SOMEWHERE CONTINUED...

edit* 18.52 Saturday 11th September. Somewhere has won the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival.

So there I was at the premiere of Somewhere and Sofia Coppola was walking towards me. Her dress was Louis Vuitton resort 11 that was customised for her from the original in yellow to guess what, black. If it works, it works. Thomas Mars was at her side, looking adorable and a bit bashful. What surprised me was that all the teenage girls in the crowd who had shouted for Stephen Dorff, for the Italian actors, started chanting SOFIA, SOFIA, SOFIA, very loudly and very excitedly. Evidently 14 year old Italian girls have very good taste in heroines. Even Sofia looked a little surprised - apparently when Lost in Translation premiered at Venice the only person who got cheered was Bill Murray. Sofia kept waving and smiling. She was milling around for ages and eventually gave another little wave before going inside.

Then we saw the film. But it wasn't quite that simple. As I'd feared, our tickets failed to materialize at the last minute. And all the tickets were completely sold out. Through a mad scramble, a handwritten sign, some hanging around looking hopeful and hopefully adorable, we got one ticket, then I had a mental breakdown, then with about two minutes to spare we got a second ticket - both were thanks to my friend's quick thinking and some very kind strangers who could have sold us their spare tickets for hundreds of euros but only asked for the amount they'd paid or less.

Somewhere feels like a grown up film. For me there were two main differences from the other films Sofia Coppola has made. Both were due to the choices of Harris Savides as cinematographer instead of Lance Acord and in the approach to the soundtrack by Phoenix. Unlike all of Sofia's previous films the music is minimal. There is silence, there is the noise of the Ferrari, there's mostly only actual music when it would naturally be playing, for example at a party. Definitely a different approach to Brian Reitzell's and it took a bit of getting used to for me.

As for the cinematography they used 35mm film and the Zeiss lenses that Francis Ford Coppola shot Rumble Fish with. That gave the film the soft, hazy quality Sofia is known for, but often the camera was fixed for long periods of time, until it almost felt uncomfortable. I know a lot of people thought it was too slow, but I thought the uncomfortableness was intentional and I liked the space it gave. But there are all the Sofia trademarks: the sparse dialogue, the subtlety (my friend and I were wondering if men would react differently to Stephen Dorff driving round and round in his Ferrari than a woman would. Essentially I was wondering if men know that when women hear a Ferrari most of them automatically think, "What a prick.")

The only pure, sweet character in the film is Cleo (Elle Fanning) - all the others have an element of the grotesque. It is definitely a less sweet film - I've read a couple of reviews saying it's just like Lost In Translation and although yes, it's about the relationship developing between a man and a younger girl and it's set in a hotel (or two), there the comparison ends - oh, actually there is one other little thing at the end but I don't want to spoil it. If you tried to describe the plot of the film it could sound cheesy: bad boy Hollywood actor living at The Marmont, women, pills, pole dancing twins - forced to confront himself by the arrival of his 11 year old daughter. But the way it's handled is so light - you just watch it unfold. For me it was the way Sofia showed the emptiness and boredom of his life without judging it that was the big success. That and her talent for subtle comedy: turning the supposedly exotic into the mundane with the use of small details like the squeaking of a pole dancing pole. There are cameos by half Sofia's family and friends: Gia Coppola, Jacqui Getty, Robert Schwartzman. And some private jokes as well - I'd be willing to bet most film reviewers don't see the humour. Oh, and maybe only hardcore Sofia geeks will get this: but guess where Benicio Del Toro shows up?

{photos - my personal photos. Please don't use any of these photos without asking me first - thanks. (The guy in the velvet suit is the director of the festival, Marco Muller.)}

PREOCCUPIED WITH POTENTIAL...

What do you see when you look at this picture? Do you see a semi derelict, broken into garage full of junk and cobwebs, almost completely obscured by brambles? Do you see somewhere fly-tippers have dumped bags of rubble and some broken wardrobes? Somewhere a man with mental health issues has been sheltering and you have to watch your step in case you tread on a needle? (Well, you can't see those parts.)

I see what is eventually going to be my studio. After longer, more complex and more frustrating negotiations than the purchase of my flat, I finally own the garage at the bottom of my garden (It's where the coach houses used to be and faces into a track).

There are a lot of artists in this area and most of the garages have been turned into studios. The open studios weekend each summer is the perfect opportunity to snoop at the amazing spaces people have created - oh and look at their art, I suppose. I was talking to one established local artist, who has an architect designed, slate clad beauty of a space, and was telling her my hopes to buy and convert mine into a studio as well.

