Thursday, 1 October 2015


 I have made time to hand-bead this large disc shaped headpiece base.
I started it in the airport lounge.
A large curly feather will finish it nicely.
 I can now put a 'Hand-Made in Paris' label on its sparkling visage.
If checking out clichéd nonsense is not your thing.
I would click away now.
It's no secret.
Paris is my sort of town.
They let dogs in just about everywhere.
And there's pastries and cakes.
I have become obsessed looking at each baker's 'signature' style.
There's plenty of them.
There's no flies on the produce.
Only French bees.
Buzzing around the sugary goodness.


 You can sit on a giant macaron, or a sweet biscuit or liquorice all-sort.
You would never have to cook a single thing again.
It's all there for the taking for you to claim as 'your own'.
Even the souvenirs are irresistible.
You  can walk and walk.
There's hardly any hills.
 But, you have to look up.
And across.
And around.
And down
The door knockers are charming.
The flowers encroach the footpath.
The local council couldn't care.
No-one is policing footpath space.
You just get right out of the way.
 The town halls are adorned with cherubs.
Here's our local.
The gardens are perfection.
The domes gleam.
There's all kinds of niche frippery.
This is the highly acclaimed fan and headpiece designers maison Duvelleroy.
Just at the end of the street.
Here's the Plaza Athenee with all its glorious red geranium filled planter boxes.
The French seem to be able to put a garden anywhere.
Dior has its headquarters around the corner.
Nicely played.
 The Plaza's art Frenchie.
Paris is the home of the camellia corsage.
Here's Monsieur Legeron's lovely pieces.
The epitome of elegance.
Ready to be shipped.

The department stores are stunning.
You can sit under this dome at Galeries Layfayette, sipping coffee for not much more than
you would pay at home.


 And, finally the ubiquitous snail eating tools.
See you after dinner.
Bonne Nuit.