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Friday, 3 August 2012
46 (less) shades of grey. .(scribbled at 22:21 )


T-Shirt: Zara
Glasses: Topshop circa 2008
If any of you read last Wednesday's post on scrubbing up my French, well... it's not going horrifically. Like, my copy of Coco Before Chanel arrived from Amazon and everything! I've even started incorporating random French lexis into my work emails, which is undoubtedly pissing everyone off in the office. Oops.


From my brief stint of au pairing in Neuilly Sur Seine, I remember that three things grew embedded in my mindset as quintessentially Parisian.


1. Espresso and copious amounts of filter coffee before breakfast. 
2. Snacking on bread and jam after getting home ('Goûter, I believe my French children referred to it as)
3 Everyone wearing so much monochrome that they could have been mistaken as an extra in a  film conceived by the Lumière brothers.


Audrey Tautou: the bilingual beauty i'll never be
Of course, the stark reality of this is that if you drink a couple of espressos in quick succession of each other, you'll probably vomit. Also, regardless of how frequently I choose to opt for bread and jam as a post work snack, it is not making me any thinner and any more French. It just means that the likelihood of me squeezing my ass into a pair of Comptoir des Cotonniers chinos is becoming increasingly impossible.


But the clothing palette of grey? That I can commit to...

Now before you hit the 'X' icon in the corner of your browser window in a flurry of horror, I must reiterate here that I am not a sartorial blogger, nor will I pretend to be. But I bought four grey tops from Zara in the last week alone so I'm experiencing a little high of post-consumerism madness.
Well, it was partially justified madness anyway. You know when you've worn a favourite piece from your wardrobe so much that it reaches the point where it is physically falling to pieces, and no amount of Cinderella's seamstress mice can salvage it?

Walt Disney: building false hopes for girls since 1901
Well, for the past 4 years I've been donning this grey tee that I picked up from the Zara on the Champs-Élysées, and it was only last week when standing outside our archives at work I caught sight of my reflection. This t-shirt had become transparent through wear (insert swear word here where I realised that everyone I'd encountered that day... had seen too much) Now I'm totally up for sheer fabrics forming part of my wardrobe, just not when that fabric was cotton once upon a time. So a few hours later, I found myself on Bond Street, destined to replace just one grey t-shirt. Not long after, I was back at Oxford Circus with a bulging bag of 3 grey t-shirts and a (grey, obvs.) jersey maxi dress. B*llocks... pay day is a ridiculous amount of time away. Oh, and I just remembered that there was a new Breton top in that bag (again, trying-and-failing to be European haha)
Anyway, after that post on Donald Judd and Minimalism being fantastic etc, I think it's time I adopted clean cut lines into my wardrobe for a while. I might even try and pretend I can afford to buy something achingly  chic from Cos or something like that.

I found this image on Copious.com
I also shouldn't be admitting this on my blog, but I even extended this through to my maquillage* this week. I abandoned my box of Rimmel go-to pieces in favour of Chanel foundation and Lancôme Doll Eyes mascara.  Which is making me think a bit about marketing in the cosmetics industry. I bought a L'Oréal nail varniss earlier, in shade 'Café St. Germain', which I now realise is compelete and utter merde. My nails do not represent anything Parisian right now: the shade is something not too dissimilar from mushroom soup.

Well, at least I mastered the Tarte Tatin.

V

*alas, not scent: my bottle of No. 5 ran out a year ago. I haven't got the nerve to ask my mother to buy me another.

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about
diaristic ramblings about architecture, design, art, baking and shoes.

...all posts penned by Vikki, a twenty-something girl based in London (but currently having itchy feet and wanting to move back to Neuilly).

all these poorly taken photographs are indeed my own.


Vermeer's Victoria Sponge.