The boulangerie has reopened, everyone has returned from somewhere impossible to reach without two ferries, and after a long summer of entertaining them (peaks and troughs!!) the kids are firmly in their classrooms. La rentrée is upon us.

Freshly-sharpened pencils at the ready, my friends. New loafers (I chose these), and impossible resolutions..

And if we ever do end up having lunch, a lot I’d like to discuss with you. Par exemple:

RACHEL CUSK, NATALIE PORTMAN AND THE PRICE OF ARTISTIC LICENCE

At last, a literary scandal requiring no knowledge of publishing advances.

Rachel Cusk’s new novel, Life of M, is ostensibly about a famous actress called M. It is also rather conspicuously Natalie Portman-shaped.

M became famous young. She appeared in a European film. She played a ballerina. She lives in Paris. She is cerebral, beautiful, controlled and intensely private. You get the idea.

Cusk has not said that M is Natalie Portman, and perhaps that is partly the point. The book seems more interested in the rather uncomfortable business of taking another person, observing her, imagining her, projecting onto her, and turning her into material.

Which brings me to the question I can’t quite get past. I am generally extremely generous about artistic licence. Art should be allowed to be transgressive and uncomfortable and occasionally rude. Writers cannot be required to ask permission every time they borrow from life.

But there has to be a bargain. If you are going to appropriate the recognisable details of a living person’s life and use them to make her seem tense, alienated, myopic and fundamentally disconnected from ordinary people, the resulting art had better be great enough to earn that licence.

It needs to reveal something important about being human. At the risk of sounding pretentious myself, there needs to be a “public interest” of some kind, doesn’t there?

Otherwise you’re just a mean girl in a pretentious intellectual’s hat.

Also, I should say that while Natalie Portman and I are, sadly, not best friends, I did once spend an hour and a half interviewing her, and can say on reasonably good authority that the portrait of the out-of-touch celebrity doesn’t square with the woman I met at all.

She was smart, real, curious, engaged and un-celebrity-ish. Obviously ninety minutes does not constitute a psychological assessment, but still.

There is also the small matter that Natalie was a genuine Cusk admirer.

She selected Cusk’s Parade for her book club in 2024, saying she was “forever in awe” of Cusk and the way she disrupts storytelling. Which adds a particularly unpleasant little seasoning to the whole thing.

The level of backstabbing! Naturally, Portman hasn’t dignified Cusk’s jab with any kind of public statement.

But oddly enough, this provides a good segue into another question about what talent (or even genius) does — and doesn’t — entitle you to.

Because when John Galliano was fired from Dior in 2011 after his vile antisemitic remarks became public, one of the people who condemned him most unequivocally was Dior ambassador Natalie Portman.

Portman said she was deeply shocked and disgusted and would not associate herself with him.

Fifteen years later, fashion found itself asking whether it was finally time to do exactly that.

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JOHN GALLIANO AND THE LIMITS(?) OF REDEMPTION

The Met had planned John Galliano: Horizons for spring 2027: an enormous Costume Institute retrospective that would have made Galliano only the third living designer to receive a solo exhibition there.

Then everybody started asking the awkward question. Not whether Galliano belongs in fashion history. He plainly does. Whether belonging in history is the same thing as deserving to be honoured.

Galliano was fired from Dior in 2011 after footage emerged of him in a Paris café praising Hitler and making shocking antisemitic remarks.

And an important detail tends to get flattened in the retelling: it wasn’t simply one horrible drunken evening. There were two separate altercations, and a French court convicted him over the remarks.

Galliano has attributed his behaviour to the catastrophic alcoholism and drug addiction he was suffering from at the time. He entered treatment, became sober, apologised, studied Jewish history and the Holocaust and spent years meeting rabbis and Jewish leaders.

Some came to believe his remorse was sincere, and I think that matters. If we don’t believe people are capable of repentance and change, I’m not entirely sure what the point of demanding either of them is.

But I also think we’re in danger of asking the wrong question. This isn’t the increasingly tedious “can you separate the art from the artist?” debate. Nobody is suggesting we burn Galliano’s dresses.

His Dior collections belong in museums. His influence belongs in fashion history. Students will (and should) study the clothes. The question is what we choose to do with the living man now.

