Affection-phobe

WAH.
Just so many adoring texts I can't even deal with.
The icing on the cake was last night's one: 'what are you doing? i'm in my beloved bed, even though i have to admit someone is missing :('
WHAT???
Christ.
Seriously, christ.
Am I the only one who realises we met less than a week ago?
I think I prefer not really being sure whether the boy in question even likes me.
Wow, this is what girls are always accused of: sacking off the nice boys. But, in my defence, there's nice, and then there's... this.
I usually go for boys who say things like, 'look babe, my cat ate my phone, and then got lost, so I had to find my cat before I could even look for my phone, and then on my way to find the cat I fell down a well, and hit my head on the way down, so passed out for a couple of weeks, and then by the time I came back around the clocks had changed, so I missed my train home, so I had to walk, and then the heel feel off my shoes, so I had to walk on my hands, and then I got a splinter, so had to pop to the hospital, and you know what A&E's like... So yeah, that's why it's been 3 months since I called you, otherwise you know we'd have been hanging out. You gotta understand.'
I do not usually go for boys that say, 'I thought about you all this morning in your bed while I was at work.'
Oh godddd.
Maybe this is what real people do? Maybe I just need to calm down and go with it?
It's not normal that when I see his name flash up on my screen I sigh (not in ecstasy, more in disbelief because it's only been 5 minutes since his last text...)

And then to top it all off, I'm such a fucking schizophrenic, because as much as I hate him being all over me, I hate it almost as much when he's not.
So he won't have text me all afternoon, and I'll check my phone and feel actually kinda betrayed... And then I'll start rolling my eyes and saying outrageous things like, 'oooooh, so it's like that now, is it? Just not gonna text me? Just forgotten about me already, have we?? So replaceable, am I?!! Now you're at work, you're just so obsessed with working, ARE YOU?! WELL FUCK YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT, I DON'T EVEN CARE!!! WHO EVEN ARE YOU?????!!!!!'
And then, inevitably, he does text me, because he always does, and straightaway I flip to, 'OH MY GOD, STOP TEXTING ME; JUST LEAVE ME ALONE! I FEEL SO FUCKING SUFFOCATED!!!'
So nobody can win, I need to see a therapist, and this has gotten out of control. Poor ol' B.F.

Accidental Boyfriend

So I saw B.F. again tonight. He met me by Bastille and we sat by the water, while I repeatedly moaned, 'I want a boaaaat', and he repeatedly touched me and kissed me.
Still, it's kinda fun to have a French boy to meet up with when I have nothing else to do.
Today he was stroking my hair (of course he was), and he suddenly looked really confused and said, 'you are nearly blonde!' And I explained that my hair's multicoloured on purpose, because I have an intentional ombre. At that, he looked even more confused and said, 'so... you have shadow hair?'

So misunderstood.

That said, we have some really fun conversations, mostly based on the fact that half of what we say to each other is lost in translation/taken the wrong way.
I was just telling my mum about him on Skype, and obviously she was just so excited. Her biggest joy in life is hearing me talk about boys (not because she's weird in any way, just because with my first ever boyfriend I didn't tell her about him for months, so now she wants to know as much as possible as soon as possible). She asked me if he was attractive, and I said yeah, because he is, but I told her that I don't love the way he dresses. She laughed her little head off when she heard that, and said, 'SILV! You can't judge anything on that!! When I met your dad all he ever wore was vests!'

Fair point.
Then I told her B.F. was 6"3 and the deal was made. I think she's expecting big things. Weddings and shit. Few Parisian kids (called Lou, Raphael and Marie-Claire). A house with a balcony overlooking the Seine. A boat. A pug.

Big things.

Ah shit.

I think I met somebody. Well, I definitely did.

Of course this was in the Paris plan, but it snuck up on me and kinda caught me unawares. Always the way!

This would obviously not be a big deal if I was a normal person, but I'm not, so it's an enormous deal.

What I usually do is... not get involved with... well, anybody really. I guess it's a pas mal idea to put myself out of my comfort zone, but we shall SEE.

