Two things.

A man (I’m being so polite/politically correct) on Market Street tried to hand me some sort of holy flyer earlier today. I know that it was holy not only because of his appearance (am I allowed to say that?) but also because of what he said: “Jesus?” Literally, read: Jesus. Question. Mark. Maybe I’m being presumptuous and he’s got a friend who goes by that name; even so, I’d be offended if I was that friend for he didn’t seem quite sure on the name. It was as if he was thinking Jesus? I’m sure that was his name. Or was it Jarvis? Whatever. Maybe you can read this to find out. If I’m going to be persuaded to take a flyer off this man, I at least want to get the impression that he himself has some sort of conviction. Jesus? Meh. Jesus who? It’s a knock-knock joke waiting to happen.

Second (far more exciting) thing. I found the most perfect vintage breton today (maybe there is a Jesus!). Unfortunately, it was in Urban Outfitters, which means it was triple the price of what a new one would be, but still it was faded/soft/cream&navyheaven/long-enough-in-body-and-sleeve perfection nonetheless. When I tried it on I basically became Audrey Tatou straight away (I know there can’t be a Jesus, for this could never be true). This breton may or may not be hanging in my wardrobe right now (go figure). I may or may not have accidentally bought it instead of dinner (go figure again). I know, I’m so Carrie like that.

Obviously I could pull off the white shorts in this brilliant snap too (Jesus, I’m so deluded today!). Excuse me while I go and raid the cupboards in search of nourishment.