Voilà. That is me. Shamelessly posing in front of the glass pyramid of the Louvre like everyone else who was there. (You don’t even want to know how long my friend waited for a people-free shot…)


I have been living in Paris for a month now, and it still feels like a strange holiday, or honeymoon with myself. I’ve yet to snare a Frenchman, and with my appalling French it’s unlikely to happen any time soon, but I admit to being smitten. Not just with the city, but with my own self.

I like the person I am here, and the way the move has changed me. Gone are most of my insecurities, because I am no longer a girl who might be moving to Paris. I have ripped up my roots, navigated my first month of city life, and gained the thing I wanted more than anything.



At the moment I am feeling as positive as the + end of a battery, and curiously displaced, since here I am a stranger to myself.

Two of my friends from the UK visited earlier in the month, and I played hostess with what I like to think was admirable skill (though my cooking might suggest otherwise). We went out to the sights and bars, met the Mona Lisa, who I actually think looks quite angry, and pottered here and there and around again until our feet hurt.

I have sampled macaroons and chocolate eclairs, met people from the world over, and mastered both the metro and the washing machine – the latter no easy feat!

Having made a friend or two, and survived thus far, I am now calling Paris my home.


The only bad things so far are that I miss my friends and family, and write less than I want to. But on a more optimistic note what I do write is more than I wrote before.

Heading to work on the metro I often scrawl two paragraphs of a scene, or half a poem, some of which get finished. I keep a diary, for when I am taking myself seriously, and I write letters like the heroine of a Regency-era novel, half of which I get round to posting.

Like all my projects I am a work in progress, but I am content, and lucky enough to know my own good fortune in being here.