I met him a couple of nights ago at Showcase when I was out with S.E., and he basically set his sights on me and got his own way. I was drunk as all get out, and my Groove Army-ada jacket fell off my bag, and I became h y s t e r i c a l trying to find it. He tried to help me, but I was being cray, and no sense could be talked into me. I was so upset because L.T. had helped me pick it out and it just made me miss her a really fucking lot. So... just had a cry in the corner. Yeah, I'm a dickhead, don't even care.
Anyway, I was ready to write him off straightaway, just because I didn't like his shoes (that's what I always do), but I had a really fun sleepover with this boy regardless, and he said 'on s'appelle' when I left, but will he though?

AND THERE WE ARE. Already just sounding like such a fucking girl. This is not me.

So he just text me, YAY! 2 month French instructor, let's do this!

Day after

So I just got back from a 'date' with him. He jokingly called it an 'appointment' because last time I saw him I taught him that you can't call meetings with your friends 'appointments'. Good sign when they're capable of funnies even in their second language.

So... I had fun actually. I was kinda nervous, especially because my only other dating experience with a French boy was intense as fuck. That was when I was still in the south, and the man in question took me up a mountain to the most over the top romantic destination possible, and then when I told him I was just looking for a friend he refused to talk to me for the entire journey home. So I went out tonight with zero expectations (best way- then anything better than complete shit is always a pleasant surprise), and I took the wrong exit out of the metro, so was sorta late. He was waiting for me at the exit, and as soon as he saw me he came right on over, declared 'ahhh c'est ma miss', and kissed me square on the mouth. Well hey.

I'm not used to these overt signs of affection at the best of times, never mind when I've known you for approximately one day... But I just went with it. Plus, he's 6"3, so that makes up for most things (everything).

I unfortunately couldn't deal with the canoodling in big doses, and 5 out of 10 times that he reached for my hand or leaned his little face close to mine I pulled away. I'M ENGLISH, come on now. Plus I have clammy palms. Get off.

So he took me to some cute-as-fuck places, told me stuff about Paris, and corrected my French whenever I made mistakes. Everything I wanted from him basically. But more than that, he's just interesting. Way more affectionate than I'm necessarily used to, yes, but actually with decent shit to say. Not just talk for talk's sake. That's the worst to me- when people talk purely to fill the silence. I'd rather suffer the awkwardness than fill it with bullshit.

So he showed me the Pavillion, and when I said I'd never been inside, he said, 'You want to come back here with me, yes? I show you inside?' And then kissed me again. So I guess we're making future plans together.
During the evening R.D. was texting me constantly, and she asked me if he was funny, and the truth is I couldn't really say. I mean... me and him disagreed on absolutely everything; he held my hand in the street (like in front of people, in the area where he lives...); he picked me up, literally right up off my feet at one point; and quite frankly, he was one cheek pinch away from a marriage proposal... But the thing is... He's so French, and the French don't tend to do things by halves as a general rule. Coffee lasts 2 hours, lunch lasts 3, and relationships start overnight.
Me? I'm only used to very very VERY English boys. Tu sais?

At the end of the night, I kinda hustled him along, telling him I had to make my foyer curfew, and he wasn't too excited about me leaving. In fact, he told me I should stay at his, but I stuck to my guns.

As we were kissing goodbye he whispered, seductively I guess (christ), 'I think I will miss you though...' Then as I ran down the steps, he shouted after me, 'Hey miss! Text me when you get home!' And 2 minutes later, he text me saying, 'Miss you already :( Text me when youre home!'

So... Wow. Keenness makes me s u s p i c i o u s. I don't trust nice boys. I don't trust any boys really.

I do trust tall boys though.

To be fair to the kid, the French boys I have met have been more or less the same way- very much, 'here I am; I like you; I'm not going to pretend to not like you.' Et je suis pas habituée à ça. Pas du tout. Of my last 2 fancy men, one I'm sure prefers boys to most other things in life, and the other used to make plans to see me and then just... stay at home (without me obviously). So I'm going to give B.F. (that's not me being a psycho and calling him my boyf already; it's just his unfortunate initials) the benefit of the doubt. We shall see.

P.S. Jesus. He just text me saying, 'call you tomorrow.' Is this normal??

P.P.S. Did I mention that he's 6"3?

P.P.P.S. He's not completely faultless. He said that when I speak English I have the same accent as Kelly from Misfits. Cheers. Only hurts because it's not the first time that's been said to me...

