In my humble opinion the greatest and most fulfilling thing about being young, healthy, and carefree, is the pursuit of pleasure. To come and go as one pleases, to be ruled by none but one’s own heart, to serve nothing & nobody but one’s own desires. After all…only you are in control of how you feel, and I choose happiness. I cannot comprehend why someone would do nothing about being unhappy and choose to remain so! Unfetter yourselves from the drudgery of worry and ‘what-ifs’. Tired of the scenery? Dreaming of running away? Take a day off work, hop on a plane or the Eurostar, go away for an afternoon…do whatever pleases you. After all in the end we all die.

I gave into fickleness, whimsy, and my fantasies of running away—-even for the briefest of moments—-and did just that. Paris has a legendarily romantic reputation, and is associated with lovers, love, falling in love. But that is not to say it is not a city for the jaded, the resolutely single, or the world-weary. In fact when I am tired of being tired, a visit to Paris renews my spirit, restores my faith in romance and reminds me to believe in happy endings. Also, there is the most minute of chances that I would encounter Vincent Cassel and we’d fall in love…a girl can dream.


V.C in L’appartement (1996). Oh mon bebe I would NEVER hurt you!

So…missing Rue De Rivoli, Rue Saint-Honore and everything in between, I grabbed the largest handbag I could find (my Mulberry Roxanne tote), hastily stuffing it with a clean change of clothes, my toothbrush, passport, credit card and dashed to Paris for a mere night & an afternoon.

And of course I brought my lil’ baby, Lady Butterworth. Or should I say Mademoiselle Butterworth?


Mon petit choux had never been to Paris before so I thought I’d take her for brunch to one of my favourite haunts on Rue de Rivoli, Angelina.


I do not understand why some say that the French are rude, or Parisians snobby and standoffish to ‘outsiders’ ie. non-French speaking foreigners? Everytime I go to Paris the Parisians are always quick to smile, complimentary, sincere and eager to help. Perhaps it helps that I try to endear myself by attempting, apologetically, to speak very poor French. Perhaps my act of sartorial deference ie. always carrying/wearing a French label wins over the ladies. Perhaps they’re just taking the piss and I am oblivious, but either way Paris always treats me with kindness & grace. Certainly nobody ridiculed me for bringing Lady Butterworth everywhere, in fact a few petted her and exclaimed “C‘est mignon!”

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It was also Diana’s first time in Angelina. Everyone I introduce this gorgeous little bijoux of a tea room to inevitably falls in love with it. Is it the location, within a breath of Rue CambonRue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, a step across the road from the Louvre, a mere skip away from Jardin Du Palais Royal? Is it because it is less hectic than Champs-Élysées but no less charming? Perhaps for their signature L’Africain hot chocolate, or for a glimpse of the ghosts of Audrey Hepburn and Coco Chanel who were favourite patrons back in the day. Maybe it is as simple as: the food kicks ass. Pardon my French.

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Eager Mademoiselle Butterworth is eager. She’s so tiny, she can barely see over the table. Back on my lap, little one.


Diana ordered filet of sea bass with popped rice, comte cheese, mussel, and shells cream. I ordered hand cut beef tartare, naturally. In Paris it is never too early for a smoke or to drink champagne, likewise it is perfectly acceptable to have steak tartare for breakfast. I did say ‘brunch’ early in the blog post; but it was more like 11 in the morning, before the lunchtime crowd.

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Diana opined that the mussel looked like “a mermaid’s vagina”. I know I should be repulsed, but there is something deeply erotic, enticing even, about the idea…

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MON DIEU LOOK AT THAT STEAK TARTARE. The meat, the seasoning, the marinate was perfect. The egg yolk, which usually repulses me, was so expertly cooked—-delicate yet solid enough to be moved without spilling forth the yellow liquid within. But when I pierced it with a fork the yolk oozed into a rich puddle onto my plate. Which I promptly lapped up with the french fries.


Lady Butterworth is overexcited by such a beautiful cut of meat and lunges for my steak tartare. No, bad girl! Show some restrain! *spanks*

…but I still love her; greediness and all, and hand feed her french fries like a good mistress should.

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And for pudding, tartelette eva and Saori ie. Japanese cheesecake.



A pudding with edible gold leaf…it’s the little details that make everything come together.

