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.

Rays of sunshine.

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Meet my favourite shoes. They are going to spare me from November tristesse. Whatever little sunbeams there will be, the patent leather of their caps will reflect it, thousandfold, adding a little brightness to my life, and to others, as the most common reply after “Oh, Lanvin!” and “Lanvin?” is “Gee, they’re shiny!”. I love shiny shoes, I once had a pair of loafers by Prada that almost blinded people, no patent leather but this sort of leather that only needs a few strokes with a horse hair shoe brush to develop an absurd glow, but sadly, they’ve been gone for years. Lanvin’s Lucas Ossendrijver came to the rescue some years ago, giving old school sneakers a black tie allure, yet contradicted by their somewhat calm colour combinations, no shocking pink, but black and navy, plum and a dying sapin’s green, it looks like it had died from thirst, that sapin, and a moldy green counterpointed by a moldy grey. If it weren’t for the shine of it all, you might need some severe anti-depressants wearing these, but instead you’re being called fancy and are being stared at on the bus. Well, I’ll accept the compliment. Autumn, here we go!

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Bad influence.

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Mr Porter and I meet mostly at night. Actually, I cannot recall having met him in broad daylight. Not ever. He seems very nice. Very reliable. And he’s got such nice mates. Ms Sander and Mr Balmain for instance. Perfectly suitable company for a gentleman. But truth be told, he’s not a good friend at all. On the contrary. He steals my money, really, he does it each time we meet, he just grabs it out of my pockets, right after putting me off guard with some smooth fashion talk, taking advantage of my vanity, it’s an easy task actually, he just has to wait until my defences are down, he’s waiting for me when I come home after working long hours, he’s right there, in his little stylish app on my home screen, and the very moment my frustrations set in, caused by deadlines, cranky clients and even crankier creative directors, when the alcohol starts to work, these soothing 13.5 vol. of a good Château Whatever, when I’m ready to be distracted, ready to think a pair of trousers might change it all, that’s when he strikes, that’s the moment when he’s hitting me and my bank account, leaving me with nothing but another pair of trousers. But there’s no way of getting rid of him. I wonder if you know him, too. I cannot be his only victim, can I?