So this is what I wore to meet him:

This is the route I went down in the end. My little 'stripper dress', as P.R. called it when I bought it with her; little sheer black blouse; and my black cage sandals. Casual.

This was option 2, but it was just too hot for leather tonight.
I've also accessorised with a beautiful grimace, which was removed as soon as I left the house.

 

Career Plans

It may seem to you that I don't actually ever work, and that particular accusation would in fact be completely and utterly correct. I work on average 10 hours a week (and even complain about that), and am therefore P O O R. However, I have a plan to make some extra cash mo-ney.
Busking!
Well... begging. It'd have to be begging being as I don't have any talent in the entertainment sector.
What I'm about to say may not be politically, morally, or in any other way okay, but here's the thing: the thing is that beggars here are shit at looking poor. They don't pretend well at all. They really just don't. A lot of them are wearing better quality footwear than me. I mean, at least attempt to look poor, would you?! If I spy gold jewellery on you, beggar, then quite frankly I am not convinced. If you are smoking, again, you obviously need to throw away that sign that says 'j'ai faim' and spend your fag funds on a baguette or two (they cost 39c after all, come on now).
Just now, on the metro, a 'homeless man' (didn't fool me- he looked as though he was going to get off the metro and go home to his comfortable home in the 7eme) was walking up and down the carriage asking for a 'petit piece.' NO!! I barely have enough for myself you cheeky little scrounger. A boy carrying a bottle of champagne (I was in a posh arrondissement and I think he felt kinda humbled to share the wealth) took pity on said 'homeless man', and took out his wallet. The 'homeless man' saw that it was an Adidas wallet, and after taking the proffered spare change, 'homeless man' enquired of 'Champagne boy' where the nearest Adidas shop is... SERIOUSLY?? I just can't.
So really, the point I'm trying to make here is that I'd make a way more convincing beggar than half of these people. I would dress the part- wear holey shoes, put twigs in my hair and shit.
My friend, G.B., told me that something like 10% of Parisians really do beg as a second income, because it can double your wage (these are not official figures...) So I mean, when in Rome (or Paris, as the case may be)...
Anyway, this decision has not been finalised, so keep tuned for any developments.

 

I feel like I should also point out that I am aware that there are real homeless people about, and that sometimes they have no other options than to beg, but this post is purely aimed at all the FAKES. Ruining it for the real deal, aren'tcha, you little twats?

(Fr)in(ge)spiration

Customary over-the-shoulder grimace...

Casual fingers-through-hair shot

Looking right at you, 'Eya.

Another over-the-shoulder gem for your pleasure.

Well, as you can see, my fringe has taken a turn for the... 90s. Much as everything else in my life always seems to.
Never a problem, always a joy. Aint no shame.
It has grown out a LOT, and being as I can't be arsed to find a decent hairdresser in Paris (I somehow feel that it might be kinda tricky to find one that'll do it exactly right-I'm fussy as fuck), I've had to deal with it dangling in my eyes. Which is not okay. So, more through lack of any other options than anything else, it has parted like the seas, and now resembles that well-loved 90s boyband staple: the curtains!
YAY.
So here are my four principal hair role models (also happen to be all of my childhood heart throbs... well, mine, and every other single girl's circa 1999...):

1. Oh Leo. The original and best curtain-wearer.

2. Adam Rickitt. Fancied him like NOBODY'S business when I was little. I remember I used to see him on Top of the Pops, writhing around with his top off, and it was just too.much. Zac Effron who? 10 year old girls these days don't even know what an attractive male is, honestly though.

3. Well it would've been a crime if I didn't mention this little tinker, wouldn't it??

4. And the best 'til last! Hello you!

So here's to living in the past forevs!

At the end of the day... Backstreet is back, and quite honestly, I have a feeling they're going to be hanging around for a while...

 

Je suis completely and utterly FLATTERED!

So a particular highlight of mine and L.T.'s various trips to Paris (and there are shitloads), was a group of fun-as-fuck strangers pointing to us individually and saying, 'swag' and 'swag'. Yesterday, this precious memory was eclipsed by me being asked by a beautifully-dressed, camera-clad passerby whether she could take my picture for her street style website. Errrr, yeah you can! I walk around the streets of Paris hoping for nothing more!

Does it matter that it probably won't go on there in the end? No.

