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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