Category Archives: French customs

Powerwalking to Pont Neuf – Part 1

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Not that the Pont Neuf’s really new – in fact it’s the oldest remaining bridge in Paris – but it was new at the time so that was what it was spontaneously called. If you’ve ever been to Venice and seen the Ponte Vecchio, you’ll have an idea of what most bridges used to look like in mediaeval days. The Pont Neuf, completed in 1607 during the reign of Henri IV (which is why there’s a statue of him halfway across) was the first bridge not to be covered. It was recently renovated and is now nice and new again.

Anyway, I decided to go in the opposite direction today, starting with the Galérie des Proues (as in prow ergo all the anchors) which is the only remaining part of Richelieu’s palace which is how the Palais Royal all started. Then past the Buren columns and Arago’s meridian plaque, across Rue de Rivoli and through the first part of the Louvre until I reached the glass pyramids which are stunning on a sunny day. Down to the left and into the Place Carrée with another fountain. Right towards the river, opposite the Pont des Arts where they have the padlocks and left down towards the Hôtel de Ville.

I think everyone’s heard the jokes about tourists mistaking the town hall (Hôtel de Ville) for a place to stay, but Actor Brother, who’s a country boy at heart, went one better. It was his first time in France and he’d rented a car and headed south (with his 12-year old son sitting in the back chanting his mantra “Dad, right is right, left is wrong”). It was getting late and he couldn’t find a hotel. Being Australian, he was expecting to see a motel appear at any time. Finally, he saw a big sign, “Hôtel de Police”. He headed off the highway, followed the directions and found himself in front of an unlikely looking building but, you know, it was France, and you could expect anything.

As he walked in, with his son close behind him, he realised something was wrong. “Euh, un hôtel?” he said in his basic French. The gendarme looked at him rather blankly but fortunately, a very helpful lady realised what was wrong and directed him to a more suitable place to spend the night than in the police lock-up!

But the one I was walking towards is not the “mega hôtel de ville” as Leonardo so aptly used to call the palatial building opposite Notre Dame that is home to the Mayor of Paris, but the town hall for the 1st arrondissement. It’s still not bad as far as neo-renaissance buildings go. Black Cat has got her heart set on getting married there, but she’ll have to get a move on because once Relationnel retires and we move to Blois, it’ll be too late.

In France, there’s none of that getting-married-in-a-garden-or-on-the-beach business that goes on in Australia. Here, you can only get married in the town hall of the place of residence of one of the spouses (or their parents if you can claim you’re still living at home). And having a church wedding doesn’t do away with the civil ceremony either which can complicate the logistics a bit.

I was going to tell you about the church of Saint Germain l’Auxerrois next door, a favourite with Valois royal family in Renaissance times, but I got a bit distracted and I wouldn’t like leave out any of the interesting bits so it’ll have to wait for next time.

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A to Z in the Life of an Aussie in France

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Enjoy my A to Z and don’t forget to click on the links for more …

A – Aussie: How else could I begin? Aussies come from Oz or the Land Downunder where I was born and bred.

B – Blois: In the middle of the Loire Valley, where we’re in the process of buying a house built in 1584 which we’ll be renting out as self-catering holiday accommodation until the NEW ADVENTURE in my life starts in June 2014.

C – Cycling: Our favourite activity from April until October in France and wherever. Next trip: Paris to London once they’ve completed the bike route for the London Olympic Games.

A bike path around the city of Innsbruck

D – Down Under: Not the Land, but the book by Bill Bryson. Full of clichés, but most of them are just so true! And a good read any time.

E – Early bird: Which I’m not, but it’s the only way to beat the tourists and I hate standing in line! And that’s what siestas are for.

F – Foie Gras: One of my very favourite foods and that I now know how to make.

G – Garret: Where I thought I was living when I first moved to France, even though it was just a room in a third floor apartment.

H – Home Exchange: Our new way of holidaying. First stop Madrid and lots of exchanges planned for Australia, some simultaneous, some not.

I – iPhone: Something I’m crazy about and which can certainly make life easier on holidays. Perfect for Twitter and Facebook too.

