It’s a bird‘s world.

The Bible, which I have never been too fond of, says birds don’t put seeds in the earth, which, pardon my bursting out into laughter, is so completely wrong, it’s such utter nonsense, as of course they do, this is how trees and stuff spread, anyway, although they don’t get in any grain and put it in any store-houses, the Bible is right about that at least, I appreciate their being around and that they are being fed by our Father – or, more accurately, by my mother. You cannot imagine the amounts of seeds, big and small, my mother is giving them, some of it is also enjoyed by our squirrel population, regardless of the walnuts these guys are given twice a day, the good ones at that, the French ones from Grenoble, our grocer had run out of the cheap ones from California, so they might never suffer from hunger or any kind of starvation-inflicted deficiency, anyway, growing up with such a love for birds, I just had to buy this Hermès scarf when it came out some years ago, the Zurich store had Le bal des oiseaux on display in their windows, couldn’t resist, it‘s not the manliest print of them all, but hey, the title is really fitting, as that’s what birds are having on a daily basis, a ball.

I love Paris when it drizzles.

One day, or rather one night, in February, 2016, I decided to go to Paris, right away, I mean, I’m talking taking the first possible train, quite spontaneously, so to speak, actually, that’s no big deal, the TGV makes it from Zurich to Paris in less than four hours, and there’s no reservation needed, they might tell you it is, but it’s not, even when it’s really crowded you do still find a place, at least, I always did, anyway, on that morning, it was already raining when I left the house, but I didn’t give a damn, and when I arrived in Paris, at Gare de Lyon, nothing had changed, it was still raining, but I am not that easily defeated, and, for some strange reasons, I always carry an umbrella, those tiny foldable ones, black in a black plastic bag that looks just like the black plastic stuff from Prada, for far less money as there’s no logo, try this with one of those big ones which nowadays are only seen on state funerals and such, laughable constructions, so very cumbersome the moment it stops raining, anyway, my point is, I made it through the rain. I walked and walked and walked, and doing so, I praised not only my umbrella but more importantly, my sneakers’ soles’ reliability, soyez loué, Pierre Hardy, obviously, we are the only two people left on this world with dry and warm feet, the others are hiding, some place sheltered, wimps, all of them, and they are missing the best about Paris in the rain: you have it all to yourself.

Basic me.

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I came across this selfie when I was looking for photos of Marie Antoinette’s tomb in Paris, and as I found that I have equally important things to say about this outfit of mine, I shall postpone my article about Marie Antoinette’s last resort. So, instead of learning that Proust lived quite nearby, on the opposite side of the street actually, you learn about what I wore the day I went to see the tomb of France’s notorious queen. I actually never take selfies, but on this day, in the restroom of a bistrot next to Galerie Maeght and Deyrolle in St.Germain, I had to (although, is it a selfie if you leave your head out? Well, I had just visited the tomb of Marie Antoinette and let’s not forget she was beheaded, too), as I was wearing my favourite jacket, I’ve been wearing it day in, day out ever since the day I bought it at Hamburg’s Jil Sander flagship store, it’s from an autumn/winter collection when Raf Simons was still in charge. It’s been in the washing machine dozens of times, its zipper is mostly out of order, and if it works it gets stuck in the tiny pleat that frames the zipper, nice detail, nicely sewn, but not very intelligently placed, its only fault actually, but I wonder if Madame Bertin would have lost her head sooner than Marie Antoinette if she had ever confronted Sa Majesté with such thoughtlessness in tailoring, anyway, then there’s my favourite pair of jeans ever, the only one that I will really miss, from that frightful day on when they dissolve into thin air, Ralph Lauren will be invited to attend its funeral, and one of my many black crew neck cashmere pullovers, a cheap one, no logo, but their quality is actually the same, a white shirt, you only see its cuffs, I think it’s from Charvet, and my beloved Hermès scarf, 140 x 140 cm, silk and cotton, imprimeur fou, Les Clefs and some other iconic design printed on top of it (or the other way round). That’s it. Basic me. Tomorrow, I might wear the very same, so you won’t have any difficulties recognizing me in the streets.

Irresistible horses.