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Moist, sweet, light Japanese cheesecake with strawberry jelly, lime, cream cheese mousse, crunchy lime biscuit, white chocolate shell, AND strawberry marshmallows. On paper it sounds like too much, but in person it is just right.

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The dark chocolate tart was a little too sophisticated for my immature & child-like palate. No doubt the dark chocolate & raspberry ganache would appeal to the more refined. Myself; I just gobbled up the bourbon vanilla & tonka bean creme brulee bits and left the rest to Lady Butterworth.

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The bill arrives…sacré bleu…! And then I remember it is in Euros, not pounds. Phew. As they say in Tesco, “Every Little Helps”.


Quick ciggie break; naturally it had to be Vogues. Diana makes even the baddest of habits look elegant, it comes naturally to her half-French self. Tres chic

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Just enough time for a lil’ shopping trip in the gilded streets of the 1st arrondissement.


As Kanye succinctly raps—-“It’s Gucci my n*gga!”

This made me crease so hard, I HAD to instagram it. Instagram @jasiminne.


How wonderful is shopping for French designers and labels in Paris? Slightly cheaper than if you were to buy the same things in, say, London, or Kuala Lumpur, the savings are even more apparent to the non-British/non EU residents who are entitled to VAT-free shopping. Sadly I renounced my rights to getting those discounts when I decided to try my luck at putting down roots in London. Merde! But still; even saving a few hundred euros at Chanel, Hermes, LV etc is still enough to send a lil’ thrill running through my being. I can’t help it, I love a bargain, it’s my instinct for self-preservation. Or less politely, it’s my Chinese inherence for a good discount.

Sadly both Hermes and CHANEL didn’t have the accessories and bag I wanted, and I’d be damned if I paid a little more for it elsewhere. So no collier de chien or Westminster lambskin classic bag for me. What can I say, I’m cheap.

I consoled myself with a lil’ treat from Pierre Herme…

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…and picked up some trinkets from Colette…

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Ange lapin (angel bunny) keychain, 12 flavours of Pierre Herme macarons (some of which I promptly devoured even before I left the shop), and a scented candle by Byredo.

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Phantom flower is so phantom-like that I could barely smell anything. Oh no, oh dear. But the macarons were much more rich in flavour. Just enough to prolong the magic of the loveliest, and briefest of afternoons in a city most beautiful.

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Whenever I can’t go to Paris I bring Paris to me…I listen to Charles Trenet, watch The Dreamers or L‘appartement, open a bottle of Perrier-Jouet, eat little cakes & pastries…in other words, allow my imagination to take me to places I want to go. Never complain about my circumstances, and certainly never allow them to hold me back. Flights of fancy gives me wings.

Isn’t that, essentially, the point of romance?


ps. I’m spending my weekend snuggled up with Flaubert…


Related blog posts:

L’ENJEU EST MAGNIFIQUE ET LA NUIT EST JEUNE—-at Club Silencio Paris the night before
PARIS, I MISS —-last summer in Paris with The Kins 
August 05, 2012


In my humble opinion the greatest and most fulfilling thing about being young, healthy, and carefree, is the pursuit of pleasure. To come a...


…or in English, The stakes are high and the night is young. My lil’ biscuit and I popped over to Paris for a night; to check out David Lynch’s nightclub Silencio. Inspired & modelled after the fictional Club Silencio in Mulholland Drive, this otherwordly, underground space where darkness jarringly gives way to golden tunnels that melt into a forest in a glass room is “Lynch’s answer to Warhol’s Factory, the existentialists’ Café Flore, the dadaists’ Cabaret Voltaire.”

Highlights; conversing in broken French with the British bouncer, the hordes of angry French girls being turned away at the door, ordering champagne “Deux champagne silvous-plait” and getting Chopin vodka instead—-I need to work on my French accent, clearly, an amusingly tired-looking Marc Anthony propped up at the bar, Parisians exclaiming “You are from London? It is so cool there! This is cool for Paris…London is so much more fun” (really?), Diana being unlaced & undone by a naughty, presumptous Frenchman, gorgeous Parisian hipsters with tousled hair & too big glasses, terrible English pop music (in a so bad it’s good way; is this place a shrine to irony or what?) the general arty vibe…

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August 04, 2012


…or in English, The stakes are high and the night is young.  My lil’ biscuit and I popped over to Paris for a night; to check out David Lyn...