J – Jam-packed: The metro at peak hour so why not take the bus instead and be a real Parisienne?

K – Kilos: The 20 I have lost and never intend to put back on!

L – Loire Valley: Land of kings and queens and castles. Our future home. Less than 2 hours’ drive from Paris.

Chambord in the Loire Valley

M – Mushrooms: Our second favourite activity after cycling, from April to December. But next year we’re heading for Provence in January to check out the truffle market!

N – Natural skinnies: The people who don’t ever have to lose 20 kilos.

O – Oysters: Another of my favourite foods, especially on Sundays – “spéciales” with fresh homemade bread and a lovely cold bottle of Sancerre.

P – Palais Royal: My home for another two years and for the last seven. Right in the middle, with a view of fountain from my balcony, directly above Miss Bibi!

Q – Queensland: Where I was born, in the tropics, a true-blue Banana Bender!

R – Relationnel: My very French husband whom I cycle, pick mushrooms and travel with. Among other things.

S – Summer time: The very best time of the year, when it’s still light at 11 pm and the days seem to go on forever.

T – Tuileries Gardens: Where I power walk, lunch with friends and Relationnel, and watch the sun set over the Louvre.

U – University: Where I’m still teaching translation, despite the sad lack of equipment and outdated installations.

V – Vélib: Paris’ rent-a-bike system that’s immensely popular with Parisians and great fun along the Seine on Sundays when the road’s closed to traffic.

W – Wolves: To be found in the Palais Royal only when it snows.

Snow in the Palais Royal Gardens in December 2010

X – Xtraordinary: What everyone in Australia thinks my life is, what with living in a Royal Palace and speaking French all the time, but they don’t know how hard it really is!

Y – You-tube: The very best way to learn anything these days, particularly all that new technology and how to set up a blog.

Z – Ze only way most French people know how to say “th”, including Relationnel, giving them a highly recognizable accent.

 

An Aussie in France on My French Life

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Corner of the Théâtre Royal

I’m delighted to have joined the My French Life team of contributing authors, photographers, interviewers and talented people who live all around the world.

My French Life /Ma Vie Française – online magazine & global community of French & francophiles – Connect, Share, Inspire, Aspire, Learn…

Local  Events/Réunions monthly in Paris & soon elsewhere   –  7 every month in Ville de Melbourne, Australia

Click here for my introductory post.

“Maybe it was the Latin mass that started it all. I loved chanting away in a language that wasn’t my own even if I didn’t know what I was saying. So when I started to learn French at high school, I was delighted. And it all fitted together so well, just like a puzzle. I actually liked learning verb tenses and vocabulary. I even talked to my dog in French! We had a TV programme at school about a family of four that lived on a barge on a French canal. From Townsville suburbia, it looked like paradise”. Read more

Washing Machines I Have Known

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I grew up in North Queensland with one of those enormous top loading agitator washing machines that could wash huge loads in record time. We had a drip dry cycle which meant that the machine stopped after the last rinse and you could remove whatever you wanted, such as a drip-dry shirt, drain it on the draining board over the huge aluminium sink next to the machine, put it on a hanger and then hang it up under the house (our house was on stilts), dripping water over the concrete floor and yourself in the process. All of which was of no importance because the water had disappeared within an hour. You didn’t even get your shoes wet because you were bare foot anyway.

This is not my mother! Photo credits : see link below

 

 

When we went on holidays to the Island, we stayed in Kooyang Flats which had a laundry down the back with a wringer machine. My sister and I were coopted into helping Mum with the washing. We loved turning the wringer and it was really quite a game, provided it didn’t last too long. Except for Mum of course. She must have hated it! Back breaking work for the woman who actually had to wash clothes for six people when she was on holiday, knowing that her huge agitator machine was sitting idle at home.

As I told you in a recent post, my experience with washing machines when I moved to France was somewhat different. Initially, I just used a laundromat. Speed Queens are used worldwide I’ve discovered. My first machine was a front loader tumble machine and I’ve never had anything else. It was in the kitchen though. I was horrified the first time I saw a washing machine next to someone’s fridge. There’s no real reason it shouldn’t be there, but it seemed strange. There are three basic reasons for this: practically no one in an apartment has a laundry room, the bathroom’s usually too small and you need a water connection.

