Tres Parisienne

It's a cold over-cast morning. It's not the kind of day that inspires you to do anything, as the sky is aching with rain and drear. It's a day to curl up in bed, pull the covers over your head and press your nose into someone's chest. My someone is sleeping on the other side of the river and it feels like such a vast expanse when everything is so grey. In the idyllic fields of my mind, I am in the little flat in France baking bread and cookies, drinking wine and closing the blinds as the sunlight pools on the warm wooden floor. There are hanging baskets with vines spilling over, consuming the balcony rails. I can't help it, I'm a hopeless romantic stuck in miserable England and my dreams are simple.

I was starting to wonder if the long string of overdoses has any correlation to the time of year. Everyone knows all the worst things happen in winter, and are worsened by memories of weather. I want to believe that all I need is a little sunshine to feel good about. But between you and me, I get more miserable in summer just to be contrary. I want to work with pastry. The weather is perfect - absolutely fucking freezing. Butter loves winter. Khloe loves butter.

You know what I really want for Christmas? Le Creuset pans. A heavy knife with a beautiful balance to it. A sharpening stone. Little tartine rings. And of course, some decent whiskey. Perhaps my favourite Spice Tree blend. I'm more expensive than I thought :) I know however, I will be inundated with bountiful free nothing. This reminds me, I should probably make some cards for the OH's mother and get her some wine. Gotta get her to love me enough to feel obliged to buy me something :D