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This might gross you out. You might want to look away…

Exhibit A

In Paris again. I was sat outside Le Centenaire the other night, a little bistro on the corner of Oberkampf and Amelot, with a friend, having dinner, drinking, smoking. The city is slowly getting back on its feet after its August summer sabbatical, unwillingly so, perhaps, stretching, yawning and mourning the death of its suntan.

Anyway, I noticed the bump on my friend’s hand, jutting out just where wrist meets palm. She’s a cool chick. Works in fashion as a print and textiles designer. She explained that bump had formed over years of mouse-abuse, hunched over a computer screen, churning out those very lovely drawings one after the other. Such a lovely girl she is, my friend. But such an ugly… protrusion.

Mind you, who am I to talk? Witness Exhibit B below_

Exhibit B

Oh, yes, I sport my own unsightly bump on the middle finger of my right hand. Years of sketching out all those lovely frocks. Its getting bigger… I wonder if when some future archeologist digs up our bodies, hundreds of years from now, that they’ll be able to guess what we did from our gradually deformed appendages and arched backs? Shudder.

Dont even get me started on the weird carbuncles and bunions that plague my fashion girlfriends. Chloe and Balenciaga have a lot to answer for.  A LOT.

One that never quite made it.

This is  from a few months back when I was going through my Silent Period. But I kind of like the images so I thought I’d post it. I’d been reading in Fantasic Man magazine that dining alone was all the rage. And there I found myself in my usual Italian haunt doing just that. Incredible as I’d stayed at that hotel more times than I can remember and never ventured into the restaurant.

A revelation. Simple, traditional food alla Cucina Reggiano but done well. Tortelli di Zucca, tortelli verdi, erbazone, vedure alla griglia. The classics. And just the sort of trouble free, comfort food you want to eat when you’re away from home and had a long day at work. The whole process sort of felt strange at first. Not having to make conversation, not having to decide between fizzy or still water, feeling like you stuck out like a sore thumb… Billy No Mates. But that only lasted moments, until the glass of Prosecco kicked in. Nobody cared – the restaurant was almost empty anyway. And I was fussed over a lot more than if I’d been with company. Being a Leo we like our egos massaged. Purrrrrr. Fuss all you like, darlings!

I read the entire contents of ID magazine (the issue that profiled Nicholas Ghesquire – I can’t remember which exact one it was) from cover to cover. I haven’t done that in years. Oh, Nicholas, you so pretty. And you make a lovely dinner companion. TTFN. LFN