As some of you may know*, I’ve recently moved to what I thought was the English countryside. I thought all I would find were farmer boys**, obscure pubs and snooty cows, and instead, any time I am walking down my tiny country lane, it’s not a sluggish John Deere*** I encounter—it’s a bloody Aston Martin blasting way too fast past me.
“Oh, no!” I usually think out loud. “Wasn’t I the first to discover this idyllic place?!”
And just like that, my life in London is over. It was a short story, one I really tried to make work, but maybe it was just as they say—London, you’re fantastic. But our timing wasn’t right.
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Hello from Scotland, where it’s warm and the sun is shining…
Ah, kidding. The wind is blowing, the rain is blasting, the ocean is raging. I am having my coffee, and looking at me are three placid sheep pressed together in the hard weather.
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“Allez, on goûte mes belles tomaaaates!”* The women were shouting from their vegetable stands at the market on the Cours Saleya in Nice. Graham and I were spending a weekend there, and we had only planned on walking through the market that morning, but at some point I couldn’t resist the tableau—I had to jump into it.
I bought myself a straw bag and started filling it with apricots, zucchinis, strawberries and aubergines to the point where I barely could carry it, so I gave it to him and we kept on shopping—excited and happy.
As I was crawling through my Month Of Pain And Misery (Gosh. G, you’ve suffered, we GET IT!) on vacation in Corsica where I grew up, some interesting things were happening in the foreground of my life. I thought I would present you with a very random list of short summer stories. In other words… beach read!
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Where’s My Hot Girl Summer?
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So many days in the last month I have woken up in a dark sea of pain. I would take my painkillers, then feel drowsy and foreign to myself. Nothing was functioning. I was like a shadow, my brain so foggy I couldn’t finish a sentence I had just started. I didn’t even care to. My digestion so shot by the painkillers that my belly looked like I was pregnant. The pain was stealing all of the precious moments I had lined up—writing to you included.
Sometimes I just feel exhausted. There are all the things I do, all the things I want to do, all the people I’d like to meet, all the people I need to call. The daily chores, the monthly plans, the yearly resolutions, the life goals.
I see people who do so much, they do, do, do, they achieve, achieve, achieve.
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This is a very pastel story with, as a background, the blue skies of Venice Beach and the waves of Malibu, crashing gracefully in the distance. This is a story with washed jeans, faded turquoise cotton tee-shirts and rose-coloured sunsets. This is a juicy fruit with a bitter core.
This is the story of my friend and of a man, who, thankfully, got away.
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I was sitting at breakfast in one of these beautiful countryside hotels that you can only find in England. One with wellies boots in the mudroom*, families of five generations staying for a fortnight, and glorious high teas where time seems to stretch and linger.
It was spring, so nature was participating in the idealistic picture, and I thought—beware. This is the moment when the Brits get you. Because there is nothing in the world like a perfect day of spring in the English countryside.
It happened to me exactly 20 days ago. I turned 48. Trust me, I can’t believe it either. Here are some facts about it. Should you ever turn 48? I’ll let you be the judge.
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