When in Paris...

Triad on tour

Well, I survived. Just about. My first few hours in Paris were contemplative. I had several hours to get used to not worrying about anyone but myself, drink in the beauty of all things Paris and not have to bother myself with my daily to do list.

To begin with I didn't feel particularly liberated. It's hard to feel footloose and fancy free when you've a lump in your throat the size of Notre Dame. I missed my little bird, no two ways about it, but I was holding it together. My fellow travellers had only noted that I was uncharacteristically quiet, which some may consider a blessing. It was only when the good husband sent through a pic of her ladyship, all snuggled up and ready for bed, that the tears could be contained no longer. So it was that I found myself sitting in a beautiful Parisian bar crying into my woefully overpriced glass of Chablis.

Thankfully I pulled myself together. Helped by my highest heels, two very lovely and understanding friends, some serious back-combing, a bottle of rouge noir and the discovery of the best cocktail bar in the Marais, I nailed this Mum-at-large thing. By the time Sunday arrived we'd seen all the best sights - if you enjoy the sight of a cat on a lead, a shop full of macarons and the French Keith Lemon that is - and had a good old gossip to boot.

I'd had a fantastic time and it was good to be reminded of all the carefree things that make me feel like the old me. But, as I saw Mim waving at me across the airport, life as the new me felt better than ever.

Since my return, I note with relief that Millie is of course no worse off and her wardrobe has been enriched considerably. The only discernible difference is that she has, of late, insisted on wearing my beret and carrying round a Chanel bag? Could have been worse I suppose, at least she's not louchely smoking Gitanes.    



'Hat, hat!' Yes, you may wear Mummy's beret for lunch



You want to take the Chanel bag to nursery?!
As you wish, mademoiselle