How To: Body, And Its Parts

Summer sneaks up on us in many unpleasant ways, including having to share a park with joggers who wear tiny shorts. Even when, at closer inspection, said joggers turn out to be mere children in their early 30s and thus still capable of exposing their lower limbs, emotional distress is unavoidable and immediate. How can it be The Season again? How am I not prepared? Why am I not learning anything, ever?

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May Mild Irritants

Everything is overdue: spring in Brussels, my blogposts. But then nothing interrupts my dolce far niente like the woke brigade performing another not-very-thoroughly-thought-out, yet very public character assassination/cancellation project. So I had to get up for this. In today’s edition: Coco Chanel was a racist. Chanel is racist brand.

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When There’s a Voice

One of my pandemic accomplishments is the rather early completion of everything that Netflix (and the internet) has available in English. This forced me to explore French production, and I started with the series Call My Agent, or Dix Pour Cent. (Emily in Paris does not count as French TV even though they do speak French “Oh yes, I mean, oui” and have a cardboard Eiffel Tower as a backdrop.) I realised that not only does Dix Pour Cent keep me entertained, but I will be able to add another impressive entry to my list of sabbatical accomplishments: mastering an arsenal of French swearwords with zero effort on my part.

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