You're where you should be all the time

Posted by Isabel Dexter at 09:56 on 19 Aug 2009

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La Artiste thinks the English girl mode of getting ready is ‘trop marrant’ (hilarious). Spend two hours in the bathroom. Cue much preening, applying of brightly coloured blush, eyebrow plucking, leg moisturising and generally doing what my Dad terms ‘faffing about’. Usually I like to do this while singing Carly
Simon’s You’re So Vain at myself in the mirror. I bet I think that song is about me.  Suddenly while still in underwear with wet nail varnish and trying to squeeze the very last bit out of my MAC strobe cream realise am approximately one hour and 45 minutes late to my appointment. Leg it to the metro (don’t think I’ve used that word for 15 years… but Derby girl habits die hard), run up and down stairs, push past nonchalant, slightly shocked Parisians who look like they just woke up already wearing Chanel lipstick and try to squeeze past the parades of tourists standing the wrong side (quelle horreur) on the airport-style moving floor runways at Châtelet. Finally arrive at a fashion showroom/meeting with my dentist/spa appointment/estate agents  looking slightly wild and dishevelled. Hey, I don’t discriminate, although  my local bakery thinks it’s hilarious that I turn up to buy a baguette for lunch at 4.30pm. Perhaps this isn’t an English girl thing, perhaps it’s a me thing. But daddy, a watch doesn’ t really go with this outfit.
 
Anyway, it has to stop. For one my Marc Jacobs granny chic sandals are starting to take the strain. I bought them by mistake when so bored in San Francisco last year that I actually befriended  someone with a camper van.  I was about to get my hair dreadlocked when luckily I stumbled on Marc Jacobs (the shop, not sadly, the man himself) giving out free sushi and the rest is footwear history. Secondly, it’s just too darn hot in Paris to run at the moment – and as all our grandmothers taught us – girls don’t sweat (horses sweat), girls glow.

 
Mostly though in London where everyone pushes or hurries on the tube and runs in the street – even the thoroughbred horse girls on Sloane Square – c’est normal. Here though it’s all about the sauntering. I swear I haven’t seen another person run in Paris like, erm, ever. The beautifully co-ordinated joggers in the Jardin des Tuileries aside, it’s considered pas class (not cool) to rush.  And not just in the street either, everything in Paris is about ‘prendre le temps’ (taking time). Whether it’s applying eyeliner, making friends or just choosing a wine for dinner.  It’s almost like being transported to another universe where valium is pumped into the air conditioning units, alongside a healthy dose of haughtiness with a twist of charm. Or perhaps it’s just the red wine at lunchtime. Sais pas.

Photo courtesy of Pauline Auzou

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