Whistle Past The Graveyard

Pere Lachaise is a beautiful, morbid and particularly Gothic cemetery in Paris. It's home to Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrison and Edith Piaf, to mention a few. It's nicknamed the 'City of the Dead' due to it's sheer vastness. There are even streets and districts. It was stunning.


However, that said, don't feel like you have to venture all the way to Paris to take it in Pere Lachaises beauty. Whilst on their website, finding a link for this post, I saw that you can go on a VIRTUAL TOUR. Like Star Trek except less spaceships and more zombies (to any film producers listening: Yes, I would be willing to write and direct such a film).

This was the breathtaking crematorium. Each tiny square you can see on the wall to the left under the arches, is someone's ashes. That wall continued behind the crematorium and up the right side, almost every square filled.

Scarf: Bought for €1 from Free'P'Star in Paris. Unfortunately, I lost it somewhere in between packing my bags and arriving back in England. I was pretty devastated. To lift my spirits, Bobby got us tickets to see Kimya Dawson in Brighton on Tuesday which definitely has me feeling at least 76% better.
Dress, belt and broach (worn as a necklace): From various charity stores in Eastbourne, England.
Holy stockings over plain black stockings: D.I.Y.

I found these two friends for a couple of euros in Paris, just around the corner from Free'P'Star in a little Asian shop. The one of the left has been named Toowit and the guy on the right, Toowoo. They're sitting atop a comic book written by the multi-talented Jeffrey Lewis, another Paris acquisition (the comic, not Lewis) from when we went to see Lewis and his band play at La Maronquinerie. Bobby's review of the show is much better than mine could ever be so I'll point you over here. But basically, the first support was almost too weird to mention, the second (Casiotone For The Painfully Alone) very Bright Eyes and very enjoyable, and the main, Jeffrey Lewis, brilliant.

How Sweet It Is

Parisians, it feels safe to state, love their vices. Cigarettes oft (it's like often but older) haphazardly dangle from lips, wake-up coffees are replaced as the choice of drink no later than the early afternoon by red wine, cheese is bought by the kilo and, of course, macarons are enjoyed for every occasion one could think of. Wedding? Macarons! Baby shower? Macarons! Thursday? Macarons! And a good thing that is, because otherwise Laduree perhaps would not still be around today, some one hundred and fifty years after it's establishment. Laduree is the most famous, and certainly the best, patisserie in Paris for macarons. So famous in fact, that Laduree sells 12,000 macarons a day.


I first fell in love with the delicious clouds a few years ago, in the days when I often spent my evenings leafing through recipe books. It became my dream (well, one of my many dreams) to travel to France and try one of these magnificent looking creations. Of course, regarding myself as a little cook, I made numerous attempts at baking them. Alas, they all failed miserably, leaving me with flattened lumps ofmacaron and bowls of runny filling. Having never tasted or even seen one in the flesh certainly didn't help my exploits.


So, last week, it was with a huge smile on my face that I skipped into Laduree in Paris, and bought my very own box of six macarons. Actually, Bobby bought me my very own box of six macarons. We've already established that I have next to no money. But oh, they're wonderful! They're fluffy little clouds plucked from heaven which melt in your mouth better than M&Ms ever did. Melt in your hand not in your mouth my arse, M&M. Laduree make these macarons in all the colours of the rainbow and enough flavours to have you dizzy. They're made freshly each morning and with each box of macarons comes a little leaflet, containing a brief history and the date you're box of mouth-watering goodness was made. They're worth every cent and, even if you're as poor as I, I absolutely insist that you treat yourself to one (or six) next time you find yourself in Paris. Or get your boyfriend to treat you. Or a stranger. I saw a man put on a puppet show on the tram and, you know, he got a fair bit of money from it. So that's an idea. I'm just saying, given how delicious these things are, I know kids who would go to further lengths.


Paris, if this is what it feels like to love your vice, I'm with you. Just watch out for the withdrawals. You might just end up on the cigarettes and alcohol.

All Apologies

Excuses pour mon absence! We have spent the past week in the dirty romantic city of Paris, sans internet. Alas, I'll be blog blog blogging away (in English, thankfully) sooner than you can say baguette with words of our adventures and photos of shiny things, new and old.


A bientôt, mes amis.

The Little Old Lady

I'm 110% sure I'm going to make an awesome old lady. You know the way that sportsmen talk about giving it 110%. That's how confident I am. I'll be the grandma with the four cats, huge glasses, pearl necklaces, lots of lace and killer style. I'll be the red wine that peaks in it's late '60s. I know this because, truth be told, I'm more or less an old lady already. And I can only get better at it with practice, right? I'm weary of going out more than once a day lest I exhaust myself too much for the evening's activities, I wear stupendous grandma undies (my thinking is that everything else is high waisted, so why shouldn't my undies be too?) and lately I can't take off my lace gloves or pearl necklace, not to mention my houndstooth jacket and little old lady hat. I love cats and squirrels and while I'm no gardener, I bought a coriander plant the other day.


On a separate note, we booked our trip to Paris the other day, we'll be arriving on the 6th of May and staying till the 12th. That means there's only three weeks till we can indulge in cheese, wine and baguette's in Paris' left bank and, sadly, only four months till we return to Sydney.


Finally, I'm going to leave you with a music video for The Wave Pictures because, while I'm not far from being an old lady, I can't say I'm a fan of Val Doonican. We ventured out to Brighton to see these fellows last night. If you can get past his voice (it might take a little while) they're very good indeed. Read Bobby's review of their latest album here.



P.S. There's a cat that lives down the street from us in Eastbourne who has very short legs, so much so that when I pet him he sometimes falls over, and so we have (very creatively) called him Short Legs Mini Cat McGhee. We've even made a song to go with his name. And it's only just clicked that he's probably a Munchkin cat and/or a dwarf and now I feel really guilty. I just want everyone to know that I have nothing against little cats with little legs. There's nothing wrong with being little. Unless you're a pair of undies.