I’m sitting at a mint green garden table, surrounded by wild roses and camellia bushes. In front of me sits a charming little cottage, complete with picturesque lattice panels and matching mint green shutters. It’s warm but not hot; and every so often a slight breeze ruffles the leaves and carries the birdsong across the courtyard. I’m sipping a chocolate-flavoured tea. Pebbles crunch ever so slightly under my feet and no one here is in any hurry. It’s the most tranquil, beautiful place in Paris, but I don’t want to be here.
Where I want to be is in bed under the covers, or perhaps at a corner table in a crappy, smelly old Tabac. Somewhere dark, and perhaps unpleasant, inside and hidden.
These beautiful surrounds don’t match my mood at all. The perfectness makes me mad, and sad and angry. I sip my tea and bite my lip and try hard not to cry.
I don’t want to be here.
Someone’s started playing the piano inside, and I’ve just spied some grapes growing on the vine. Give me a break. I’m trying really hard not to like it here, because truth be told I don’t want to cheer up. I don’t want to feel better. I want to wallow and whinge and feel hard done by. I’m angry at Paris for being so beautiful and so ugly, so full of possibility and yet so hopeless.
But I guess if you’re going to be mad, and sad and angry, I might as well be mad and sad and angry here.