She looked at me with slight amusement and said; "And what are you going to do in your studio?"

"Um, I'm going to create, er, stuff and you know, just like, it'll be good to have a place to make a mess and not have to clear it up and um, I can sew but I don't do it much anymore," was my not very polished answer.

I suppose what I should have said was: I'm going to paint it all white and stick things up on the wall and re-finish all the pieces of furniture I never touch because it's too cold/rainy to do it outside. And I'm going to set up my sewing machine and not have to put it away each time I use it; and I'll store all my magazines and fabric and put all my paints and craft supplies in cute jars on shelves where I can see them instead of in a suitcase.

As fate would have it, I received my copy of Lena Corwin's book: Printing By Hand the very same day the sale was completed. It's full of gorgeous projects; so maybe that's what I'm going to get up to in my studio.

About an hour ago, two eastern european guys finished removing a truckload of crap from the garage and the stuff that had been dumped outside (probably by some other eastern european guys who were paid to remove it from somewhere else - eek). So I now have a very heavily cobwebbed, extremely dark empty space, ready for the real work of converting it into something light and inspiring like the space above.

So that's what I've been doing lately instead of paying attention to fashion shows.

{Other images from Blueprint (R.I.P.) Fall 2006 - photo cos my supposedly compatible Mac and my scanner still won't even talk to each other, hence less pics lately - sigh}

MYSTERIES OF TRAVEL...

A while ago someone left me a voicemail message saying, "Oh, you're probably in Paris or jet setting somewhere having a really fabulous time, I'm so jealous." I was, in fact, unable to answer the phone because I was buying cat litter. In Deptford.

A lot of people have asked through this blog recently how I manage to travel so much. I seem to have this reputation but I actually haven't been anywhere since Christmas. For me, five months without a trip is a really long time and I'm so hopping up and down excited that I'm going to Italy on Wednesday - and you're coming with me, internet connection willing.

I come from a big family of travellers, by which I don't mean they traverse the world in brightly painted caravans or put a hex on you if you don't buy a posie of heather from them. I just mean that most of them are at any point either about to get on a plane, are on a plane, are visiting some far flung destination, are living in some far flung destination or have just been on a trip somewhere. My travelling, mostly within Europe, is relatively minor compared to theirs.

These five months staying put in London have been good actually. As I was here, I was more able to commit to stuff, but there's no denying my life felt at least 73% more glamorous and exciting when I was popping off to Paris every other month. The only reason I was able to do that for two years was because I looked after the poorly geriatric Parisian cat (sadly no longer with us) of some friends in exchange for staying at their place. I never thought of all my times in Paris as me "going on holiday;" I was just living in a different place. Getting the train from London to Paris is cheaper than getting the train from London to most places in England if you book in advance - and once you're in Paris, the cost of living is cheaper too. But yeah, mooching about in Paris vs mooching about in London = no contest.

I really, really love to travel and I make it a priority. I didn't mind going without a working washing machine for six months as it meant I could spend the money I'd have spent on a new one on travel instead. I'd rather go away somewhere than have a new computer even though my laptop may die any day now. Lots of my friends and family live in other countries - I want to see them and they seem to like seeing me so sometimes that involves getting on a plane. And me getting on a plane means a cheapo midweek flight, usually leaving home at a ridiculously unsociable hour. You know I (ahem) like the finer things in life, but I assure you it's glamour on a shoestring all the way. I wouldn't want anyone to think that I'm gadding about on private jets and staying in five star hotels or anything.

I HAVE SOMEWHERE FOR YOU...

Elle: Hey Stephen, did you know that woman over there with the camera is doing an actual giveaway on her blog Lola Is Beauty for two tickets to the London Film Festival screening of the new Sofia Coppola film Somewhere that we star in? It's being shown this Thursday, 28th October at 5.45pm at Vue, Leicester Square, as part of the film festival, but it won't be released in the UK until 4 March 2011 revised date: 10 December 2010.

Stephen: Wow, Elle, that was more dialogue than you had in the whole script! But that's amazing, I can't believe it. I guess she was pretty lucky to be here at the premiere and everything. Yay for giving back. Wait, let me scan the crowd, I must personally thank her...
Elle: Oooh, exciting!