Does it matter that when I told her I'm not good at posing (lies- all I ever do in life is pose), she said that it doesn't matter because it's mainly only about the clothes? No. (Even though, hey, what's wrong with my face, lady?)

Does it matter that it's a website I've never even heard of? No.

This whole debacle reminds me of when I showcased in a Landrover brochure when I was 10. The sentiment is still the same- all that matters is that somebody liked my work, and that that somebody thought I looked fly enough to photograph.

Day. Made.

Alright, so I know you're gagging to know what I was wearing on this magical day, and luckily for you, I found these gems that I took before leaving the house yesterday! TWIT TWOO!

I do feel as though I should probably explain... I don't have a full length mirror in my room here, so I often go through the process of taking various pictures from different angles on my webcam to check I look acceptable. And here we are, with these Vogue-ready shots.

I'll talk you through the look: We have a little grey Topshop jumper dress with lace cut-outs on the hips to make me look like I have a Barbie waist (ha!), which unfortunately doesn't particularly cover my arse, so for dignity purposes I teamed it with my H&M cycling shorts (these solve endless problems), and some plum tights.

I'm then wearing acid-y, obviously.

And a heavy duty gold chain, just because.

You can't see, but I'm wearing my DM's, and my nails looked well good, look:

   

Don't be scared; my fingers don't really look like this...

She seemed to like this bit best of all, because she got me to position my hand in a million different ways, so maybe my hand will be the star of the show...

I've then accessorised with a squat in that second photo, straw hair, and an unusually long fringe. What a babe.

Now let's start frantically checking the website every day, shall we??

www.stylesight.com

Havin' a Little Ponder

Will I ever get bored of wandering around this beautiful city, smiling at Hims, and looking as if I have somewhere important to urgently get to, when all I really plan to do is lounge around at various cafes, using my book as a prop as I people watch for hours on end?

Probably not.

BIG CITY GAL

So it would seem that I now just... live in Paris or something. JUST WHAT I'VE ALWAYS DREAMED OF!

I'm doing this not only for my own selfish reasons, but also for my other half, L.T. She's living vicariously through me and my Parisian adventures, so I have this extra overwhelming pressure to just have the best time anyone's ever had. And I'm sure gon' try!

I was talking to my friend, G.B., last night though (look at me having friends in Paris! Aint no stoppin' me now!), and we were talking about everyone else we know who came to spend their year in France. Most people seem to have had a right whale of a time, but then we mentioned S.P. (a boy I used to see), and we swapped stories about how shit of a time he claimed to have had while he was in Paris. Mine and G.B.'s decision was unanimous- it can't have been Paris; it must have been him.

Really though, to have a shit time in Paris, you must be a shit person. To have a shit time in Paris you must be determined to have a shit time. You have to really search for a shit time in Paris. I sound like an advert for Paris, and this is probably really annoying to read (also seem to have said Paris an unreasonable amount of times now), but this is what it comes down to- HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLY NOT LOVE THIS PLACE?!

If you don't like the area you woke up in you can just hop (well... scramble/squeeze/scrape/crawl/claw your way) onto the metro, and in a matter of minutes you're transported to somewhere entirely different.

Just such a fun time; I can't even deal with the idea that someone could come here and be unhappy about it. Obviously there's shit aspects about the city; there's shit aspects about every city... But if I have to accept the negatives of a place, I find myself a lot more ready and willing to accept the negatives of this one.

It's not all sunshine and golden Eiffel towers though; there have been things which have made the transition from tiny town to less-tiny city sorta difficult, and here's my main moan:

I live in a nunnery.

I do tend to use hyperboles rather freely, but this time I'm serious. I really do feel as though I have accidentally been sent to the wrong establishment, and there's a lost and confused little nun in a happenin' foyer across the arrondissement living my life.

It's not fair.

I arrived here last week and was immediately very very very poorly with food poisoning, so I'll readily admit that that may have contributed to my negativity about the whole shebang. However, I maintain that I have been brought here until false pretences. I'm only really here because of a recommendation from my aunty's friend's daughter, who had 'the best time' while she was staying here. Liar.

Ah, let me explain my woes, shall I?

