This is Hotdog for whom I developed a deep, adulterous passion in Paris this weekend whilst weepette was trustingly waiting for me in Brussels. I am a dog whore (hello, creepy keyword searchers!). In this picture I am in the lift, taking him for a walk at 2am to the jeers of the assembled Parisians. Hotdog's papa is unfeasibly beautiful AND a patissier trained by Pierre Hermé.
This is not (the only reason) why I love Hotdog. I love his tiny rabbit like hind legs and the way he flops stoically wherever you put him. Hotdog was entirely indifferent to me. This did not in any way diminish my passion.
I had a wonderful time in Paris. Beautiful dinner with my beautiful beautiful friend Trish who is a fiendishly fabulous cook, justly celebrated, and rocks a dinner party better than anyone in the world.
20 types of goats cheese, fig bread, beautiful tomatoes, salad, truffle oil. The echt Parisians were horrified at this cheese starter monstrosity. (They were similarly puzzled by the arse biscuits I brought along. I begged, mortified, that noone try and eat them)
Caesar salad with chicory en hommage to Belgium (all hail the mighty chicon). New season asparagus.
Strawberry soup with lemongrass. Brownies. 2 types of chocolate sauce.
Way too much champagne.
So much too much that barely a few hundred yards from Le Bon Marché and La Grande Epicerie, a few short metro stops from the magical Maje outlet shop, on a beautifully hot and sunny Saturday, I was incapable of moving. Trish wore sunglasses inside all morning. I lay on the sofa with Hotdog. It was lovely, actually, and prevented me from spending money I don't have on further fripperies.
Moomins (terrible pics, beautiful exhibition)
I hope Smack Crumple Bang will provide some better pics soon. I will nag him until he does. The exhibition is on until 29 August in the city of the damned, sorry, Centre Belge de la Bande Dessinée
How Facegoop has influenced my, er, face.
I took this picture last summer when Céline, the tame space lizard on the Armani Counter at Printemps Beauté attacked me with her full make up weaponry. I found it frightening.
But now look at me on Friday night!
I am voluntarily wearing The Full Céline. If anything, I am wearing MORE make up in picture 2. Give me another six months and I will no longer be able to move for the weight of all the make up I will be wearing. I welcome this. It's preparation for my old age, to be spent in an insalubrious bar somewhere near the Bourse with a smelly dog (possibly Hotdog, who I will have stolen and had stuffed on his demise), permanently half cut on "'alf an 'alf" (I do not actually know what this is, but I know that old ladies near the Bourse with smelly dogs drink it. This is sufficient for me).
Despatches, as of Tuesday, will come from Butlins. I will say no more upon this subject until I find out if the wifi works there, except to whimper gently at the prospect of three entire days spend in "Splash Waterworld". I do not "do" wet. Splash me at your peril, I am getting that out there NOW, Butlins Bognor. You have been warned.