Marco Muller, Venice Film Festival Director: I implore you, do something Stephen, do something right now to thank her and make it MERAVIGLIOSO.
Stephen: There she is.

Stephen: I'm gonna, I'm just gonna...I'm going in. Elle, Elle's PR(?): Mmmm, are you sure about this? .....


So to recap: I have a pair of tickets for the London film festival screening of Sofia Coppola's Somewhere, which I saw at the Venice film festival and reviewed here, to give away. Details: Thursday 28th October, 5.45pm Vue Leicester Square, London. All you have to do is be available at that time and place and make up a caption way better than my lame ones above for the last photo of Stephen Dorff running.

Hurry, hurry, as I'll choose the winner first thing on Tuesday. {Don't forget to include a way for me to contact you.}

{my photos}

THINGS THAT ARE GOOD...

*My hot pink velvet Venetian Furlane slippers - bought in Venice last autumn. Traditionally worn by Friulian people, then adopted by gondoliers; the soles are made from bicycle tyres and you can get them with lining made from recycled pinstriped shirting. I think my friend D used to have these when I lived with him, because wearing them gives me an inexplicable desire to drink Lapsang Souchong and smoke a pipe.

*Trois Couleurs magazine. I believe this is the free magazine of MK2 cinemas in France and it's not bad at all. This issue is all Sofia Coppola, all the way through. I wish more magazines would commit fully to a single subject - there's not a word or picture in there that's not Sofia related. I asked Nancy if she'd seen it on her Francophone travels and like a star, she tracked it down and sent it to me!

In the magazine there's a section visually comparing scenes from Sofia's other films and another comparing films that influenced Somewhere with scenes from it (above). The picture on the left is of a scene in Chantal Akerman's film Jeanne Dielman...where the camera is fixed for long periods, while the viewer watches the protagonist performing routine daily tasks in real time - something utilised all the way through Somewhere. On the right is the scene where Cleo makes Eggs Benedict at the Chateau Marmont in Somewhere.

*Thursday (that's tomorrow) is always Bloggers + Cats day, in case you hadn't noticed. I'm so happy to discover that you're all just as huge cat freaks as me...We've got some really good ones lined up!

YOU SHOULD GO HERE...AND BRING ME BACK AN ALMOND & PEAR SLICE...

Peyton & Byrne.

*Yes, I am recommending somewhere that happens to be in London, why are you lying on the floor looking all twisted and glazed like that? Look, I've been here thirty odd years, it's not very often somewhere grabs my attention enough to mention it. But when I spy a gorgeous, supercool pastel cubby hole of a bakery that also includes yummy cakes and has the best packaging; then I might mention it.

(Of course it had to be something to do with this Peyton.

ARE YOU FOLLOWING ME ON TWITTER?...

Thought not.

Well, if you are, you might already know I'm going somewhere special this weekend that I'm very excited about. I probably won't have time to post but I shall surely be dispensing some totally witty and informative tweets somewhere along the way.

SODERMALM...

I know my posts on Sweden are coming in dribs and drabs, but it's that time of year. I've been to SO many imaginary parties lately. Anyway, in Stockholm we stayed in Sodermalm, which I'm reliably informed is a bit sort of bohemian and everyone we met up with lived there as well, which was handy. I really loved it and our hotel*, which was housed in an old brewery, backing onto Katarina Church. Our room overlooked the churchyard with a view of the church, which made it all lovely and Narnia like with old fashioned lanterns lit and a dusting of snow.

They also had this amazing breakfast included in the price, where you went down to a little kitchen area in the lobby and helped yourself to coffee, yogurt (why is Scandinavian yogurt so good?), muesli, boiled eggs, rye bread, kalles kaviar, cheese, basically all my favourite things.

The first night I arrived before my friend and decided to go for a little walk around the church at about 10pm. I saw a little hilly cobbled street that looked interesting so walked up it. There were these adorable old yellow houses, all with stars or candles in the windows of course. I couldn't see where the road went at the top because it was so dark. Eventually when I got there I saw a surprise expanse of water, the buildings on the other side all with their windows lit up and a boat coming in towards the shore. It was just one of those breathtaking moments you sometimes get when you explore somewhere you've never been before. I'd had no idea there was water there. Later someone told me that's THE view they always take visitors to see. Then I walked by the church and, as it seemed perfectly safe to do so, through the churchyard, not something I would do anywhere in London late at night. Each plot had its own little lantern lit - this was two days before Lucia and two weeks before Christmas. Every window I saw in Sweden had a light of some sort in it, be it an office or a boat or a home.

