Teenage Kicks

Posted by Isabel Dexter at 19:20 on 4 May 2009

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My newest Parisienne friend has just trampled on all my stereotypes about French girls. She poses for pictures (not a pout in sight) like a modern day Marilyn Monroe, while exclaiming "Quelle pute!" (what a tart) when she sees the photo. She introduced herself to me as a complete fag hag. After switching the music to Spandau Ballet, she proceeded to tell me about all the people in the room she hated. It was a brilliantly French Dorothy Parker moment.

She was wearing jeans with strappy, red metallic sandals and when I told her I adored her shoes, she laughed. "They were free! I stole them! H&M!" I decided I loved her already. The whole karma-issue aside, I haven't had so much fun since I was 15,  pretending to be in Heathers and mooching all mall-rat-like around Westfield with my Gay Best Friend. (Oh, ok, that was just a few months ago - I am regressing).

Following in the "j'ai 15 ans" theme I have to admit I wasn't my most pretty or stylish self this weekend. I consumed an entire bottle of wine at a party (3 euros, 50 - cheaper than a packet of biscuits - this may say something about the Parisians' priorities), slept in my makeup, created a shameful amount of drama on the street outside my friend's house and generally acted like I needed a slap around the face.

Strangely, though, I think this is more acceptable behaviour here then when I apologise so much or wear tiny sequin miniskirts. There was a sincere lack of "she is so English" comments as I pouted and stomped and raged. Then I went on a date with a stranger and spent the whole time (including the foie gras course) wondering if I could surreptiously throw up in the toilet. My only saving grace was that I was wearing black, had mastered that skinny hair thing and have now learnt to limit my French to words with no 'r' in them. Gag me with a spoon.

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