We chose a restaurant just around the corner from our Parisian flat. Carmina was full of locals, my number one priority when chosing a place to eat in a foreign city. It had a hip but elegant enterior, that mixture of charm and elegance that French seem to do so well. I chose a black silk shirt and my Emerson Fry pants, a gift from The French. I paired them with Stuart Weiztmann mules and Chanel handbag, an outfit I’m wearing on today’s photos.


Just when I relaxed into my armchair and started studying the menu (with one eye on the restaurant, after all people watching in Paris is imperative-otherwise how would you know if she has a bigger butt then you or who’s sporting that Birkin bag you’ve never ever wanted for yourself) when we saw a couple enter.

Each of us has a feature we are envy in other people and mine- in that particular order- are high cheekbones and olive skin (thanks dad, mine are high enough but given yours, you could have made more effort :). Being a Slave through and through there’s no chance of me ever having that caramel shade of tan but thankfully, a bottle of St Tropez comes to my rescue every time.

The reason I noticed her in the first place were those features, followed by her swishy mocha colour hair and minuscule white top, sorry, a dress and impossibly high heels. I don’t remember much about him other than that he was wearing an expensive looking suit. He probably didn’t have the requisite sharp cheekbones which again is the first thing I notice about men (followed closely by a body of a dancer- thankfully The French was born with the former and acquired the latter). The couple was seated next to us.

I got temporarily distracted by a wonderful warm goat cheese salad with walnuts and even more wonderful bottle of St Emilion but when the girl got up to the loo, all swinging hips and tanned legs, my attention was firmly back on them. For a moment I felt a twinge of inadequacy. My “Paris do” was definitely more “wash’ n’ wear” than expensive blow dry and my tan was peeling off.

Suddenly I saw The French smirking and rolling his eyes. I won’t even pretend that my French is any good (is abysmal) so all I heard was the guy talking really loudly as if he wanted everyone around to hear. The French explained that that he was loudly detailing his assets and telling her about his job (banking), money he was making (shed loads apparanently), his car (a Porsche) and so on. For a moment I imagined the couple in 30 years, her holidaying on the Riviera,a all expensive tan and even more expensive handbag, him in Paris with expensive mistress. My attention was soon back to The French whose eyes were rolling quicker than roulette balls.

-How crass- he says and I know him so well I know what else he thinks.

-My champagne socialist- I laugh. Because this is a classic peacock dance. The guy displaying all his assests hoping to woo the girl. Her- pouting her lips and swisching her glossy hair.

I relax into my chair (and uhm, a second bottle of St Emilion). First dates have their own rules. After that you can go back understated chic 🙂

I’m wearing: 

Pants- Emerson Fry

Shirt- vintage

Bag- Chanel 

Heels- Stuart Weitzman 

Sunnies- Dior 

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