It was in Sodermalm I saw the Whyred booties. I shouldn't have tried them on, but oh they were so comfortable straight away but oh, they were so expensive and I was sure I'd seen some similar somewhere high street-y so I left them. (They did look really cute on me and I never say that.) I also adored Granit which can be succinctly described as Swedish Muji. I bought some fairy lights, which are completely superior to fairy lights you get in England. Oh, and a T shirt at Weekday just because.

On our way to Pelikan for dinner we passed the Grandpa shop, which looked really interesting, but was obviously closed. Over dinner, which was suitably candlelit, we started telling ghost stories and by the time we went back to the hotel and someone reminded me that we had read it was used as both a temporary prison and a hospital during a cholera outbreak at different times in history, the cute churchyard view became slightly less Narnia like. Then neither of us could walk down the long corridor alone, which suddenly looked exactly like the one in The Shining. Add to that the Swedish for room is rum, all the signs to this rum, that rum and redrum were terrifying. I won't even try to explain the little jail cell with a tiny stool and a bowl in it half way up the stairs, which we'd previously laughed at. We had to sleep with the TV on.

We never did make it back to Grandpa, but I see that they have the Whyred booties I love in the sale, but only in a size 36 - and Whyred only has them in a 41 so I'm a bit stumped and might have to get the Zara ones, which are only made in brown as far as I know.

*The photos on the hotel website are out of date - it's been redecorated since then and is much cuter.

FED AND WATERED...

It is a well known fact among those close to me that I have an insatiable appetite... for restaurants in Paris. The rolling list keeps rolling and though I feed and water the demand, it is never satisfied.

How convenient then, that a very local, low key restaurant I go to all the time recently changed chefs and happened to employ two of the most happening ones in Paris: Shaun Kelly - former chef at Au Passage and Elenie Sapera, formerly of Bones.

At first, I was horrified at the thought of my little secret becoming not so and of the cobbled rue de Mont-Louis thronging with, I don't know, people who don't live in the furthest reaches of the 11th arrondissement, forming a bawdy, excitable congregation outside; making it impossible for me to slip in for a quiet dinner on a Wednesday night without being in the background of several people's Instagrams. I thought it would change, and I liked it just how it was. I felt almost Parisian feeling this.

But luckily, although the food has changed, it's much for the better and the charming and friendly servers remain, along with the calm and happy atmosphere. They also had the good sense to keep the famous Kate Mousse on the dessert menu - adding Eton Mess as a new option, which I'm told is a direct transplant from Au Passage. The opening hours are still maddeningly confusing/non existent at the weekend - maybe I hallucinated that one time we ate there on a Sunday evening. But the food, ah the food - somewhere I already liked very much raised its food game at least several notches? It couldn't really be a better result. Below, some photos from a recent dinner, where we sat at an outside table during l'heure bleue, which did not turn to night until at least 10.45pm.

The menu was printed on white paper - it was the hour that was blue

Octopus and black radish, bone marrow and fresh petit pois

Rilettes of rabbit and pork sandwich - basically a pulled pork burger.  

So then it was onto a special meal on a special day, at the almost impossible to reserve Septime. I did not make this reservation, but I'm told it involved stalking the online booking system to determine when the advance booking thingy clicked round. (FYI - 0.01 AM.) Septime is, of course, somewhere I had wanted to dine since it opened - named one of the top 50 restaurants in the world and one of the few on that list that has the exact vibe I'm looking for in a restaurant, which I can only describe as natural and luminous. Everything in the place glowed with a kind of healthy, radiant light. Bertrand Grébault looked way too young to be directing the kitchen staff, but direct it he did. We ordered so as to try everything on the menu and everything was sublime. The juicy octopus tail with rhubarb will remain in my memory for many years. (The hot trend in Paris is currently meat or fish paired with fruit apparently.)

Details like the tiny white flowers - maybe they were from some kind of bean? and a single nasturtium leaf were considered, but didn't feel pretentious. The candlelight, flowers, rough wooden tables and the enchanted garden behind the restaurant all added to the feeling of goodness and wellbeing. Can you tell I was very happy to be there? I surreptitiously 'stazzed our meal as it seemed rude not to just concentrate on the flavours:

I had cheese obviously

Sea bream, fromage frais, cucumber, those little white flowers; pink veal with bonito cream and capers

(Amazing) octopus with pepper, rhubarb and green beans

The courtyard garden behind Septime

But my brain, the never ending list... is now saying - we have to go to Clamato next.

