Robinson goes to Paris

HI THERE my dear Readers.

I write to you in a state of great excitement.

Firstly, I’ve just been to see Penguin, my publishers. It’s only six weeks until my novel is published – less, maybe – and they tell me that the retail world is going mad for it. And reviewers, bloggers, all sorts of people are loving it. I cannot put into words how extraordinary this news is to me. Honestly: I finished the thing and thought it was absolute turd. To think that something I’ve written is actually enjoyable to normal human beings is just beyond awesome. You may not believe me but I am truly gobsmacked.

Secondly, I am at St Pancas waiting for a train to PARIS! PARIS I TELL YOU! I’ve never been! I am thirty-two years of age and have never been to Paris. And I’m afraid the reason for this is poor: I decided, somewhere deep in a dysfunctional part of my brain, that I wasn’t “allowed” to go to Paris until I’d, like, fallen in love and met the one. I know! What a wazzock! By the time I was sane enough to trump all over this policy I had sort of moved to South America and Paris became a little less accessible.

But finally, the day is here.

I am wearing a stripey top, obv, and slacks. Y’know. Stylish chino-y things that a down-time Parisienne would wear. They probably wouldn’t wear it but I couldn’t care less. It’s my Paris look and that’s that.

I have fake tanned for the first time this year. I smell like a rotten digestive biscuit.

I am wearing eyeshadow for the first time this year. I look like a furtive racoon.

I am wearing a new perfume. The parts of me that don’t smell of rotten digestives smell like parts of a man who has just shaved.

None of these things are ideal, but none will bring me down, readers. I’ve had weeks of work hell and I deserve this break. It’s my birthday apart from anything else. Thirty two years of age! Remember the Lucy Robinson who started this blog? Only six months off her big three-zero, stalking men, dating freaks, acting like the woman that all men fear women to be.

I mean this in a truly non-smug way but it’s nice to see how much things have changed. Not the fact that I am off to Paris with my wonderful and handsome boyfriend (although that’s pretty cool) but just that I am significantly less unstable mentally.

I propose three cheers for ageing. It is ace. Oh and three cheers for all the retailers who are bulk-buying my book. Step aside, Shakespeare. Robinson is in da house.

(That’s Robinson who is wondering if she should point out that she doesn’t really think she’s the next biggest thing since Shakespeare. But sort of hopes that her readers will get that anyway. But can’t quite be sure.)

 

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