2001, in order to follow my husband, I was uprooted from my beloved garden in
north-east Scotland and plonked down in the middle of Paris. I can
honestly say that life in Paris is no fun. Apart from being a beautiful,
romantic city full of excellent restaurants, tempting shops and remarkably
tolerant natives, it has little to recommend it. When not tending this site and
answering e mail I am to be found lurking in the
in the marvellous
and playing with my
camera. It's a
However, I long to wake up one morning to eat an Aitken's rowie with my coffee and look out on a garden that is mine, even if the sleet and rain are being battered against the windows by the north wind. There is no place like home.
It is a little known fact that the croissant is just a failed attempt by the French to copy the noble rowie prefected by Atikens Bakery. The croissant has caught on here, but just think of their reaction if they tasted the real thing. Why they might start reading the P & J on weekday mornings, or Oor Wullie and the Broons at the weekend in the Post. Now, if Proust had just had a bucket to sit on his books might not have been so long, and if the madeleine had been a rowie..... jings! But I suppose the French will have to wait a little longer before they are truly civilised.
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