A DAY AT THE OFFICE...

4.30am: Get up.

5.00am: Drive to C's marvelling at sliver of moon in still pitch dark sky.

6.00am: Load people carrier with clothes until there's only enough room for two passengers to squish onto a seat.

6.30am: Arrive at location somewhere and tuck into bacon sarnie, still in pitch black darkness.

6.45am: Set up 'our room' for flurry of fittings, ironing, pinning, faffing and important decision making such as "which neckline is less friendly?"

9.30am - 12: Stand around in rain watching model on tractor wearing silky negligee and Fendi wellies (which you've proclaimed fantastically tacky) on monitor, periodically restick negligee to model's cleavage.

12 - 12.30: Sit on cold, wet step to eat thankfully edible lunch.

12.30: Meet band. Obligatory banter and chit chat. Iron stuff without ironing board. Approve of band's ability to dress selves and stay reasonably clean and uncreased.

2.13pm: Hear radio crackle with "Urgent de fluff" and run weilding lint roller.
Hang around in case needed. Meet cat named Simon.

4.00pm - 8pm: Hang out with band, re iron one shirt three times which is then not worn at all, babysit superstar chihuauha and kitten in training for stardom, watch monitor, hang out with actor, search for piece of vital missing equipment that's holding everything up. Give up search. Another sent at great expense which is then not used. Develop mild crush on guy on set (Ha!), eat slice of gross pizza standing up for dinner, procure kit kat from somewhere, take headache pill.

8pm - 10pm: Frantic behind schedule stress permeates entire crew, evening hysteria sets in. Make note to self that everything have not put in kit today because never need to use have needed. To own surprise switch object of mild crush. Hang out (hide from being shouted at for no discernable reason) with C in room, leaving only when strictly necessary, sit down or lean on something at every opportunity.

11.00pm: Watch last few shots with zombie like glazed expression. Finally wrap.
Load up people carrier, back to C's. Unload, get in car and drive home clutching new Fendi wellies which you have now decided are just fantastic.

2.00am: Home. Lola. Bed.

PARIS, PARIS...PARIS...

Yes it's that time again. I just booked my ticket for my next trip to Paris in early September. I'm only going for a few days but I still get that little tingle of excitement every time, even though it has become a kind of normality to be back and forth, and my last couple of visits there were, ahem - mixed. I have a back log of kick arse places I didn't have space to mention last time because I kept posting about how I wanted to kick various Parisian arses. So I might post about those places in anticipation. The best feeling I ever have in Paris is in discovering somewhere absolutely new to me. I think I still have a kind of fantasy Paris in my head that exists from before I ever set foot in the city, and which I'm still searching for.

I already have a long list of places I want to go next time thanks to the lovely blogosphere, including the Balenciaga exhibit at the Musee de la Mode et du Textile - thanks to BP for the heads up. And thanks to Julia in both her guises, I have a good few places to check out via The Flaneur by Edmund White. There's always, always somewhere new. You could live in Paris for years and keep discovering new places.

So, here's a plan: If anyone has a favourite place in Paris that I may not have been to, it can be as out of the way as you like - a cafe, bar, museum, shop, street - anything - let me know via the comments or email me and I'll check it out and post about it, thus allowing you to actually be there vicariously! Kind of.

7...

If Jane and Ephemerette passed the versatile blogger award on to me - merci beaucoup! So now I have to reveal seven things about myself and pass the award onto some of my favourite blogs...

Seven things I like. I cheated a bit, but surely the things you like reveal something about you?

1. The number 7.

2. Being an autodidact. I only learned this word the other day - hey, sometimes things take a bit longer when you're self taught. Phew! I feel so much more legit now that I have a fancy concise word to justify describe the way I learn.

3. This home.

4. American Apparel underwear. No, seriously I do! It doesn't look anywhere near as sleazy if you don't pull those slutty poses like they do on the website, which I'm not linking to. It's very well cut as well. Though I read somewhere that AA is "on the brink of total collapse" so I'm stocking up on more micro mesh triangle bras and low slung briefs. (Sooo not linking - far too many nipples.) I'm trying to forget that I also read Dov Charney tries all the underwear (just the underwear samples we hope) on himself.

