I can't speak French, but I like to think that I can. In fact, I think there is a small part of me that believes it was born French, as though some part of my DNA was sourced from a fertility clinic in Paris and quietly introduced to my genetic make-up. I'm not sure that I can quite put my finger on what it is that I love about the French; more than the British, more than the Italians. Strolling around Paris, I feel a sense of belonging, as though I was meant to end up in a place where women dress for women and people watch from the seats of quaint little cafes, smoking Vogue slims and looking cooler than Charlotte Gainsbourg. Oh Carine Roitfeld, when are you going to adopt me?
The image, by the way, is from Cote Bistro in Wimbledon Village, where my boyfriend and I chatted our Sunday away over the perfect French breakfast.
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