… like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars.
London’s not burning. It’s melting.
Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong
You know what a really great dating app would do? It would scan your Google search history for all your weird musings and secret questions then match you with someone who’s been equally curious about the same things. Or, if not possible, at least match you with someone who is at essentially the same level of weirdness as you.
Drinking French, being English
I was primped to within an inch of my life: blow wave sleek, nails shellacked in inoffensive beige, Hobbs heels on, hair hidden under an equally beige hat, dressed modestly, lipstick lacquering my lips. The only hiccup was my name badge: Miss Alexander E. Alexander. I was about to go rub modestly-covered shoulders with London’s best coiffed and I was going to do so as an Alexander.
Let London swallow you whole.
“Am I dying?”
“No, it’s just London.”
Alrighty then.
“It’s a stress headache, so you should drink your wine.” Forget doctors, see Twiggy for medical advice. Our resident medical expert tops up Paris’s wineglass.
The Riga alphabet: Aperšbiksen, Black Balzam, cider, daiquiris.
This weekend we went to Riga. As you do.
When I die, I’m leaving my body to science fiction.
Mixing friends is chemistry. Add people to a beaker and wait. You usually get a reaction. Sometimes it bubbles along nicely. And sometimes it blows up in your face.
Hi everyone. I’m Olaf and I like warm hugs!
I should have curtseyed.
Summer’s in the air and baby, heaven’s in your eyes
Even a girl with a such a sensible head as mine can’t help but fall lose it over. It keeps happening, all the time. I caught it happening at least a couple of times this week, this dizzying, headfirst rush.
Tell me what you don’t like about yourself
Monday afternoon, a bank holiday. It’s pouring with rain and the window in my bedroom is open to let out warm air and let in splashes of cold water. We’ve ordered Indian take-away and are waiting.
An unsettlingly big place 