5. I like the idea of dyeing the ends of my hair faded pink. (Like 10% of that.) I've been ruminating on this for a few months, though as yet I haven't reached for the Manic Panic. But I have dark hair, so to get your hair pink, you have to bleach it first. But if it was just the ends, you could have it cut out when you got bored of it...(this is how my ruminating process goes.)

6. The high waisted black silky shorts I bought at Warehouse for £13 in the sale.

7. Illesteva's lookbook models.

I'm giving the award to:

Toujours Toi
So Much To Tell You
Scout Holiday
Ringo, Have a Banana
Kempt
Jeana Sohn


{photo: Mike Vorrasi}

MARTEDI TRIPPE AND MR G'S ORANGES...

Whenever I come back from Venice, after first thinking about how I miss my friends, I think about the food I can't eat anymore!

I have a lot of Instagram photos I didn't post on there during my trip - but sometimes it's just not possible to take a photo with the camera (though I have 2 rolls of film to be developed), especially in an exhibition or somewhere you're not supposed to take photos - so I'll be posting those orphan Instagrams here in the next few days.

But first - I'm hungry!

From top: pink grapefruit gelato; spritz in Trieste; porchetta at Da Pepi; a pitstop in Gradisca d'Isonzo for aringa con polenta (they have tripe on Tuesdays); linguine with bottarga; Mr G's oranges on Monday, Mr G's oranges on Tuesday; cicchetto with artichoke and fish eggs; the last spritz.

MEMENTO...

In Capri years ago a friend and I stumbled on a perfume line where each of the fragrances had "Capri" in the name. She bought "Capri Sexy" (you had to say sexAAy) and hilarity ensued. I don't remember how it smelled, or if she ever wore it or still has it somewhere.

Thankfully the perfume industry has classed its act up a bit since then. The above images are from the campaign and packaging for two perfumes under the Memento Italian Olfactive Landscapes brand: Venice (top) and Sicily. They were shot by Laura Sciacovelli and art directed by A+design.

Each perfume is meant to evoke a particular time and place: Venice on 22 September 2007, 8am, Vaporetto to the Lido, Venice, which apparently captures the morning air, with notes of sea breeze, salt, star anise, peony, black bog-rush, sand accord, boat fuel, tourist, (ok I made those last two up) sandalwood, patchouli, amber and musk.

Sicily is 6 March 2008, 11am - Piazza Duomo, Ortigia, Siracusa, which gives you spring in Sicily with notes of neroli, freesia, jasmine, helichrysum, hay, cedar, amber, patchouli, myrrh and agarwood.

I've never seen these perfumes before but apparently they've been around for a few years. This is strange because I tend to hang out in the same places as niche perfumes, even in Venice itself and I'm sure I would have noticed these because the packaging is great, it has a cute back story and I'm a complete sucker for stuff like that.

*Edit - Memento has been renamed Made in Italy, if anyone is looking for the perfumes they're exclusive to Harvey Nichols, though I didn't see them when I was there recently.

{photos: Laura Sciacovelli - so beautiful!}

SERVICES...

It's true, there is inspiration everywhere! This is the view from my favourite brutalist motorway service station 'somewhere in England.' While others dunk biscuits in their tea, text and read the paper at this nowhere land, I gaze out of the window and imagine various scenes of imaginary films being shot here.  It reminds me simultaneously of Twin Peaks and Let The Right One In (original Swedish version obviously) and I could imagine it standing in for some bleak Danish murder scene in The Killing. (Tangent: what do you think about Sarah Lund's new jumper in Series 3? I'm not sure about it.)

It has such a sinister romantic beauty to it, especially in the rain.

I always Instagram the view when I'm there and recently a friend found herself there by chance, sitting in exactly the same seat I'd been sitting in with the same view and recognised it from my photo. Strange things happen there...

SMELLS LIKE...

You know how sentimental I am about my clothes. Can't bear to part with them most of the time. It's a miracle that two pairs of shoes - worn until totally destroyed to the point of being unwearable - and almost unrecognizable as footwear (one pair Marni, one pair Dries Van Noten) have at last been taken out of the wardrobe and unceremoniously chucked in the bin.

