This morning I went to my hairdresser’s accompanied by a cold sore on my lip that is roughly the size of Crete. I had no makeup on because I was going straight from my physiotherapy appointment and because I have a tendency to weep through much of these appointments there is little point dollying myself up only to have mascara smeared over my cheeks. Over the last few days I’ve not slept brilliantly and been doing lots of things that invite stress. It’s fair to say that I’m not looking quite as fab as I could do given time and a following wind
and a prescription of Botox.
On arrival at the hairdresser Mr Costa, the owner of the salon, sent Miranda off to get me some magazines and she proudly presented me with a copy of Paris Match and the French edition of Vogue. She pointed at them, beaming at me: ‘special magazines for you.’ The copy of Vogue was several months out of date so I could see where they were coming with this even if I didn’t get the French chose. Although I thanked Miranda profusely I obviously hadn’t been quite profuse enough because she enquired if I didn’t like them so I explained that they were formidable and they would be just the very thing for me to practise my rusty French with and anyway there are lots of pictures in Vogue.
But you’re French!
No, I’m not. Really not.
But you look so French. We always say you look so French.
So there we have it: Someone who has never been to France or else that whole French chic malarkey may indeed be la merde.