It’s Sunday morning, and I am tucked up with breakfast and writing this post. This would be nice to imagine, however I have in reality just come from a gym class, angrily eaten my yoghurt/banana/porridge oats combo whilst doing my makeup in the shower before Sunday lunch by the sea. I think I prefer the latter reality.

The sun is out, it is blisteringly cold, and I am wondering why I am not wearing gloves indoors.

I think I have a problem with nostalgia. Not that I’m nostalgic about things that have happened, but more that I will be in the moment and know that this is something I will be nostalgic about in the future. Preempted nostalgia. I love my life here working in an art gallery. I also took a BeReal and obsessed about how this would be what I have to look back on from that particular day and did it accurately capture that? A TikTok came up about signs of someone with high-functioning anxiety, and it made me feel very seen. Maybe I seek so desperately to have things to look back on. I need to journal more, and I probably should take up film again. 

I had a really boring date on Wednesday. I feel slightly bad about writing that online. He was into finance and hikes, and I wondered whether our conversation was the basis of an A Level French exam. If only it had lasted ten minutes. I also wonder if it is me who is boring. Perhaps people can just be incompatible. I’m not sure I could ever date a finance man. 

Usually, I am rather opposed to hats. But, unfortunately, due to a rather dramatic temperature change, which I ought to be used to in England, I now have one beanie that is almost always worn; this isn’t just a result of a somewhat real fear of hat hair. I would, however, like to purchase an orange beanie. 

My friend and I took an hour bus to this village called Lourmarin. Proclaimed to be one of the most beautiful villages in France; even in the rain, it was pretty. It also happens to be the town in which Albert Camus is buried. Camus died in a car accident, despite having a fear of cars. He was persuaded by a friend to go in the vehicle, rather than taking the train home. His return ticket was found in his pocket. Why do these great figures have such tragically ironic deaths?

I have found this attraction in taking pictures of the interior of places. It is actually in preparation for my future restaurant/workshop space. I joke to a certain degree about this, but I dream of curating this establishment. For now, the photos suffice as an initial mood board. 

The Saturday (and Tuesday and Thursday) fruit and veg market. 

This week’s cultural digest: 

• Isaac and the Egg is the debut book from Bob Palmer. I haven’t finished it quite yet it is odd, sad, funny and moving. Possibly all of those adjectives in one sentence. 
• Rachel Cusk’s Second Place was definitely the best Cusk book I’ve read. One of those books you could easily re-read over and over again. 
• Epicerie l’déal in Marseille. Nestled in the Nouilles area of the city, everything is seasonal, with a changing menu and plates to share. 

My housemates’ violin playing is still wonderful. One actually woke me up on Saturday with her practice. Best alarm possible. We’re having Galette des Roi ce soir. A solid end to the weekend, or rather the start of mine.

Bisous, eleanor xx