I always made sure I washed the clothes when Leonardo was awake because he used to sit mesmerised in front of the machine the whole time. We didn’t have a TV then. He’s always been mechanically minded. I like to think that I was partly responsible for that. If you’ve ever used one of those machines in France, you’ve probably wondered why the cycles are so long. My normal 40° cycle is 1 hour 17 minutes (my current machine has an electronic display) and the 60° cycle is 2 hours 15 minutes. Well, the reason is very simple even though it took me ages to discover it. They are all connected to a cold water supply so they have to  heat up the water which obviously takes time.

When my parents used come to my place on holidays in the winter (I was living in a house in the suburbs of Paris at that time with a sort of back veranda next to the kitchen that had very handy lines that I used during the summer months), they would insist on drip drying their clothes. The only thing they didn’t seem to be able to quite comprehend was that, number one, it was cold outside which meant that it would take days for the clothes to dry, and number two, the dripping water didn’t magically disappear the way it did in North Queensland. I didn’t have any drip-dry clothes myself.

But there are other types of washing machines in France that I have experienced when on holidays in the country. They are top-loading tumble machines. Inside, there is a drum that revolves clockwise from the back to the front of the machine which means that the drum has to be tightly closed or the clothes will fall out. It comes with a unique opening/closing system where you have to match up some catches that are not easy to identify, then press on a not-always-obvious button. Of course few people really know how to manoeuvre the closing system and the opening has to be in the right place for you to do so. When the machine stops, the opening is usually at the bottom of the machine. Then as you take the clothes out, you can be absolutely sure that a baby sock will slip down the side of the drum, unbeknown to you, and cause the mechanism to seize up next time the machine is used. This is not necessarily your baby sock of course. You may just happen to be the next guest. For a long time, these machines were incomprehensibly the most popular in France. They still are to a certain extent because you can get ones that are 40 cm wide instead of the usual 60, a big boon in small bathrooms and kitchens. N’est-ce pas Leonardo?

Kooyang Holiday Units, 13 Hayles Avenue, Arcadia, Qld 4819, 07 4778 5570
Photo credit (not my mother!): http://www.yourememberthat.com/media/10392/Wringer_Washing_Machine/
 

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The Book Seat & Other Nifty Inventions

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I love nifty things so was delighted when Thoughtful gave me The Book Seat for my birthday. And he was even more delighted to tell me it’s an Australian invention! Perfect for reading while I’m having breakfast or lunch by myself! I can also use it to hold up a cookbook.

And while we’re in the kitchen, I’ve discovered that no matter how much you pay for a toaster, you still don’t get perfect toast each time – and I am very fussy about my toast! So I always make sure that the toaster has a large “stop” button so that you can make it pop up immediately if you suspect it’s getting too brown. The other day, I suddenly saw smouldering and the next minute little flames were jumping up because I’d overlapped two pieces. Unfortunately my toaster isn’t quite wide enough to take two pieces of my homemade bread side by side. So these toast tongs often come in handy!

I just love this little guy. One of the things that used to disappear and reappear regularly were my glasses. I only wear them to watch TV when I’ve taken out my contacts so you’d wonder why I can’t put them back in the case each time. I guess it’s just my natural messiness. Having such a nifty little guy to look after them is perfect. Now I can always find them. The little guy comes in all sorts of colours and I bought them in La Chaise Longue in rue Croix des Petits Champs.

Now study the spout on this teapot made by Spode in England that I inherited from my mother. It doesn’t drip. Unfortunately it only makes one cuppa and I’m definitely a multi-cuppa tea drinker.

Now take a look at this one from Gien in France.  You can see that the spout doesn’t have a sharp edge and it’s tilted in a different way. My experience with French teapots is that they all drip. I don’t understand why they don’t just copy the spouts on English teapots! One day, I decided I was going to solve the problem so looked up the Internet and found several drip stoppers, but none of them matched my teapot and certainly not the red Ladybug Tea Drip Catcher or the one that looks like a slice of orange with a hole in the middle.

