You’re a rich girl, and you’ve gone too far
‘Cause you know it don’t matter anyway
You can rely on the old man’s money
You can rely on the old man’s money
It’s a bitch, girl, but it’s gone too far
‘Cause you know it don’t matter anyway
Say money, money won’t get you too far
Get you too far
Continue readingNext stop: Cordes-sur-Ciel.
Continue readingWhen I (unsuccessfully) attempted to move to France last year, Seth and I spent each Sunday in his van, zooming around the countryside in search of interesting things. I like being in the van; it’s high up so you feel safe on the road, even though the closer you get to the Mediterranean, the nuttier everyone’s driving becomes.
Continue readingWe’ve just left the museum, and I’m drinking a cherry Coke in a town square. Seth sits down beside me and places a weird fluffy tart on the table between us.
Continue readingNearly killed me, getting to Gatwick. I planned the route carefully-ish and gave myself time. It shouldn’t have been a big deal: the airport is only 22 miles from my house. When I set off, however, I discovered that trains were cancelled all over the shop.
Continue readingI’m off to Toulouse today. Well, I’m flying there. I land at 9pm, ish, and when I walk out of the airport Seth will be standing there, just like he was last year in Avignon, just like he was in Tasmania. Then we’ll climb up into his van – the one he converted into a mobile home three years ago – and drive to his new apartment, in a town called Albi. It has a very nice brick cathedral, apparently. Seth tells me about it every time we speak on the phone.
Continue readingJust popped to the shop for some bread. I am forever popping to the shop. Every day – every day I pop. I pop to the shop. I cannot stop.
Continue readingWhen I think of younger, bolder periods of my life, I often define them (in my own head) as phases, or chapters if I’m feeling particularly sentimental. There’s been a lot of distinct periods, each sharply defined.
Continue readingBack in the day, people with desks (rich people) used to keep little skulls on them – or if not skulls, then little macabre figures carved from wood or ivory. These miniature corpses were known as memento mori, which translates from Latin as ‘remember that you have to die’. I’ve got one on my desk too – although not really on purpose.
Continue readingI don’t remember whether I already wrote about why exactly I came to London, or how. I like these diaries to have some narrative sense to them but I often worry they don’t, because I write them so sporadically and unevenly. So – here’s the abridged version of the whole London thing, for the sake of clarity.
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