There is a difference between documenting someone’s importance and bestowing an honour upon them. And a solo Costume Institute retrospective (with the Met Gala effectively serving as its extremely glamorous opening party) is very much an honour.

That’s why the Michael Jackson argument doesn’t really work here.

You can listen to Thriller without awarding Michael Jackson a lifetime-achievement prize in 2026. One is engaging with the work; the other is making a present-day judgment about the person.

Go ahead and believe Galliano deserved to recover. That he deserved to work again, that his repentance is sincere… that his clothes are extraordinary. I mean, they are.

All of those things can be true without concluding that the appropriate next step is to throw him fashion’s most prestigious party.

And then there was the almost incomprehensible decision to schedule the opening on Yom HaShoah.

So of course opposition grew. Jewish leaders objected. Donors reportedly threatened to withdraw support. New York City Council Speaker Julie Menin, the daughter of a Holocaust survivor, called on the museum to reconsider.

Yesterday, Galliano withdrew and the Met cancelled the exhibition. I think it’s the right decision. Not because John Galliano should be erased, quite the opposite.

If you want to put the clothes in the museum, why not put the public scandal in the museum too? Document his addiction, disgrace, rehabilitation and second act at Margiela right there. Tell the whole complicated story! That’s what museums are for after all.

But that’s a very different proposition from: John Galliano: the retrospective. The Met Gala. Come celebrate!

History doesn’t require a guest list.

SÉZANE 2.0

And now, on a lighter note:

The extraordinarily popular French brand Sézane has had a makeover.

It’s gone and got itself a new visual identity, a new logo, an evolution in its collections with a distinctly more restrained aesthetic as Morgane Sézalory takes the thirteen-year-old brand into its next incarnation.

And I am going to risk upsetting some of the Sézane faithful here: I support it.

Because contrary to popular belief, I think the new Sézane is actually much closer to the way stylish French women dress today.

For years, Sézane has been enormously successful at selling the international idea of the French wardrobe: the floral blouse, the coquettish knit, the little dress, the basket bag, the thing that says I live in Paris even when its owner lives in Connecticut.

Nothing wrong with that. But Paris moved on.

Look at the women whose wardrobes people here actually notice and things are generally quieter now. Better trousers. More menswear-inspo. Something, erm, navy. A beautiful, enveloping trench coat or leather jacket.

Less French girl, more French… woman (the distinction is subtle but important)

So Sézane becoming cleaner, calmer and a little more grown-up doesn’t strike me as abandoning its Frenchness. To the contrary, actually.

It feels like Sézane is catching up with Paris and doing the courageous thing of taking a risk while it’s way ahead, sales-wise.

The inevitable complaint is that the new version is less charming and more expensive.

Maybe. But there are only so many floral blouses a nation can reasonably be expected to absorb. And the new Appartement at 117 rue du Bac provides a suitably Left Bank setting for the new era. Conveniently timed for everyone returning to Paris to decide that what their life has been missing is, in fact, a great leather jacket.

I’ll see you there.

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HOW ABOUT THAT MARK CARNEY EH?

I have a problem.

I think I have a crush on Mark Carney.

Yes I am serious and no, I am not getting him confused with Justin Trudeau.

Because while we were all away dilly-dallying the former central banker turned Canadian Prime Minister did something increasingly unusual in international diplomacy:

Donald Trump offered him a terrible trade deal and he said… no. Not “let’s keep talking.”Not “historic agreement.” Not a smiling photograph followed six months later by the discovery that Canada had accidentally given away Saskatchewan.

Just no. Non. The two sides had been negotiating when Washington added new demands at the eleventh hour.

Among them: restrictions on Canada’s ability to strike future trade deals with other countries, weakening protections around Canadian language and culture (where did I, and millions of other anglophone Canadians learn to speak French? The answer is at a Canadian public school) and substantially less tariff relief for Canadian-made vehicles.

Carney’s assessment was magnificently unromantic: “They asked too much and offered too little.” So Canada walked.

To be clear, Canada isn’t negotiating from the stronger hand here. The United States is by far its biggest trading partner. Walking away from Washington carries a very real economic cost.

