Dear London,
I'm back. Did you miss me? Somehow I don't remember it being so cold when I saw you last. Ah well, you were always one to pull off a chill in the middle of July. I suppose it's part of your charm.
It's nice being in the old neighbourhood again, far away from the dangers of your whizzing-cabbies-center. Your quiet streets and locked-up gardens (very Frances Hodgson Burnett) are more my style.
Like you, despite my contemporary exterior I am a creature of habit and tradition. On Sunday, the classic brunch at PJs with the girls, where after 5 years I still always have the eggs florentine. The casual saunter past the shop fronts around the Bibendum (oh wait! shoes!) and the boy-talk over fruit cocktails on Fulham.
Of course, it's your French quarter I love. Don't be offended, you can take the girl out of Paris but...; well, you know how it is.
Let's you and I stay friends.
Love,
Res
Showing posts with label Old Friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Old Friends. Show all posts
Jul 19, 2009
Jul 5, 2009
Letters
I finally wrote a letter to my friend M today. That's post-worthy for two reasons. First, because when I say I wrote a letter, I actually mean a letter. Not a facebook message. Not an email. Not a skype-text. An actual letter with a piece of paper that I scribbled on myself, with a pen, before putting it in an envelope, licking it shut (I'd forgotten that tangy, unpleasant taste that envelopes have) and popping a stamp on it. A real 1990s experience.
The second reason for posting about my letter to M is he's the one who upped and left his law-firm life, decided to use his legal skills in the service of his country and is now at some undisclosed location in Afghanistan. This is not some big, beefy guy who enjoyed playing wargames on his Playstation and decided to try out the real thing. This guy is your typical, 30-something slightly unfit lawyer (or he was, anyway; the latest pictures seem to suggest that becoming a soldier is even more effective than shelling out for a personal trainer).
In any event, there he is, in some hot, arid place where people who don't know how incredibly funny he can be have decided they don't like him and are employing their best efforts to blow him to pieces.
Given those circumstances, I found the letter-writing a bit tricky. What do you say to someone whose daily life is now mostly filled with trying not to get killed? What exactly is the right tone? Is there an etiquette book that has a chapter on "writing war letters" that women in the 40s used as a handy reference text?
Well, M being M, and me being me, I went for funny. Hopefully that was the right call.
* * *
For fun, a few words from Emily Post on the subject of letter-writing, published in 1922:
THE ART of general letter-writing in the present day is shrinking until the letter threatens to become a telegram, a telephone message, a post-card... to-day people don’t care a bit whether they write well or ill. Mental effort is one thing that the younger generation of the “smart world” seems to consider it unreasonable to ask—and just as it is the fashion to let their spines droop until they suggest nothing so much as Tenniel’s drawing in Alice in Wonderland of the caterpillar sitting on the toad-stool—so do they let their mental faculties relax, slump and atrophy.
And to close, Ms. Post's invaluable counsel...
Of course the best advice to a young girl who is impelled to write letters to men, can be put in one word, don’t!
The second reason for posting about my letter to M is he's the one who upped and left his law-firm life, decided to use his legal skills in the service of his country and is now at some undisclosed location in Afghanistan. This is not some big, beefy guy who enjoyed playing wargames on his Playstation and decided to try out the real thing. This guy is your typical, 30-something slightly unfit lawyer (or he was, anyway; the latest pictures seem to suggest that becoming a soldier is even more effective than shelling out for a personal trainer).
In any event, there he is, in some hot, arid place where people who don't know how incredibly funny he can be have decided they don't like him and are employing their best efforts to blow him to pieces.
Given those circumstances, I found the letter-writing a bit tricky. What do you say to someone whose daily life is now mostly filled with trying not to get killed? What exactly is the right tone? Is there an etiquette book that has a chapter on "writing war letters" that women in the 40s used as a handy reference text?
Well, M being M, and me being me, I went for funny. Hopefully that was the right call.
* * *
For fun, a few words from Emily Post on the subject of letter-writing, published in 1922:
THE ART of general letter-writing in the present day is shrinking until the letter threatens to become a telegram, a telephone message, a post-card... to-day people don’t care a bit whether they write well or ill. Mental effort is one thing that the younger generation of the “smart world” seems to consider it unreasonable to ask—and just as it is the fashion to let their spines droop until they suggest nothing so much as Tenniel’s drawing in Alice in Wonderland of the caterpillar sitting on the toad-stool—so do they let their mental faculties relax, slump and atrophy.
And to close, Ms. Post's invaluable counsel...
Of course the best advice to a young girl who is impelled to write letters to men, can be put in one word, don’t!
Jun 14, 2009
Confidante
Over a refreshing glass of Perrier this afternoon, my friend N told me how she had recently chatted with our mutual friend S, who inquired about my general well-being and noted that she hadn't heard from me in a few weeks. To which N replied that this was perfectly normal as I now typically resorted to "speaking to my blog" rather than speaking to my friends.
