It isn’t all rosy living overseas sometimes you get really fed up, not so much homesick, but just fed up and think what is all this B-S about. Those are the times when I want a good bitch – the kind of session that is chased by a couple bottles of wine and then drinks turns into dinner. That is when I miss London and friends. You can make new friends when you go overseas but it’s “your people” back home – the ones who saw you when life wasn’t glamorous (ha!), the long nights of crying over undesirable men, watching the same programme on tv whilst on the phone to each other and the exchange of looks that let you know you are both thinking the same thing – are the ones you crave the most. Even the fantastic newer friends you make and meet can’t ever truly replace “your people”. I was feeling particularly in need to some good old fashioned raise me up and I wanted to do it somewhere where they truly spoke my language – English. Tucked away on the Rive Gauche was a place I had heard of brimming with Southern hospitality (I do love reading Southern Living and Garden and Gun magazines) and a welcome to blast away the darkest of clouds hanging over one’s head. What is this paradise called I hear you say well 13-a baker’s dozen owned and run by Laurel! View Post
Paris is the city of love, light and walkers.
To really see Paris you need to walk the streets and get lost, as I do often, being GPS challenged even with a blue flashing dot on the map I manage to often go in the wrong direction. You could take the metro and have the metro ticket rejected because it got demagnetised in your bag next to phone or have the pleasure – did I say pleasure – of someone push up against your backside, with not so much as an introduction, as they barrier hop. Yes, a very Parisian sport is fare dodging and riding the metro for free. Then if that wasn’t enough there is the dank stench of perspiration so strong that the back of your throat itches. View Post
My name is Liquid Marmalade and I am a Polluter.
Polluter of what exactly?
Yes my crime in a country of black coffee drinkers is: I love mine with the white stuff. I don’t want cream or sugar but milk. Also I like a big cup of coffee none of this mini espresso cup nonsense which is what you get if you say café please. If you want an Anglo-Saxon style coffee then ask for an americano. Every time I ask for milk I get the look that says quelle horreur. View Post
What’s the worst thing that can happen when you wake up on a Saturday morning after a rough week at work:
a) being woken up by your noisy neighbours who just can’t seem to get enough of each other?
b) hearing the wind howling outside but knowing that you have to go out for that run round the park?
c) realising you have no coffee left including the stash of sachets taken from various hotel rooms? View Post