Blue Dress Hot Mess

It was Paris. And I adore Paris. A 6:02 start because I refused to believe I had to be awake by 6am, a rushed coffee made with globs of yesterday’s smudged mascara fogging my vision, the lights of the London skyline shining brightly through the crisp, clear morning gloom. That’s an oxymoron, so perhaps the gloom was only in my tired head. It was a walk to Pimlico tube – deserted – in a mock-Chanel dress down a street full of bin lorries. Victoria line, Kings Cross, St Pancras… and then it was Paris. Heat, that hum, an open window, a black and gold bathroom. It was food and service like I’d never seen before. Heat and languidity induced entirely by food and indulgence. Over-indulgence. Indulgence, wine, and sunshine. It made me wonder – does wealth improve happiness? Certainly, it makes for one hell of a weekend. I was in the laps of luxury, the face of whom I had never before seen with such clarity. This new vision revealed wrinkles. Bottles of wine quite literally worth thousands of pounds each. No care for the price. A knowledge being expanded, indulged, engrossed. Taxis everywhere, hardly a break between meals. But romance? What of love in all this luxury? It certainly could have been there – would have been there – with a lover. As it was, I am in awe rather than in love. It was Paris from the position of wealth – glorious, incessantly charming – but I was constantly under the impression that it would have been more charming – I would have been more charmed – with coffee and cigarettes. I remain in a coma of sunshine. I remain full. And certes, I remain enamoured with Paris.