Some years ago I met Joan Juliet Buck, the then editor of French Vogue.I rang her Paris office and asked to speak to her. I had read her novel, Daughter of the Swan and loved it. We sat and chatted in her office and she signed my copy of her book. It was snowing outside and I hate the cold but somehow…Ah Paris…she agreed. ‘At least here, you know you are alive.’
I thought of this when describing to the 97 yr old lady that I am looking after in the UK (2 more sleeps) what I miss so much about living in France.
At home I watch my view as it changes with the sunset. Red rooftops
disappear in a hazy golden glow. Villages sparkle, nestling in the
foothills. The village to the west lights up first. Fairy lights, is how
they seem from here. Then, blue-black the sky tucks us up in bed. The
stars scatter themselves in an orderly fashion. A single cloud, cloaks
the moon, producing a hazy halo.
Safe, secure, peaceful.
Here, I feel trapped, bobbing like a lone sailor on a never ending ocean…