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To kick things off, it seems rather quiet around here which seems a pity. Fictional frolics ahead. - Absinthe in Montmartre

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June 13th, 2005


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oh_meow
05:13 pm - To kick things off, it seems rather quiet around here which seems a pity. Fictional frolics ahead.
Edith has moved to Paris because she has decided to become a Bohemian. Whether or not she is particularly successful at this is open to debate, but she is trying her best and has bought a guidebook on the subject. Currently she is hanging around the local cafe trying to spot artists to become the dazzling muse of. Hopefully her wispy mousy hair and equally mousy face won't put any of them off. To help matters along she is keeping very quiet about mummy and daddy back in Chichester, and the ever so useful money they are kindly sending her.

When she first came to Paris she was shocked at the dirty postcards grubby little boys would constantly try to sell her, but that has worn off; and now her main worry is lice. She swears that there is something unpleasant hiding in the mattress, but is putting up with it because she wants to be a proper bohemian. The un-regularness of the meals also worries her, but she wouldn't dare tell a soul this. So far she has only met one real artist's model, and secretly she found her rather common. Nevertheless she is still on the lookout for her artist.

Feeling terribly daring she has stopped wearing gloves outside. Dispensing with the hats would be a step too far in the direction of savagery she feels however, a naughty thrill at the thought of going outside with bare hands is more than enough. There is a woman named Georgette who is often to be found in the hotel lounge elegantly draped on one of the better placed armchairs. Her circle look terribly exciting but Edith Thomas knows that if she was ever invited to one of their gatherings the anxiety about what to wear would kill her.
Current Music: y teimlad - datblygu

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From:oh_meow
Date:July 19th, 2005 02:48 pm (UTC)
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Edith entered the cafe, coughed and spluttered a little, and bought herself a pastis, to have the right colour drink on the table, even though she was a little too intimidated to buy a real absinthe. Secretly she thought the sludgy yellow colour looked a lot like some particularly unpleasant sort of cough medicine. She added far too much water which didn't help matters either. The cold she had caught from attempting to wash her petticoats in a cack-handed manner (the maid did these things before) gave her a relentless sniff. She hoped it gave her the impression of romantic consumption (without the inconvenient coughing up of lumps of blood and dying), but didn't raise her hopes too high.

When the woman from the hotel came over and demanded her seat back Edith hoped the ground would swallow her up. "I'm ever so sorry, I didn't know it was your seat" she said, backing away and feeling wretched. She had a bad habit of thinking herself much more mousy and boring than she probably was, and her thoughts had an equally bad habit of acting themselves out on her. The thought of climbing back down all those steps, which she had only climbed up 10 minutes earlier put her off actually leaving the cafe however.

(Note from me - I tried to type this a few days ago when I was actually in Paris but fighting with the french keyboard which helpfully had some of the letters rubbed off made me lose my train of thought, and I really couldn't be bothered. PS pernod and lemonade is lovely, you should try it. Is actual absinthe legal in the US? it certainly is here, but illegal in France)

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