Tristesse exquise.

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Sundays. They offer sometimes an overdose of tranquility and calm. Coco Chanel died on a Sunday, on the one day in the week she couldn’t work. What are we to do on a Sunday? To read and rest, to stroll through parks, museums and art galleries, I guess, or in case of rain, through our apartment. I did just that and stopped at my bedroom Regency table, with some letters on it, letters I haven’t answered yet. I could do that now. I smiled at Casimir, my crystal turtle by Daum, while putting on my Hermès Étrivière Double Tour bracelet, and as it’s pointless to style up when you’re alone in the privacy of your home, I took it off again, took a sniff of the white rose in my vase by René Lalique, and sighed. Le travail, c’est la vie, a French girl once said to me. She was right.

One thought on “Tristesse exquise.

  1. There’s something so appealing about staying inside on rainy days and feeling rather melancholy. Or at least, I’ve always thought so which is why your writing strikes a particular chord with me. I think it must be fascinating to see such beautiful objects while listening to the soft sound of the rain falling outside and it almost makes me wish Sundays could always be like this.

    Liked by 1 person

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