Another sunny day in someone else


Sun, sweat, short haircuts and lots of dinky things.

We have returned from a hot morning’s shopping in Montpellier. Everything is on sale. There are more empty shops than Central London and graffiti everywhere. It is quite disconcerting. Sale stickers littering the street’s windows, shops absolutely filthy and virtually nothing to buy. It is almost like being in Brighton.

I think that commercialism is thriving, but not as we know it. The high street is not the place to go looking for special and wonderful things. It is now just filled with cheap imports and copies. All the specialisation seems to be on the internet and in the small but expensive suburban landscape now expanding rapidly as the congestion charge lays waste to Central London.

We went to the beach this afternoon. Total bliss. Cool wind all the time, sea and sun. The children get hypnotised by the sand and all they can do in it. It is totally divine. I have managed to make my way through a large part of a novel for the first time in ages.

I am reading something called American Gods. He writes well. Another book by the same authur, Stardust, was a total delight. This is more intense, but transporting none the less.

I really do not want to live in France. I need to be reminded if I ever think it is a good idea. Everytime it comes up in my mind I feel as though it is the Devil tempting me into auto destruct. Luckily a few days here will always kill the desire but the flames get fanned by my husbands idealist images of it all. I think he drives with blinkers on so as not to ever be confronted with the actual reality, but I keep my mouth shut.

I have started to intimate that until he comes back to India with me he does not have the full deck of cards. It seems like it should all go my way, but I really would have to be lobotomised and dragged here kicking and screaming to ever choose the life here. I try not to resist it all the time. Not to let my lip curl. To just accept things, the french, as they are. But I do resist, Oh, so strongly. The haircuts that the women agree to get me the most. I think there is a conspiracy by the hairdressers of france to remove french women of all their power by emasculating them with awful haircuts. It is more staggering than anything else here. It leaves me quite stunned. I have tried to accept, to pass them by without looking but so far I fail.

I have to go to the market tomorrow morning. Endless busy women with bizarre haircuts and smirking hairdressers lurking all over the place.