, rice, metric and the other one. Come on, it's the little things. Also, the first Big Shop for the apartment. God how I love that first big shop. It takes twice as long, costs a bomb, fills the trolley, and I love it. All the basics and all the small luxuries that are now essentials, like Lurpak butter, King Island sour cream, fresh yoghurt from Norton Street Grocer, Dangaran Estate olive oil.

Tuesday: Drink with the super lovely Kat.
Wednesday: Bellydancing.
Thursday: Nat is coming over for dinner, I'm thinking of cooking Asian mussels with rice.

My Photos Of Europe And New York

Always worth another look.

My beloved Naxos.

I Went Speed Dating On Saturday Night

Wore: Gorgeous knit wrap dress from my site.
Underwear: Bridget Jones' big knickers, just to prove to the cynics that I will give it a go.
Shave The Legs? Yes.

Why do I do it? I like nothing more as a single gal going out on a Saturday night to a nice pub or bar with my friend/s, sharing a bottle of red and then some, and chatting the night away. It's thanks to said bottle of wine that these ideas sound appealing. So there I am, with my only other single friend N, waiting for one of three complimentary drinks, my name tag pealing away from my dress, cursing this decision and wishing for it all to be over. I am much more nervous than I like, and I hate being nervous.

We meet 15-odd guys over the course of the night, none that appealled, even as friends, although I spent the latter part of the night talking to one guy, mostly about dogs (it's nice meeting an animal-lover who isn't a nutjob), thanks to my beautiful Fendi heel which decided to snap off and bring our night to a halt. Some guys are easy to chat with, some are shy and either don't talk or talk at a million miles an hour, some are arrogant arseholes ("how did you get that scar on your chin?...I think you should break another bone so you have a more interesting story to tell"), and a couple who were a sandwich short of a picnic. The night is simply an exercise in being a human broken record, asking the same questions and repeating the same in-25-words-or-less replies (namely about what you do and where you live). I threw a spanner in the works by asking random questions which one guy did not like at all. "How about we ask the normal questions first and then ask the weird questions after?" Okaay. I sit there semi-listening to him tell me about his job in IT and god knows where he lives while wondering what colour his Mazda 121 Funtop would be. I'm thinking aqua. My favourite hobby is of course sitting back and observing people, their behaviour and body language. At halftime all the girls decided there were no Mr. Rights so we attacked the snack food like hawks, shoving in handfuls of oily samosas in between gulps of cheap wine. That's the Saturday night I know and love. In fact it was a better exercise in girls meeting girls - we all instantly clicked and had a great laugh. There was a German guy, tall, the best looking of the lot (although a bit too chiselled and Aryan for my liking), and at one point he was holding court over five girls, all who were flicking their hair, laughing at his jokes, leaning forward and wanting more. He siddled over to me at the end and tried to lay it on, but I wasn't interested, and getting very drunk. In fact I did get very drunk - it's true: tequila, cheap wine and vodka do not mix.

Unfortunately I didn't read the rules and was ticking yes to everybody - not wanting to hurt anyone's feelings - until halftime when N told me if you both tick yes you get sent each other's contact details. I hurried back and crossed them all off - but they've ignored that and this morning I've found seven yes's in my Inbox, which means seven randoms have my full name and mobile number. For the love of god!

As I told one girl while fighting over the last mini spring roll, I'll do anything as at the very least it'll be another blog entry and a story to tell the girls over another bottle of wine. What have I learnt? Never again. And if the idea of internet dating comes up, stop drinking. I'm well aware that one in ten couples these days meet online, and that it will become the norm. Hell, I want to cash in on these statistics and set up my own money-and-match-making scheme. But after this brief dabble in meeting a gaggle of randoms, I think that's enough for me.

A Man's Smell

I miss it. That smell that is their pillow and their towel. That smell in the nape of their neck (which is coincidently my French word of the day, nuque). It's so delicious, so more-ish, so addictive. It's so them - the loveliest, most romantic thing about them. I could envelop myself in that smell for a lifetime.

I miss it when I seperate from a man. For some reason, I miss it now.

Aujourd'hui, maman est morte.

The most brilliant line, collection of words, opening sentence. It is so beautiful, so tight. It changed my life.

