Week One. Tick.
I’ve survived somehow. I’m not entirely certain how but a whole week passed and just one new photo has been taken. There were a few thousand close calls though.
And the very real possibility that I am now suffering from repetitive strain injury thanks to reaching into and rooting around in the Poppinsian tardis that is my handbag and removing the phone in anticipation of a capturing some banal moment or other before remembering the rules and throwing it back into the abyss.
And here is that photo.
The view is Cannes where I spent a couple of days last week.
Not a boutique designer shop in sight you’ll notice. Yes I spent hours salivating over the Vuitton and Versace. Yes I stared at the impeccably heeled ladies and gents of this chic town strolling around like very wealthy peacocks with equally well attired chiens in tow.
But thanks to my hotel concierge (Royal Mougins) I spent an afternoon free of credit card-reliant pleasure.
Perhaps he has been trained in the art of spotting women who have journeyed to Cannes to enjoy it’s opulence but once there swiftly realise their eyes are significantly bigger than their wallets.
Perhaps he spotted that my shoes belong to someone who enjoys the sensation of walking more than a couple of hundred yards before being crippled with excruciating pain.
Either way he sent me strolling along the sea front and up to the old town. And this photo was taken 30 seconds after the biggest smile I smiled in Cannes spread across my face.