But I was convinced that something suitable must exist somewhere so last Christmas when we went shopping in Rouen, I went into every likely shop. The shop assistants looked at me blankly. Then finally, a woman said, “They’re over here” and there they were, admittedly not the most attractive thing around, but still discreet enough (well, I’ll let you judge for yourself) to make my teapot usable again. We went back this Christmas to get some more and, would you believe it, we couldn’t find the shop again!

If you want to know more about why teapots drip, you can read all about it here.

So what are your favourite nifty inventions?

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No Laundry Rooms in Paris Apartments

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Me on my moped in 1975

One of the first things I discovered when I arrived in France was the very different attitude towards washing clothes. I rented a room in an apartment in Pau, in the south-west of France, with two other students and we shared a bathroom. The landlady lived in a separate part of the apartment and presumably had another bathroom. There was no washing machine and nowhere to hang clothes. So I set off to find a laundromat. There were plenty of laundries and dry cleaners, but it took me a long time to track down the only laundromat. I soon learned that the unmarried teachers at school took their washing home to their mothers every weekend. I had to use my moped to go to the laundromat and lost a favourite pair of trousers off the back one day! Yeah, I can hear you – why weren’t they in a bag?

When I finally had a place of my own in Paris, it actually had an airing cupboard, something I have rarely seen since. The concept of a laundry room as such, which exists in most places in Australia (well, the ones I’ve seen anyway), is unknown here where every square metre counts. Most people in apartments either use  contraptions above their bathtubs that you raise or lower or simply put collapsible clothes horses in their living room or bedroom. Bathrooms are rarely big enough to take them except for one that opens up on top of the bathtub and that you have to remove before your bath. One of my friends dries her clothes on the heated towel rack.

Whenever I go to Black Cat’s place, there is always someone’s washing on the clothes horse in the small area in front of one of the bedrooms and the bathroom that also contains the oven and microwave. Relationnel’s kids, who live in a separate flat down the road from us, hang theirs on a wall contraption in the kitchen ! There is absolutely nowhere else. Must have been a shock for our Australian exchange student  Brainy Pianist.

We actually have a room in our apartment where we can hang our washing out of sight, but only because I divided our large bedroom into two using very high bookshelves to create a dressing room. You have to be careful about ventilation though, because hanging wet washing near clothes containing wool in a heated room can cause havok. The mites had got to Relationnel’s suits before we discovered our error. Now we put them away in plastic covers after they’ve been dry cleaned and he uses a cupboard in another room (my office!) the rest of the time. I have a very high clothes horse that can take three loads of washing and has clever bits on the side that each take 4 shirts.

But that is not a standard installation. When we go to gîtes (holiday houses in the country), I’m always amazed at the laundry facilities (or lack thereof). These are houses in which you could presumably have some kind of system to dry your clothes effectively. Sometimes there are (dirty) outside lines always in your line of vision but never clothes hoists. But you can’t really use them between October and May and then only when you’re absolutely sure it’s not going to rain before you get back from your day’s excursion (provided you remember to put a load on as soon as you get up).

A tancarville*

They usually give you a collapsible clothes horse, often a bit rickety from over-use, but I haven’t worked out yet what sort of clothes you’re supposed to put on them apart from socks, underwear (but not singlets) and children’s T-shirts. You certainly can’t put adults’ shirts on them (and there is rarely a rod in the bathroom to hang them on) and they aren’t wide enough to take a T-shirt properly. If you do resign yourself to bunching it up, you then eliminate all the rungs underneath. Some of the clothes horses have wings so that you can hang up shirts but once they’re up, there’s no way you can get around them.

Then there is the problem of sheets and towels. My solution is to dry the towels in the drier and schedule the sheets so that I can fold the top sheet in half and hang it over the rod in the bathroom (it’s just wide enough) in the morning so it’s dry by evening and put the fitted sheet over the clothes’ horse. When I used to wash the kids’ sheets (and clothes) as well, the schedule was very tight! I was so relieved when they finished school and got their own washing machine (I didn’t feel I could ask high school children to look after their own washing).

