Guest Writer: Hannah Louise Denyer

So, around this time every year, I get very antsy and find myself daydreaming about the gardens of Les Tuileries (at the age of 14, I found a condom on the floor and picked it up, much to the horror of my genuinely disturbed friend’s father. Frankly, I think it inspired a spark of hope for the others on the trip. Ahh, Paris.). I have been told from reliable sources aka myself, that I do I pretty convincing French-accent impression (which basically consists of a lot of elaborate hand gestures and repeating “How do you say...”). This past summer I visited Paris once more. As was over-excited, before the trip I would often talk to my poor victim/friend in said accent. This was completely appropriate and accepted as we were in London and surrounded by Englishmen, who, if not known for much (bangers and mash, anyone?), are notorious for their hostility towards the French. They loved it. Take it from me, if you want to make friends with an Englishman, mockery that verges offensive, about any foreign person is the way to go. I digress. The point is, we got to Paris and I could not switch the fake accent off. I would look to the stylish waiter and say “Ooh hallo monsiiuur, ooh hoh hoh hoh hoh”, all with exaggerated nasal congestion.

Okay. Focus. My coping mechanism for this restlessness involves reading many subtitles and listening to a lot of French or French-sounding music (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BZXcRqFmFa8, apparently I would not be able to tell the difference). Usually, after some research, I have the sobering experience of realizing that the song I had been “singing” with vigor and have fantasized some gorgy man serenading me with actually consists of lyrics that translate as such:

“I’ve had enough I have to tell you
You irritate me, you tyrannize me
I endure your dirty character…
You are a brute and a tyrant
You have no heart and no soul”
- Tu t'laisses aller by AZNAVOUR CHARLES

I like to pretend that never happened.

The one thing I like to do is buy frozen products from Trader Joe’s that have a “Product of France” stamp. Trust me – you will feel über cultured and entitled to say cute things like “très bien” and “mon dieu”. Sometimes, I even go so far as to model a nice black turtleneck. Despite your poor accent and the fact that French women don’t eat (which kind of defeats the whole point of this sad, sad ritual) you will totally mistake yourself for an exotic femme fatale. So eat that Provencal sauce with pride and belt Non, je ne regrette rien (which will probably end up sounding more like “no regrette rain”) like no one is watching (which if you live with six girls like “moi”, might result in locked bedroom doors).

As this is a fashion blog, I will give you my very credible suggestions for looking French:

First off, is it wrong that I am obsessed with a nine-year-old’s wardrobe? Probably. Anyway, Anna from La faute à Fidel! (Blame it on Fidel!), which, for the record, is not a movie worth exhausting your reading skills for, dresses better than most women do. I want her hair cut. I want her backpack. I want her pout. I want her pea coat. I want to bear her father’s children. Oops, this just got awkward.
I feel like I can really identify with this child. What is wrong with me?


I understand it would be a little creepy if I was to wear this outfit, but I can still practice the pout.

Badass.


Understand the father comment now?

Story of my life.


True, dressing like a 9 year old from the early 70s could give off the wrong impression, attract some bizarre attention and maybe even result in a night in a cell, but I can dream. If anything, you might get some much-needed time for contemplation.

Vive le France! (says the full-blood English woman)

On a side note, this cat all these girls are obsessing over chases me and hisses at me with glowing orange eyes and sneezes disturbing coloured snot. I am convinced it wants to watch me die and then eat my tongue.