I woke up at 10 to my ipod, in my own bed with its satiny sheets and just-so firmness. A little after 11, I finally emerged for coffee and a bowl of cereal (Country Store, how I've missed you) while catching up on the news and my favourite blogs.
Outside, the sun was shining and it was wonderfully warm when I walked out, elbowing past the tourists taking pictures (my house has a certain notoriety) to catch five minutes with Sophie, hairdresser extraordinaire. Of course, it being the sales and all, I couldn't resist popping my head in a few shops, notably the infamous Prune which once again managed to wreak havoc on the old porte-monnaie. Don't judge me, the shoes were 40% off. And it's a disease. I swear.
Once I got the shopping out of my system (and the euros out of my bank account), I grabbed a salad and gazpacho at the Daily Monop and plopped myself down for an impromptu picnic in front of the Pompidou. This is the good life, my friends. How could I have ever considered leaving Paris?