But there is method in my shoe hoarding madness sometimes. Biker boots: Proper motorcycle boots bought in a biker shop in ooh, around 1990. They were the perfect companion to dyed long black hair, holey oversize grey jumpers, a sullen expression and a nice little line in door slamming and whining, "No one understaaands meeee." I had a grungy stoner phase and thankfully it didn't last that long. It turned out that wearing kick arse heels and going to clubs was a lot more fun. But the boots, the boots...So well made, such good quality I couldn't bear to throw them away, infused though they were with that "difficult age". Each time the style came round again I'd put them on, then no, no can't do it. The echo of teenage angst was too strong, the memories of where they'd been - if I remember rightly mostly hanging around under slides in the local park having Thunderbird spilled on them. I tried to wear them last winter and could not shake the taint of teen spirit.

Now I am being told by every magazine I look at to wear biker boots. I go out and everyone is wearing biker boots. I take mine down from their dusty top shelf home and look at them. I sniff them. I consider selling them on ebay and buying another pair sans connotations. But I have yet to see another pair as perfect as these and with inflation another pair would cost me around twice as much. So I put them on, I wear them out. I do not feel the urge to kick anything, loiter outside McDonalds all day or buy a ten pack of B&H; though I did buy a My Bloody Valentine CD recently.

The key, I'm thinking, is to pair the boots with clothes that could not possibly be construed as in any way stoner-ish. So opaque black (not woolly) tights, a short dress, an APC cardi and a smile do the trick. Nubbly knits could be problematic if they have anything approaching a "smoking" hole in the cuff to put your thumb through. Unfortunately plaid (yet another renaissance of something I really like) may also have to be avoided in conjunction with the boots. (I'm looking at you, Judd Nelson.)

The look is somewhere between Parisienne slouch and my favourite phrase du jour coined by Fashionista: The '90s Fashion Editor Look - so funny, so true! And the boots are super comfortable since my own feet wore them in for me. But don't talk to me about Doc Martens. Neither Daisy Lowe in the ads or Agyness wearing them will convince me. I am not going there again. Ever.

BEST KEPT SECRET...

I know my posts are a bit film festival heavy this week, having previously been a bit Frieze heavy before, but that's what's going on, so what can you do?

Yesterday, thanks to the continuing magic powers of Twitter I saw that a few more tickets to the sold out surprise film of the festival had been released. By the time I got through to book, there was one solitary seat left - so I nabbed it. They change it up each year so that it's hard to guess - the surprise film could be a documentary one year, then a small independent film, even a cartoon. Despite repeated Googling, I couldn't find any hint to what it might be. At the cinema, upon grilling, the box office and film festival staff swore they didn't know what we were about to watch. I had never been to the surprise film before so I was...surprised when in the introduction to the film the very chic lady from the film festival (help?) said she wasn't even going to tell us before it started. She took some guesses from the audience and told us that had this film been in the usual festival selection it would have had a gala screening. And that this was the European premiere. I started to have some inkling then as everyone sat with fingers poised to tweet above their phones. I started to write Brigh...and then as the film started, yes, Brighton Rock (as 800 tiny screens glowed in the dark). We were at the first screening, so we let it out of the bag for those next door about to watch it 15 minutes later.

Brighton Rock is based on the 1938 Graham Greene novel, consciously avoiding comparison with the earlier film adaptations, as director Rowan Joffe told us at the Q&A after the film.

J'ADORING...

I am an idiot. Seeing bubblegum pink heart shaped sunnies much the same as those on the right, in Tesco's of all places pre-footgate and immediately thinking, "Those are sooo perfect for Gracie!" I snapped them up for a quid. And now? Gracie loved them as I thought but... I keep thinking about them. Can't see them anywhere online...I know they're silly but you can never have too many Lolita-ish novelty dressing up accessories knocking around can you?

New blog love alert: Cherry Blossom Girl I think I might love you. You like all the same things as me: The Little Prince, Bonjour Tristesse, macarons, Au Revoir Simone...Your wardrobe of Zara, H&M, bit of Chloe, bit of APC, too, too many gorge vintage bags - how do you make it all look so . perfect? There are so many good French blogs, I really must try harder to learn the language properly. Somehow it just falls straight out of my brain.

Also: Labels! I've labelled all my Paris posts so you can see them all together under the inventive title of Paris. But! At 30 posts and counting, Blogger appears to only have room for half of them. So it goes back as far as March 2006, then the rest are buried in the archives somewhere. Annoying! Maybe I'll call those ones Ancient Paris. In fact Blogger is behaving very capriciously today. I am going to leave it alone now.

Happy long weekend - or if you're in England, don't forget your brolly...

THERE IT IS...

I knew I had a photo of that Parisian doppelganger amphicar knocking around somewhere.

{My photo ©}