Ouch. Is this true?
Well, to be honest, it probably is, a bit.
The old me would have probably gotten defensive and upset at this point. But the new me is all about introspection and self-improvement and being über-zen about all this shit so I decided to let it sink in, have a nice long think, then write about it on my blog. No, the irony isn't lost on me, either.
So why is it that I've developed this "Blog First, Talk Later" attitude? Well, mostly it's a way to structure my thoughts before I brain-dump my friends into a coma. Like many (most) people, I find it difficult to talk about the things that upset me in a calm, rational manner, especially when someone else actually intends to participate in the conversation and do annoying things like ask questions, test my logic, or provide well-intentioned advice. Half the time I don't even know what I'm talking about before I'm at least 2/3 of the way into my rant. Seriously.
By writing about it first, I can actually figure out what it is I want to talk about before I pick up the phone or meet you for coffee. Of course, it also means that I will probably be feeling better already, and therefore more inclined to have a chat about shoes, your latest boyfriend, or that article from last week's New York Times.
Trust me, you're better off this way.
My inner mind isn't the most attractive place right now.
Ouch. Is this true?
Well, to be honest, it probably is, a bit.
The old me would have probably gotten defensive and upset at this point. But the new me is all about introspection and self-improvement and being über-zen about all this shit so I decided to let it sink in, have a nice long think, then write about it on my blog. No, the irony isn't lost on me, either.
So why is it that I've developed this "Blog First, Talk Later" attitude? Well, mostly it's a way to structure my thoughts before I brain-dump my friends into a coma. Like many (most) people, I find it difficult to talk about the things that upset me in a calm, rational manner, especially when someone else actually intends to participate in the conversation and do annoying things like ask questions, test my logic, or provide well-intentioned advice. Half the time I don't even know what I'm talking about before I'm at least 2/3 of the way into my rant. Seriously.
By writing about it first, I can actually figure out what it is I want to talk about before I pick up the phone or meet you for coffee. Of course, it also means that I will probably be feeling better already, and therefore more inclined to have a chat about shoes, your latest boyfriend, or that article from last week's New York Times.
Trust me, you're better off this way.
My inner mind isn't the most attractive place right now.
May 2, 2009
From the couch
Ah, how perfect, perched up over the L.E.S., waiting to go out and grab a few drinks on Orchard Street, and listening to Ryan Adam's "New York New York".
All said and done, I should be in 7th heaven right now. I had a yummy Diner breakfast of french toast and maple syrup with my lovely travelling companion N this morning, followed by lunch with very very close friend E (+1 baby) in the Meatpacking District, and topped off with yet more chatter with another E over in Brooklyn. Tonight, and over the next couple days, there will be more friends, more catching up, maybe a little shopping... Really, what's not to love?
And yet. As I look out at the rain pouring over New York, I can't help thinking I'm bringing the whole city down. Yes, there's the Boy trouble, and having to give away my cats, and having to go back to a job I'm less than enthousiastic about (note the carefully disguised euphemism) but surely despite all that I should still be able to dig deep and muster up the required vacation spirit?
And then there's the bittersweetness of being in New York. It feels a bit like going back to the house you grew up in and realizing all the furniture's been moved around and you can't remember where the bathroom is. And the new owners are treating you like a temporary and rather annoying guest they have to put up with while they wait to go back to their real lives, lives which you clearly are no part of. That's when it finally hits you that this house is not "home" anymore, that after years of pining to find that one place you belong you've now exhausted all possibilities and have nowhere else to look.
God, I've just read back over this post and it sounds almost as miserable as I actually feel. What a jolt. So much for the months of carefully practiced sugar-coating. What and how much to say on my blog has been at the forefront of my mind lately. I guess we're trying something new now. (As an aside, a big thank you to petite anglaise, who despite now being a serious, published author, actually took the time to reply to my email on this issue, blogueuse-to-blogueuse).
All said and done, I should be in 7th heaven right now. I had a yummy Diner breakfast of french toast and maple syrup with my lovely travelling companion N this morning, followed by lunch with very very close friend E (+1 baby) in the Meatpacking District, and topped off with yet more chatter with another E over in Brooklyn. Tonight, and over the next couple days, there will be more friends, more catching up, maybe a little shopping... Really, what's not to love?
And yet. As I look out at the rain pouring over New York, I can't help thinking I'm bringing the whole city down. Yes, there's the Boy trouble, and having to give away my cats, and having to go back to a job I'm less than enthousiastic about (note the carefully disguised euphemism) but surely despite all that I should still be able to dig deep and muster up the required vacation spirit?
And then there's the bittersweetness of being in New York. It feels a bit like going back to the house you grew up in and realizing all the furniture's been moved around and you can't remember where the bathroom is. And the new owners are treating you like a temporary and rather annoying guest they have to put up with while they wait to go back to their real lives, lives which you clearly are no part of. That's when it finally hits you that this house is not "home" anymore, that after years of pining to find that one place you belong you've now exhausted all possibilities and have nowhere else to look.