There are about... 5 things which I don't love about this set-up. And here they are in order of how much they've annoyed me (working backwards for dramatic effect):

5. No toilet paper ever.

This one is pretty self-explanatory. There is never any toilet paper left in the shared toilets. And I am really quite against buying my own, because... well, why should I? I pay enough to be here to not have to deal with the heartbreaking sight of empty paper dispensers.

4. Grim meals.

This one is also quite clear. The meals, they are grim. So far I've only eaten down there 3 times, and each time I've been teased and tantalised with various delicacies such as mushy carrots, fish nuggets, and once (a special treat day I think) an unidentified pastry parcel (possibly fish inside? Who can say?)

3. Curfews.

Gayest situation of my life. Curfews are just not something I thought I would ever have to deal with at 21 years of age. I've never had a curfew, even when I still lived at home with my mum. Frankly, just ludicrous. The rule is- either in before 1am, or upon failing that, after 5am. So future nights out will either have to be very very very tame or very very very not tame. Can't wait to see how that one's going to unfold...

2. No mates, apart from the ones we tell you to have.

On my very first day I was introduced to some super-chatty, super-keen, super-annoying blonde called Constance, who within 5 seconds of meeting me had asked/told me to go to a 'discovering Asia' day out, and who even went so far as following me to check that I'd put my name down on the sign-up board. Pushy people get right on my tits, so we didn't start off well. I was then pushed towards someone called Zaira(je pense?), and was told to ask her anything I wanted. Well obviously I don't know what I want to know when I'm put on the spot comme ca, so I asked her nothing and just smiled awkwardly instead. I was then shoved towards the main desk, where the person in charge pulled out an enormous book with photos and information about all of the girls who live in the foyer (I guess I star in that book too now- exciting!), and proceeded to point out the four girls who I should 'pay special attention to look out for.' So... my designated friends then? Wish I was joking about this bit, but I'm not even. Fucking designated mates. I just can't.

And the worst bit is I'm not even allowed my real friends in my room! Wah.

M.H. is coming to visit on Sunday, and he's had to book a hotel because he can't stay here with me. What's the point?

1. Rules, rules, rules.

First night. Poorly as all get out. Couldn't have possibly found me in a less social mood. Not in the mood for anything/anyone/life. Outrageously tried to sit next to a group of girls who were clearly already friends and didn't care to add a yellow-tinged precarious-looking English girl to their gal gang. Muttered a few unintelligible words to them. Realised within 30 seconds that this was a waste of everyone's time. Text M.H. and asked him to call me because I was 'lonely'. Which I was. So he did call me, and it really got me through my disgusting dinner. Had a laugh, moved my food around my plate really nicely, got up to leave. Perfect!

Not quite. As I was heading back upstairs I hear, 'erm... Silvia?' So I turn back around and muster up my most dazzling smile to the man at the desk (Julian I think? Who knows, but he turns out to be a twat, so don't worry about remembering his name. We don't like him.) He then proceeds to tell me that phones are not 'allowed' in the canteen, and that it's 'better' to speak to the girls, and that they like to 'encourage' chatting at mealtimes. Force chatting at mealtimes you mean, Jules? Christ. Couldn't deal with that. Leave me literally the fuck alone. If I want to never speak a word to any other girl the whole entire 3 months I'm here, guess what? I'm not going to. Luckily for everyone, that's not even remotely the case, but I'd just quite like the freedom to be antisocial if I want.

So... that's that.

But as is more than likely evident from everything I've already said, my opinion on the whole thing is this: who cares about any of these stupid little problems? I'm in Paris, and nothing else matters.

Frogs and Princes and Shit

'Once upon a time, in a land far away,
a beautiful, independent, self-assured princess
happened upon a frog as she sat contemplating
ecological issues
on the shores of an unpolluted pond
in a verdant meadow near her castle.
The frog hopped onto the Princess’s lap and said: 
Sweet Lady, I was once a handsome Prince,
until an evil witch cast a spell on me.
One kiss from you, however,
and I will turn back into the dapper young Prince that I am.
Then, my sweet, we can marry
and set up house in yon castle
where you can prepare my meals,
clean my clothes, bear my children,
and forever feel grateful and happy doing so.
That night, dining on a repast of lightly sauteed frogs’ legs,
The Princess chuckled to herself, and thought:
I don’t fucking think so.'

From 'I Don't Know How She Does It' by Allison Pearson.