And I haven’t told you about the washing machines yet …

* Tancarville is a trademark for a type of clothes horse that came out at the time the Tancarville suspension bridge was built. 
 
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An Aussie in France Makes History!

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I believe that I reached a turning point in my history as an Aussie in France today. The butcher gave me exactly what I wanted. An entrecôte, well hung (the best meat is always a dark red colour and not bright red which means it’s too fresh), 600 grammes. It weighed in at 595 grammes and he didn’t even ask where Relationnel was. I would have forgiven him for that, mind you, because after my first attempts to buy meat in Rue Montorgueil , I stopped going by myself and now just mostly tag along with Relationnel because he’s French and the butcher gives him what he asks for.

It’s not that I don’t speak French. But I have just enough accent for people to know I’m not a local. I didn’t have this problem when I lived in the suburbs of Paris. At the market in Nogent sur Marne, I was known as “l’Anglaise” and they liked me and treated me like a normal customer. But after I moved into the centre of Paris, I was suddenly taken for a foreigner. It was most disconcerting particularly since I even have dual citizenship now.

Sometimes people ask me what language I dream in. I’m not sure that I really dream in any language but I guess it depends on what the dream’s about.  I’m a translator by trade and when you’re working with two languages all day, you don’t necessarily know which one you’re speaking, let alone dreaming. I can remember once being asked by the French tax department to come and fix up my VAT (GST)  cheque which contained an error. I went in and looked at the cheque for a few minutes but still couldn’t see what the problem was. They pointed out that the amount was written half in English and half in French!

When I chose to leave Australia and live in France, I didn’t really know what I was going to. I only knew what I was leaving. I’ve never looked back and never been homesick. That doesn’t mean that I don’t miss my family. I do, especially now that I have four nephews in Australia. But I love living in France. One of the things I like best is that you have greater freedom to be yourself when you live in another country and speak another language. You’re not bound by the same traditions and restrictions. To start off with, you don’t necessarily know that you’re doing something different.

I don’t mean that I want to be outrageous. I just want to be able to act spontaneously without having to worry about what other people say. Once I was in Townsville in the summer and was wearing a fuschia-coloured dress that I bought in France. I was told that it was not a summer colour and that I shouldn’t wear it! I was told in France that I could only serve rice or potatoes with fish and that rice was never served with red meat, only with veal.  In a meeting or a class in France, you’re supposed to put your hand up when you want to talk. None of this spontaneous discussion that goes on in Australia. But I’ve noticed in staff meetings now that some of my French colleagues are following my example.

Another thing I like is that when there are differences, you ask yourself why. And that must surely help you gain a better understanding of people and life in general. It certainly makes you more tolerant and open-minded. Some traditions were developed for reasons that are still valid today, while others no longer make any sense. When you have the experience of two different cultures, you can choose the best of both worlds!

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Powerwalking in Winter Again

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I couldn’t believe it when I saw this guy. Here we have Brainy Pianist, experiencing his first winter in Paris, which hasn’t even been very cold this year – I even gave him some suitable Canadian headgear for Christmas to keep his ears warm when he takes the bus at 8 o’clock in the morning – and there we have this chap, in 5° and no shirt. But you’ll notice he does have a warm hat! Lots of people don’t like wearing them but they actually help to keep your entire body warm. Unfortunately I would have had to dash round very obviously in front of this guy to take a photo of his tattoos. Maybe they keep him warm too.

Here we have the shadowy Brainy Pianist, who wouldn’t want anyone to recognise him in that gear!

And here are the men in very masculine poses cleaning up my fountain in the Palais Royal Gardens. Now I have to tell you about the word “fountain”. I have this tendency to say “fontaine” in French but every time I say it, Relationnel corrects me. I’m supposed to say “jet d’eau” as in “jet of water”, because a “fontaine” is usually used for water spouting out of something like a fish’s mouth.

