My aunt is ballsy as hell. Whether that works for her or not these days, I don’t know. You’ll have to ask.
But I know I loved it when I was thirteen. When she used to sneak boxes of romance novels (Serious contraband in my house) into my room and under my bed. The kind with Swashbucklers and Miss Scarlet types who fall in love and move to Istanbul. My favourites were the ones about highwaymen and London fog. They’re what gave me the hankerin’ (I’m sure it’s a word) to move to England.
You want a thing long enough, you make it happen.
I wanted to walk in the fog. So I did.
So I do.
Most of the time.
Today, I’d rather stay in.
The weather’s awful. Bone cold that sticks to the sky. Wet that smells like rain but ain’t. I like my slippers and robe and the fact it’s a Friday and I can sit and write and love it.
But I’ll face the freezing fog and I’ll do it on foot. For touche eclat and dinner. Because my under-eye-vein needs the slap and Tall Dark & Handsome needs the food. Because a girl cannot live without YSL any more than the man can live without cheesecake and Bordeaux.
We’re also out of coffee.