God, I've just read back over this post and it sounds almost as miserable as I actually feel. What a jolt. So much for the months of carefully practiced sugar-coating. What and how much to say on my blog has been at the forefront of my mind lately. I guess we're trying something new now. (As an aside, a big thank you to petite anglaise, who despite now being a serious, published author, actually took the time to reply to my email on this issue, blogueuse-to-blogueuse).
Sep 7, 2008
Week 1 as a Nugget
There's only one person I know of who will understand the joke in the title, which just goes to show I have a very odd sense of humour, but hey, sometimes you need it, particularly when you turn your life topsy-turvy and go from law school to law firm to MBA to consulting firm and people start looking at you like you're nuts.
It's now official. I am a bona fide consultant at Big Massive Consulting Firm (BM). Well, sort of. So far, all I've done is spent one week learning how to use a telephone, how to fill in my expense reports, and how to locate the coffee machine while blindfolded and chased by a rabid dog at 5a.m. Next week, I get to replay INSEAD, and spend long hours learning how to work in a group, read and analyse a case, make a very lame powerpoint presentation and take abuse while smiling. And then I will be a bona fide consultant at BM. Assuming I get staffed on something (as opposed to "beached", which sounds nice if you're thinking pina coladas with umbrellas, but not so nice if you're thinking large, stranded whale).
So here I am, staring out the window at a grey, uninviting sky, thinking I really need to get a move on and pack my suitcase for training, and wincing as I recall that less than 10 days ago I was in the south of France, basking in sunshine and surrounded by some of my closest INSEAD friends. Just this past Friday I met a group of alumni, toutes promotions confondues, and was told by someone older and wiser than myself that I should be prepared for 6 months to one year of post-graduation depression. Oh goody. On a positive note, I was also told that no matter how cynical I might be, I was sure to keep some of my fellow MBA friends for life, a thought which cheered me up considerably.
My next plan of action (besides learning how to be a good little BM nugget) is therefore to go out there and find myself a flat (must at all costs avoid the Tanguy syndrome), and make sure it includes lots of spare mattresses, sleeping bags, closets to pass out in, so I can welcome all my friends, new and old, and turn it into a small but vital hub of cheerfulness when BM gets me down (and we all know it will).
Please say a little prayer for me to the gods of flathunting.
PS: As I was having dinner with my absolutely oldest friend last night (congrats on the engagement!) I realized that besides the occasional wedding recap, I spend very little time writing about those who have been near and dear for more than just ten months. This does not mean I do not love you, and I promise to remedy this grave injustice in the future. So to all of you who, while I have been frolicking in the forest being utterly irresponsible, have been busy working, changing jobs, running companies, buying flats, getting engaged/married/pregnant/small people, thanks for being patient and forgiving. I'm back.
It's now official. I am a bona fide consultant at Big Massive Consulting Firm (BM). Well, sort of. So far, all I've done is spent one week learning how to use a telephone, how to fill in my expense reports, and how to locate the coffee machine while blindfolded and chased by a rabid dog at 5a.m. Next week, I get to replay INSEAD, and spend long hours learning how to work in a group, read and analyse a case, make a very lame powerpoint presentation and take abuse while smiling. And then I will be a bona fide consultant at BM. Assuming I get staffed on something (as opposed to "beached", which sounds nice if you're thinking pina coladas with umbrellas, but not so nice if you're thinking large, stranded whale).
So here I am, staring out the window at a grey, uninviting sky, thinking I really need to get a move on and pack my suitcase for training, and wincing as I recall that less than 10 days ago I was in the south of France, basking in sunshine and surrounded by some of my closest INSEAD friends. Just this past Friday I met a group of alumni, toutes promotions confondues, and was told by someone older and wiser than myself that I should be prepared for 6 months to one year of post-graduation depression. Oh goody. On a positive note, I was also told that no matter how cynical I might be, I was sure to keep some of my fellow MBA friends for life, a thought which cheered me up considerably.
My next plan of action (besides learning how to be a good little BM nugget) is therefore to go out there and find myself a flat (must at all costs avoid the Tanguy syndrome), and make sure it includes lots of spare mattresses, sleeping bags, closets to pass out in, so I can welcome all my friends, new and old, and turn it into a small but vital hub of cheerfulness when BM gets me down (and we all know it will).
Please say a little prayer for me to the gods of flathunting.
PS: As I was having dinner with my absolutely oldest friend last night (congrats on the engagement!) I realized that besides the occasional wedding recap, I spend very little time writing about those who have been near and dear for more than just ten months. This does not mean I do not love you, and I promise to remedy this grave injustice in the future. So to all of you who, while I have been frolicking in the forest being utterly irresponsible, have been busy working, changing jobs, running companies, buying flats, getting engaged/married/pregnant/small people, thanks for being patient and forgiving. I'm back.
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