Aujourd'hui, maman est morte. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas.

I Do My Best Thinking In The Shower

I love showers. I'm sorry that I don't care about water restrictions but it's one of my favourite of life's simple pleasures - hot hot water and exhausting it till the very last drop.

I do all my best thinking in the shower - thoughts that disappear and seem irrelevant as soon as I step out and do the routine: apply my beloved Clarins Beauty Flash Balm and slip on Philosophy's Gingerbread Souffle (which neither smells like gingerbread or has a souffle consistency, but is gentle enough on my hyper sensitive skin).

Thoughts like, I really should buy that photograph for $360; then I have the conversation in French with the photographer - a wonderful conversation that starts off with "oui je parle francais mais je suis trop timide" and ends in best friendship; beautiful soaps really do make good housewarming presents; but why should I not treat myself and just use beautiful soaps all the time, like The Body Shop's coconut soap (of course I forget this thought, standing in front of the soap aisle at the supermarket, and grab a box of whatever that's cheap and cheerful but bland); I must read some more Sartre; what can I wear tomorrow; I can't wait to sunbake when it gets warmer - I really will use SPF30+ this year, and every day; how do you make Thai food taste exactly like Thai takeaway, especially those flat wide noodles I love; how jealous is the average person in a relationship...

This Week

Want To Buy: Angels On Bare Skin from Lush - BOUGHT.

Belly dancing last night was amazing. We did a little choreographed dance and it was beautiful. Really enjoying it and want to do it two, three times a week!
Thursday-Friday: Apartment is being painted. Antique White USA. It will look great.
Tonight: Marc Rambeau exhibition at the Alliance Francaise. He's one of my favourite artists and his works used to hang in the wonderful foyer of Le Meridien in Noumea.

Julie Delpy

I am slightly mad for Before Sunrise/Before Sunset. I watch them over and over again and it's like falling in love each time. Beyond beautiful.

And this link, of Julie Delpy accepting an award, is just so cute.

Shuriken

I love this photo of Shuriken, la petite gueule d'ange française.

This Week

Listening to: "Plus Doux Avec Moi", Charlotte et Serge Gainsbourg.
Downloaded: "Dr Feelgood", Motley Crue.
Singing along to on the radio: "That's Just The Way It Is Baby", Rembrandt.
Enrolled in: Vous avez dit choquant French conversation class at Continuing Education at the University of Sydney, starting mid-September.
Want to buy: Long boho summer skirts in white, yellow, orange, red, brown. Bronze sandals.

I moved into my new digs last weekend. I hate moving. And yet I seem to do it so often, under the mantra of "life's too short, you only live once" yada yada yada. But now that I have my own place, I plan to be here for a while. Already I love it - it has a cool vibe, and the people seem a bit too nice. I'm panicking about kitchen storage space but I'll manage. I just have to say no to mini frothers/individual soup tureens/electric pie makers. Having the place painted next week. I want a big photo of Serge and Jane (black sur white) on the big wall in my open plan loungeroom but I'm dreading enquiring about the cost.

And god, I want to kiss A.

Knocks You For Six

It's amazing how they just knock you for six. Who? The ex I had gotten over, the ex I had come to see sans rose-tinted glasses. They get in touch one day with an email that's a lovely swan song. And then an SMS, and you reply, and with a smile you see that they are burying the hatchet - or found somebody else and are clearing the air. Then you have a dream about them, about the holiday you had, and it's bitter. He sends you a text telling you he's had a bad dream about you, that it's more about what it meant than what happened, and that what it meant was that you'd gone. It knocks you for six. Later he tells you he'll let you be and disappears in a puff of smoke.

Pour toi, moi je n'etais qu'un jeu.

You don't reply even though you want to, what you want to say - scream - is: "Give me 0 or 100% - nothing in between". But you don't, you cry in the shower and hate being knocked for six when you were fine, when you were happy and enjoying being single. Now you believe you'll never know love - that that beautiful never-ending optimism that true love would one day fill your life has for the first time disappeared off your radar. And for the first time a bland stillness fills your insides, and it's a case of "yea whatever".

So what do you do. Go and drink red wine with your friend, and hopefully have a cigarette unless the fucking rules don't allow you to.