L'Amour

I must confess - ever the cynic - I am way over the search for romance and the perfect man.
Apparently French musicians (who come with chateaus and beach villas inclusive) may or may not only exist in Paris.

But there's alot more to be said about lovers.

Ah lovers! Those seedy chance 'encounters'! That illicit affair! And pourquoi?

Tucked away in the August-September issue of Russh (lifesaver if ever there was one) - I stumbled upon an old McGinley snap of the late Dash Snow blissfully engaged in a bit of carnal pleasuring (as many a friend of mine likes to term it). And it has me feeling both nostalgic and inspired. Ah lovers. The intimacy. The slightly shameful smiles. Staring at the floor and mumbling a response to the question, 'So, what have you two been up to?' The devious knowing conspiratorial glances across a room. The unexplained 'disappearances'. The encounters which seem permanently set to the soundtrack of 70s folk-rock (probably just me). Bed hair that is just perfect. Where there's a story behind that messed up outfit. The shared morning after coffee. The forgotten item of clothing.

Yes, I just walked out wearing your shirt.

And touche, I will pick up my bra.

It could be once. It could be forever.

Maybe later.

I'll be back for more.

Love (and I mean it)

xx

Bec

Unhealthy Obsession: Brogues Part II

Or perhaps I should have re-titled this: 'The Never-Ending Quest to Emulate Gainsbourg' (Either that or buy that kind of obscenely expensive Gainsbourg is God sweater from Net-A-Porter)

A rather hideous fellow who somehow oozed nonchalant sleazy sexiness, Left Bank artistic cool and is the very embodiment of the saying that French men achieve great things (and usually contract a venereal disease along the way). Words of the saying. Not mine. A twentieth century gentleman of leisure who married Jane Birkin (of the Birkin bag) and spawned Charlotte Gainsbourg (need I say more)

So inspired was I by my love affair with Serge & Jane (in honour of her...I do have a pair of much loved high waisted denim hotpants...if only I had her legs) that I inconveniently lugged around a box of Repetto Zizi richelieus all around L'Hexagone during my 'Oh you learned French in school...we should probably try going to the country now' trip. Being all patent, black and shiny and ridiculously comfy and soft (the genius of Gainsbourg is that the man knew how to rock a pair of girl's jazz shoes...although they are inspired by men's shoes...and now I'm just getting gender confused)...it was pure crazy l'amour at first sight. That's what Paris does to you.

Technically I should have bought them in white. But the practical penny pinching Asian in me figured I'd get more wear out of anything black and shiny. Then...the not-so-practical magpie in me then went and bought an even shinier pair a couple of years later...But they have gold! And they have a cut-out detail...which makes them different right? Right?

You can blame Gainsbourg for all this. And the unhealthy obsession while we're at it.

No seriously.

Love

xo

Bec