Which is the point: it is easy to have principles when they don’t cost you anything.

And then, instead of producing an emotional five-minute monologue about sovereignty, he explained the situation in approximately the tone one might use to tell you that your fixed-rate mortgage had expired. Pwoar.

The consequences could be painful. The US has moved ahead with punitive tariffs and Canada has promised retaliation. Canadian industries and workers are exposed. It’s not exactly in the bag.

We don’t yet know whether Carney’s gamble will work. But what he is doing next is interesting: he is trying to make Canada less dependent on America which is probably a very good idea for several reasons.

Which brings us to back to Europe. Canada is looking harder at European trade, defence, energy and strategic relationships… the kind of subjects that normally make me suddenly remember I have something urgent to do in another room.

Except the underlying question is now fascinating. What do you do if being America’s closest ally (in every sense) is no longer a sufficient strategy. I guess make new friends. Just like when the playground bully turns on you, maybe you shouldn’t have put so many eggs in his basket in the first place, ya silly goose.

Anywhoo. MC, meet me at Sterling Point!

MATHILDE

Mathilde Favier, Dior’s much-loved director of public relations, died on August 17 at 57 in a horrific car accident in the Deux-Sèvres alongside her partner, film producer Nicolas Altmayer.

Her funeral was yesterday at Saint-Sulpice. The church, which holds around 2,500 people, was packed.

Looking around, what struck me was how many of the people in that enormous room had their own story about Mathilde’s genuine kindness.

For people outside fashion, PR can sound like arranging seating plans and knowing people’s telephone numbers. Mathilde represented a considerably rarer version of it: knowing how to bring people together, and helping people advance when there was absolutely nothing in it for her.

She loved other people, and propped them up.

Mathilde had been at Dior since 2011, after years at Prada and Miu Miu, and became one of the quiet architects connecting the house with film, fashion and culture.But reducing Mathilde to her famous address book rather misses the point.

The extraordinary thing about her was that the relationships were, well, real. And she was a riot.

I keep thinking about the last time I saw her, at a lunch in July. I was sitting next to her and she was in fine spirits, telling me jokes, dispensing advice and talking about the holidays she had planned; the usual comings and goings up and down France. I had no idea it would be the last time.

So I did what one did with Mathilde, I listened, and laughed.

She will be terribly missed.

THE UNITED STATES OF DOLLY

Then, Dolly Parton left us aged 80, and almost immediately something very strange happened in America. Everyone agreed! That she was the absolute best.

In a country that currently struggles to agree on the weather. A country in which beer, electric cars, football, comedians, cities and quite possibly sandwich fillings can become proxies for political allegiance.

And yet Dolly Parton died, seemingly suddenly, and, for an instant, everyone appeared to belong to the same country again. Republicans and democrats mourned her. Nashville and Hollywood mourned her.

Even people who barely knew music were upset! It made me wonder whether Dolly might have been one of the last genuinely bipartisan pieces of American culture.

And why? Partly, obviously, because she was enormously musically talented —I mean just watch her 9 to 5 on her acrylic nails. But America contains plenty of enormously talented people whom half the country can’t stand. Dolly did something harder: she made sure she belonged to everyone, without assuming everyone was the same.

She was from the South, devoutly Christian, extravagantly feminine, fabulously rich and unapologetically country but she never seemed interested in turning any of those identities into a weapon, or alienating people with them.

She gave away zillions of books to children, funded medical research, built business that employed people in the very poor place she came from. She made jokes about herself before anybody else could and they were funny.

And when people tried to drag her into America’s permanent political cage match, she generally had the almost extinct good sense not to go. Not because she didn’t have values but because she did, and she seemed to understand that you don’t have to despise the other half of the country in order to have the other half.

Her genius was making herself unmistakably Dolly without requiring anyone else to become more like her, which is why the grief felt so unusually uncomplicated. America didn’t have to decide which Dolly it was mourning, for there was only one.

President Trump ordered that American flags on the White House, federal buildings, military posts and naval vessels and at American facilities abroad be lowered to half-staff from August 25 until sunset Sept 1 and everyone did so proudly.

There are probably more sophisticated ways of measuring cultural importance but I doubt there are more important ones.