July 29, 2012



There’s nothing like a flash of red to raise the heat, send the heart racing, and get the blood going. Red bullfighting capes. Red dresses, or red trousers if you’re a bit of a toff. Red fingernails. Red lips. Why is ‘seeing red’ an expression for annoyance? Quite the opposite for me…when I see red I surge with energy, inflame with lust, pulse with vigour. Red brings out my inner she-wolf…it gives me that full-moon feeling.

How better to indulge in my cravings for lashings of red than with Monsieur Christian Louboutin? A day devoted to the maestro of sexy red soles was in order. Christian Louboutin exhibit at Design Museum London? Baking Louboutin-inspired red velvet cupcakes in homage to Monsieur Louboutin? Red-tipped manicure to match my red lips & red soles? Oui, oui, oui.



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↑ Louboutin carousel


↑ This looks like a Dalek from Doctor Who. Doctor Shoe?


↑ The Fetish Room


↑ Literal ‘killer heels’


↑ The infamous Louboutin ballet stilettoes…

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My favourite part of the exhibition—-the ‘studio/sketchbook room’. As an illustrator & artist the work process is as fascinating & integral as the outcome itself. Sketchbooks, swatches, mood boards…takes me back to the days of Central St Martin’s, of carrying around a portfolio carelessly crammed with scraps of scribbles & sketches, papers threatening to spill everywhere. Having to compile all those notes into a legible sketchbook for assessment was one of my favourite things to do. Like solving a jigsaw puzzle, putting together the pieces of how I started from an idea to a blank piece of paper to a finished piece of work.

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↑ I love reading other artists’ sketchbooks & moodboards. It’s like a glimpse into a brilliant mind, and I feel incredibly privileged & lucky to be somewhat privy to their thought process…

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↑ My idea of the perfect casual day shoe. It’s like a brother creeper had a dirty threesome with a velour bedroom slipper and some studs, and several months later this bad lil’ baby came into this world, screaming sweet anarchy… Although in this case the concept of anarchy ie. ungoverned lawlessness is pretty much ironic given that to afford these shoes for everyday wear you’d have to be playing the capitalism game. As in, earning a decent wage in a job structured to fit in a governed society. Off on a tangent here…What I mean to say is, these shoes are fierce. Bare bitchin’.

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↑ I just can’t get enough of spikes & studs… All those metallic hardness & sharp edges I love to wear are like preemptive armour. Armour from what? I don’t know, to protect myself from my own social-awkwardness perhaps.


↑ Drugs, not hugs.


↑ Bonjour Monsieur Louboutin!

I left the exhibit keen to take home a little slice of the magic. Popped into the Design Museum shop to pick out some souvenirs. Can I just say that my favourite way to end a visit to a gallery/museum is to shop? Culture meets consumerism… it’s not just about acquiring keepsakes (I have plenty of photos for that), but I really enjoy the concept of merchandising & putting a price tag on an experience. Marketing & merchandising has always been a fascination of mine. Not just finding ways to make more things to sell, but how to convince people they have to buy souvenirs or the experience will be lacking. As Modern Toss says, Buy more sh*t or we’re all f****d.

I adored the signed coffee-table book and Louboutin charms but naturally I was too broke to shell out £245 for souvenirs. So I settled for an exhibition screenprint & some Louboutin postcards. Inspired to make some red magic of my own I whipped up some Louboutin-inspired red velvet cupcakes…and put my new exhibition trinkets to use as props. Naturally.



↑ Standard issue red velvet cupcakes with black frosting & white frosting, dusted with red sprinkles for accents of colour. Topped with Louboutin cupcake-toppers, printed on a card and taped to toothpicks. So lo-fi it hurts. But it looks pretty, so whatever—-in real life the cards the toppers were printed on have a pearly, iridescent sheen to them which caught the light ever so subtly… It summed up the magic I feel when confronted with a pair of beautiful shoes.


↑ The backdrop is the screenprint produced by Design Museum for the exhibition, and the cupcakes are resting on the postcards.

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↑ I do love the idea of replacing doilies with postcards & prints…


Lots of Loubie-love. ♥

June 27, 2012


There’s nothing like a flash of red to raise the heat, send the heart racing, and get the blood going. Red bullfighting capes. Red dresses,...