of a week.

A lot happens in seven days. This week I:

- Broke up with my boyfriend of 364 days

- Discovered I got a First Class degree at my university

- Moved in back home with the family after four years of study

This summer I face the daunting concept of having absolutely no plans. Therefore, I am embarking upon mission ‘Sort My Life Out’. In the coming days / weeks / months I will be applying for every job vacancy under the sun in an attempt to carve a career-shaped niche for myself in the world. 

Wish me luck!

This list will be added to over time. If you have any suggestions don’t hesitate to let me know! 

• Slow escalators
• The French concept of a ‘pint’ 
• 20 euro minimum withdrawal from an ATM
• Delays between the changing colour of traffic lights
• Dog sh*t. Everywhere.
• Aforementioned dogs, always the tiny yappy variety. WHY?

Parisian night life is divine.

My attempt at translating Les fleurs by the wonderful Stéphane Mallarmé.

The Flowers

Golden avalanches of old skies,

the first day of the eternal snowing of stars.

A long time ago, you untied the large sepals

for the young, pure earth. Free from disasters.

The wild sword lilies, with their fine swanlike collars

And this divine ruby-red laurel of banished souls

Like the pure toes of the seraphs

That delicately blush at already explored dawns.

Hyacinth, Myrtle of beautiful lightning

And like a woman’s flesh,

Herodias blossoming in the fair garden,

Cruel pink like that of untamed blood and dazzling water.

You bloodied the pure whiteness of lilies

That float on oceans of sighs, that skim

Across the blue incense of paling horizons,

Ascending wistfully towards the crying moon.

Hosannah playing mandolin in the censers,

Our Lady Hosannah of the garden of Limbo!

And so finishes the echo of heavenly evenings

Ecstasy of looks, fluttering of halos.

Oh Mother who created in your fair, strong bosom,

Sword lilies swaying, the coming bronze.

Large flowers which bring death

For the weary poet, wilted by life.

Dis-moi, pendant que nous nous posons sous ce feuillage luisant

Que je suis la seule, que c’est que moi qui te fais frissonner en touchant ta peau.

Ne mens pas, j’suis habituee aux mensonges et aux promesses fausses.

Ecoutes les fleurs, parce qu’ils ricanent toujours a moi. 

Cette terre connait mes secrets.