Dolly, I raise my cup of ambition to you!

When sisters Ilona Hamer and Peta Heinsen launched Matteau eleven years ago, I was struck by the unnervingly perfect way they’d anticipated my ideal summer wardrobe. It was as though they’d been reading my mind on every holiday I’d ever taken and during sweaty summers in the city.

The swimwear was exactly right. The oversized shirts seemed destined for a thousand beach days; the dresses ideal for that after-beach, after-shower evening feeling. Leave it to two impossibly tasteful Australians to make dressing for summer look so deceptively simple…

Then came autumn and winter, which felt almost unfair to other brands.

What I’d assumed would become my favourite holiday label became the pieces I reached for year-round. Crisp shirting, beautifully cut trousers, time-tested knitwear, dresses that somehow made getting dressed feel easier rather than more considered. A decade later, I still can’t think of another brand I wear with quite the same frequency—or recommend with quite the same conviction.

Before co-founding Matteau with her sister in 2015, Ilona Hamer built a career spanning fashion styling and creative direction. Alongside growing Matteau, Ilona has spent over ten years styling Christopher Esber and has worked with Chanel as its VIP and celebrity stylist in North America for nine years. It’s a career defined less by noise than by discernment: a quality that runs through everything she touches.

Last summer, I was lucky to spend a few days with Ilona in the South of France, where I witnessed the Matteau effect in its natural habitat. The exquisite effortlessness! Which, as anyone who has ever tried to dress that way knows, is almost certainly the result of extraordinary consideration. After seeing her wardrobe in real time, I couldn’t resist asking Ilona to fill out a Fashion Proust Questionnaire. Consider this a peek behind the crisp poplin curtain.

What is your idea of a perfect outfit?

A great black suit with nothing underneath, great jewellery and a cigarette, martini or a joint.

What is your greatest fashion fear?

That fashion is going to ruin the planet.

What, in hindsight, is the worst outfit you’ve ever worn?

Probably my school uniforms. From Kindergarten until the 12th grade you have to wear a uniform in Australia. My high school one involved a kilt, wool/cotton stockings with a shirt, hat and a blazer. You weren’t supposed to be seen off school property without your hat. I am grateful I didn’t have to work out what to wear each day, and there is some equalising that happens with a uniform, but it really didn’t allow for much self expression.

What is the worst outfit you’ve ever seen on someone else?

Most things I see everyday TBH. Performative dressing. People wearing things once and never again. Real people wear real clothes repeatedly. You do not need a new outfit every time you leave the house. And for me, the Y2K thing has got to stop, I lived it the first time- it wasn’t great then, it certainly isn’t great now. There is a great Instagram account called “night openings”. Its movie premiers from the 80s and 90s. I love it because it’s all the people we know and love but without the bullshit of the styling machine and business there is today. Most of the time they just turned up in their own clothes, in their own style. The images are very candid and real. Sometimes they look great, sometimes not so great, but it’s authentic and there is an ease to it which I love. I’m just kind of sick of seeing people being puppets in outfits they are paid to be in with a desperation behind their eyes of wanting validation on a red carpet. Everyone trying to out do each other has got so boring.

What is your greatest extravagance?

I love small pleasures that enhance my every day. I recently got two small sterling silver Elsa Peretti Tiffany pill jars that I keep Advil and vitamins in. They make an everyday mundane task like taking a vitamin so much more elegant and enjoyable. You don’t forget to take them when it is such a pleasure to engage with an object like that.

What is your current state of mind with regards to the fashion industry?

I’m constantly at odds with having spent 20 years in an industry I sort of no longer recognize. There are too many clothes. Too many brands, too many collections a year, too much product being made, too many opinions, too many images and too much bad content for the sake of content. I am part of the problem with Matteau, but we try to do less. We only do 2 collections a year and we edit, edit, edit as much as we can. Much of our collections are repeated styles that sell very well and work for us and our customers. We use only natural fibres so one day these pieces will be dust and absorb back into the world from which they came. Clothes for the sake of clothes has got to stop. Content for the sake of content has got to stop. There is an art to image making and creating a mood and a vibe visually and that art is being sacrificed for content, content, content no matter the calibre.

On what occasion do you lie about someone’s outfit?

