Sacre Bleu

I've been feeling blue recently, because it seems like I can't put a foot right. So today I had a blue day; and wore a blue skirt, blue shirt, blue scarf, blue stockings and blue coat. I would have worn my blue shoes, but they were destroyed in an act of CockerSpanielTerrorism. I took a photo, but my hair is giving me grief at the moment (not to mention my skin. eurgh.)

If I thought wearing blue would improve my mood, I was quickly proved wrong. So after two hours in Newtown (which is nowhere near as cool as it likes to think these days) I stomped home and resolved to move to outer space where, I'm presuming, I won't have to deal with pedestrians stopping in the middle of the street, or people asking me for money, or bloody strollers. Just because you own a baby and a stroller does not make you the Aston Martin of the sidewalk.

This was a reaffirmation of a thought I had on Sunday, when my brother and I went to Rozelle Market. After I bought a lovely little hat, we then dodged strollers, toddlers, overly pregnant women and a CAT ON A LEAD (???) to get to a patisserie that I had read about and wanted to investigate.

The investigation concluded that while Adriano Zumbo's patisserie is teenytiny, and that you wouldn't have been able to swing that poor cat we saw that was ON A LEAD, our purchase of 18 Macaron's was possibly the best food choice I had made in ages. Even if the girl behind the counter looked at me oddly when I royally proclaimed "oh, two of each flavour please"


The green ones, Pistachio flavoured, were my favourites. And the peanut butter. And the mandarin. And the glitteryone. I now have to learn the bicycle route to Balmain from my place, so that I can justify buying many more Macarons. I should just learn to make them, but I suspect it will involve serious amounts of washing up, and that I can not abide. I hate washing up almost as much as I hate, well, everything else, let's be honest. So cycling to Balmain it is. I could get the bus, but cycling means opportunities to alarm people with strollers.

Because the weather has been so gross here in Sydney, I've been getting a lot of reading done. I tore my way through Mallory's La Morte De Arthur 1 & 2, mostly so that I could shout at the television when Merlin was on. And then I reread The Annotated Alice by C.S.Lewis, which is the sort of overly detailed thing that someone as easily distracted as me loves. I found our old copy of The Once and Future King by T.H. White, and devoured that in fits of giggles on the train (and then watched more Merlin). Now I'm alternating The Crimson Petal and The White by Michael Faber, (which is wickedly funny, clever and raunchy) with Paris to the Moon by Adrian Gopnik. This book has become my morning coffee book.

Full of lovely stories of an American raising his son in Paris, this book is love letters to Paris, and insight into why so many people fall in love with France. If you can get hold of this one, do. It's lovely.


So what happens when I'm not indulging in pastries, or scowling at things, or reading? Well, I'm quite often to be found napping. I find that this pastime keeps me out of trouble, keeps me from dwelling on the petty things that tend to send me into dramatics. Although I noticed that recently my hands have been so very very very sore. I worked out why when I woke up in the middle of the night to find that my hands were clenched into fists. Presumably I have taken to doing this incase of nighttime warfare. I don't know. My father said "that tells you everything we need to know about you, Madeleine."

In response I scowled over my book, crammed a pastry into my mouth and went to have a nap.


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