music, photography

You talk like Marlene Dietrich and you dance like Zizi Jeanmaire,
your clothes are all made by Balmain and there’s diamonds and pearls in your hair, yes there are.

You live in a fancy apartment off the Boulevard St. Michel,
where you keep your Rolling Stones records and a friend of Sacha Distel, yes you do.

You go to the embassy parties, where you talk in Russian and Greek,
and the young men who move in your circles, they hang on every word you speak, yes they do.

I’ve seen all your qualifications you got from the Sorbonne,
and the painting you stole from Picasso, your loveliness goes on and on, yes it does.

But where do you go to, my lovely, when you’re alone in your bed?
Tell me the thoughts that surround you, I want to look inside your head, yes I do.


i don’t know nothing ’bout the why or when, but i can tell that it’s bound to be

Yo, Sunday morning. I’m sitting with paper, toast and coffee, though these came at a price. I ran out of marmite (I can’t have toast without marmite – it’s a scientific impossibility) and had to battle my way through comedy wind and rain to make it to the corner shop. I just hope no-one saw me. I’m back to the comfort of my sofa now, but with the looming knowledge in my mind that I have to work later. I’m hoping it’ll be a quiet shift, after all who leaves the house at a time like this? (Mad people, with buggies, that’s who).

Not much else to report, other than the fact that I bought a giant union jack flag on my way home from work last night (I’m a sucker for anything remotely jubilee/olympics) and that I’m going to be a bridesmaid. Again! I’m something of an old hand. So I’m spending most of my time squealing every so often and trawling the web for hair ideas. I’ve only got 17 odd months to wait (and hit the gym). EXCITING.