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Picture it, The Hague, summer of 1982. Of a holiday that my family and I spent mostly on the nearby beach in Scheveningen, I just recall one particular day, the day we went to The Hague to see architecture for a change, shops, museums, I guess, and restaurants with dressed people, this I recall intensely, I like dressed people, anyway, The Hague has a lot of beautiful places, we had tea and sandwiches at the most stylish café, Germany had absolutely nothing of the kind these years, I really like The Hague, I actually prefer it to Amsterdam, but don’t ask me why, anyway, on this day we passed, quite by chance, The Hague’s Hermès boutique, and as nobody in my family was particularly interested in their display, I was left behind in front of one of its windows, a window in which there was an ashtray, an ashtray, yes, the most beautiful ashtray with a horse in some sort of gala outfit, and no, I did not smoke at this age, I didn’t smoke for five more years, I was a late bloomer, anyway, this ashtray was so beautiful that I didn’t get it out of my mind, a few hours later I would schlepp my mother back to the store just to show her that ashtray, my mother going once again “What?” as she did not get the beauty of the depicted horse in that or any other ashtrays, hers were purer, simpler, but she can’t ride either, I can, very well even, and so, as my monthly allowance didn’t cover an Hermès ashtray at that time, I had to go without – until I moved to Zurich some years ago. There they had almost the same ashtray, and at the age of fortysomething my cash flow was almost positive, and I even was allowed to smoke, I was in heaven – needless to say, I bought it right away – and a new pack of Dunhills to go with it. The only thing that bothers me, it doesn’t look good with ash in it. Maybe I should quit.

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Moving & Decorating Frenzy.

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So, I moved to Berlin. As a consequence, I found myself living with misplaced pieces of furniture and boxes, boxes, and boxes. Big boxes, small boxes, boxes containing other boxes, heavy boxes, really heavy boxes, and light boxes, boxes filled with books, lots of books, all of them to be alphabetised, I warn you, there are more authors with M than you might think, which you only realise when you’ve just successfully decorated the space between N and O, Neruda and O’Casey, and then you’re handed a box with more Mann, you had forgotten all about Thomas Mann’s letters, all of them, three big volumes, and hey, there is Golo Mann and Heinrich Mann and Klaus Mann, too, what did this family ever do besides writing, and if this wasn’t enough, all kinds of wrapped stuff was hindering my way to the bathroom, to the kitchen, to the front door, to the bedroom, to the washing machine, to the balcony and off the balcony, I was going mad. Really. It took a lot of soothing Niederegger Marzipan and Lenôtre cakes from KaDeWe, Berlin’s fanciest department store, to survive it. You see, little did I know that unpacking these boxes would cause even more chaos. What to do with all this stuff you strangely acquired over the years? Where to put it? And why do you have to dust things you’ve just unpacked? And why is there always more of it? More things, more dust. But somehow I managed. My kitchen cabinets were very welcoming. But mostly because my 75-year old mother helped me. She’s a great organiser. She would have made it big in the military, she would have been made general in a week or so. Now, she’s gone home, advising her gardeners on how to garden her garden. And I am living in an apartment that almost looks like one. Thanks, Mummy!

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Summertime and the shopping is easy.

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The living is easy in summer, so sings Ella Fitzgerald so very inspirational, and although no fish are jumping in Berlin, nor is any cotton high, but my daddy’s (almost) rich and my ma is definitely good looking, so I am in the good mood I’m supposed to be in. And what do (almost) rich father’s sons do on such a day in Berlin? They go shopping on Kurfürstendamm. There is no better time to shop in summer than in the morning, when the temperatures are still low, when the morning dew has just disappeared, leaving the air soft, when hopes are still high (just like that Southern cotton) that this day may turn out just fantastic. Kurfürstendamm is just a short walk from my place in Charlottenburg, and so I strolled through streets that Christopher Isherwood might have taken too when he lived here in the 1920s, enjoying the architecture, watching people on their way to the office and goods being delivered, and decided to have a long coffee first, as I was very well aware that no fancy store opens before 10 a.m. I was the only one who took a seat at Reinhard’s at Berlin’s Hotel Kempinski, the one that Romy Schneider was staying in when she visited the town, I still wonder why, why would you miss all the delights of this time of day in the city, the plays of light and shadow, enchanting patterns on the facades, the volatile splendour of reflections on Saint Laurent’s logo, it will be long gone in afternoon, carpe diem, folks, I want to call out – but the only guy who seems to enjoy this place at this hour was the postman at Chanel. Oh well. They have no clients, but at least they’ve got mail.

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