The birdman was out today in Tuileries Gardens. We used to have a very ancient bird lady in the Palais Royal but I haven’t seen her for a while. I personally wouldn’t like to have birds jumping on me leaving their souvenirs.

Today I power walked down the centre of the gardens because there weren’t so many people and, as a result, I got an excellent view of Yayoi Kusama’s Flowers that Bloom at Midnight, 2009. You must admit that it brightens up a winter’s day!

And, surprisingly, considering the temperature and the fact that it’s Monday, here’s the man who rents out the boats to the kids. He’s standing on the right because I think he saw me coming. He wasn’t having much success.

 

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Who’s Getting Married in France?

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The posters are up for the Paris wedding fair. I think it’s amusing that it’s being held in Palais Brongniart which I thought was the precinct of the Paris stock exchange. One thing I’ve noticed in recent years is that wedding dresses are looking more and more like evening dresses, showing as much flesh as possible. My wedding dresses (note the plural) are definitely old hat. Not that French women are having weddings much these days, according to the statistics. It’s certainly the case of Black Cat’s friends. I asked her why. It seems that most couples don’t get married because it costs so much. Well, if you’re having your hens’ party in Madrid like one of her friends, I suppose it does!

So what are they doing instead? Well, they’re pacsing. The PACS (pacte civil de solidarité) is an agreement between two adults of the same or different sex to organise their community life. The current form dates from 2005 and is very similar to marriage except for certain rights (entitlement to a percentage of the other person’s retirement after death for example) and the fact that you don’t have to go through a divorce procedure if you want to end the contract. That in itself can be a bonus, but it hardly seems the ideal way to start your life as a couple!

You register the agreement with the court and can even have a ceremony similar to that of a registry marriage. Curiously, it is not same sex couples who are becoming pacsed the most but heterosexual couples. It seems that young people feel perfectly comfortable with just inviting their close friends along to their PACS ceremony but wouldn’t dream of not having all the second cousins and sixth-best friends to their wedding.

I don’t know if anything similar exists in the English-speaking countries.

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Spring Windows in the Palais Royal

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It’s grey and miserable outside, even though it’s 13°, but with winter sales starting tomorrow, the spring windows have already appeared. I thought I’d try and cheer myself up by visiting some of the clothing shops in the Palais Royal.

But I was disappointed. Just look at this one. I’m stunned that anyone should choose to dress their window using such ugly mutts. But then I’m not really a dog lover. I used to be. When I was a kid, we had a half-corgi (the other half jumped the fence as my mother used to say) called Taffy whom I adored. I used to take him for long walks after school and talk to him in French. Unfortunately he developed heart worm, which is often the way in the tropics. One afternoon, I came home from uni. My parents were sitting under the honeysuckle trellis in the back yard looking very forlorn. “Taffy has to be put down (what a euphemism!). We’re not up to it so you and DrummerBrother have to take him to the vet.” Oh great! Ever obedient, we carried him sorrowfully to the car. I cried the whole way there and the whole way back. Funny how neither DrummerBrother or I have ever had a pet while ActorBrother (who was probably off catching snakes) has always had a dog …

Well, enough about dogs. I then walked down the other end of the gallery to see what Stella McCartney had to show. I really don’t think her windows are any better. The clothes are not even very attractive. However, I love the effect caused by the reflection of the fences along the Palais Royal. It’s not until you take the photo that you can actually see them. Seriously, would you be tempted to buy that dress on the right? And how come the dummies don’t have heads? The one in the picture above is bald. I don’t think that’s particularly seductive either!

The other window isn’t that much better. I suppose it’s a little more colourful but that’s about all. This isn’t your bottom of the range stuff. We’re looking at 700 euros for a dress and 350 for a pair of trousers. It’s not as bad as Jérôme Huillier admittedly. I didn’t even bother taking photos of their window. It all looks completely synthetic to me. I should console myself with the fact that I’m not tempted to buy anything! Except one of those little black dresses in La Petite Robe Noire, but they’re completely out of my market.

I’ll wait until the sales frenzy dies down before I go and do a bit of shopping somewhere else.

 

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