I find it very hard to lie when it comes to something like that. I speak my mind for better or worse, if someone asks my advice and I don’t think they will like the answer, I still give them my honest answer with as much tact as I can. Radical honesty is always better than lying in that situation and normally I can help someone look and feel better if they ask for help.

What is the quality you like most in a man’s outfit?

Simplicity. Some men have great natural style, others look like they are trying very hard which is such a turn off. A good white t-shirt and a pair of levis never misses. And for me, a man who can wear jewelry well. Just a few small bits here and there, but I appreciate a man with a great signature ring, a great watch or a great bracelet or necklace. You can tell a lot about someone from their choice in jewellery, especially on a man.

What is the quality you like most in a woman’s outfit?

Restraint. When someone understands who they are and their body and what works on them. Confidence and quality. It doesn’t mean it has to be expensive, it just means well made and well tailored for them. When I am in fittings, I always know when the look is right because it looks like it could be their own clothing. They move and act in a way that is confident and comfortable. It becomes believable and that’s the most important thing when styling someone. They can be transformed, but you have to believe it. It should look like they don’t have a stylist, they just know how to look good.

Which fashion trend do you most despise?

All trends. Trends will be the end of us. Clothing should not be as disposable as it is. Buy something classic and well made once and you can stop looking for more and focus on living your life. Fashion shouldn’t consume your everyday. Fashion used to be for a small group of people in the know. It’s now mass market and full time infatuation for just too many people. The preoccupation with consumption is so gross. I read the other day that from 2016-2021 we globally consumed more than 75% of what we did the entire 20th century*. In 5 years!! That’s a revolting statistic. The system is broken and less enticing than ever.

*(source - The circularity report 2024)

Which words or phrases do you most overuse when describing fashion?
Gorge. Cute… It needs to stop! I try to police myself.

Which runway collection in history was your greatest love?

Nicolas Ghesquiere’s early Balenciaga collections will always have a place in my heart. The epitome of radical yet wearable, aspirational and unattainable, his eye and taste at that time was unmatched. The pieces are still as relevant and look as good now as they did then which is such a beautiful legacy.

When were you happiest with your own look?

Naked at the beach is my favourite look. Fully liberated from fashion and happy in nature and the sun.

Which designer’s talent would you most like to have?

Elsa Peretti’s natural, organic elegance and precision.

If you could change one thing about your wardrobe, what would it be?

I would have even less than I do. I don’t want to be weighed down by things anymore. I want to feel light and free. I have pieces I have carried with me from my time at Vogue more than 17 years ago that still hang in my closet. They are sentimental and valuable but I haven’t worn them since, I have just moved them from house to house over the years. Why? I am ready to release. An almost empty set of draws with the 20- 30 things from Matteau I actually wear everyday would be the most pleasing thing to me. I don’t really go back into my wardrobe so much as I always move forward. Easy come, easy go. Holding on too tightly to things isn’t healthy and the liberation from having less is a very freeing feeling. We can’t take any of it with us when we pass, so the idea of collecting all these things feels counter intuitive to why we are all here in the first place.

What do you consider your greatest achievement, career-wise (so far!)

That I have built a successful family business with my sister over the last 11 years. We have created a brand that really resonates with people and has a positive effect on women. Everyday I am told by multiple friends and customers: “Every time I wear Matteau I get so many compliments” or “People always ask me where this is from and tell me I look so great” or “ I have been wearing this dress for the last 5 years and it is still as good as the day I bought it”. I love to hear that. I think feedback like that is the ultimate success.

I have also worked with Chanel as their VIP and Celebrity Stylist for North America for 9 years now, something I’m pretty low key about as that’s how I am, but it has been such a pleasure to work with such an integral brand so closely for so long. I have also been working with Christopher Esber for the last 14 years of his brand, he’s one of my closest friends and styling his shows and shoots in Sydney and now Paris for the last few years has been such a fun and rewarding experience. He is such a talent and so funny and sensitive and I adore the work/life relationship we have. As a 40 year old woman I can actually say I am so proud of the career I have had and the contribution to the industry I have made. I’m fairly quiet about it but it’s nice to reflect on it with a question like this!

If you were to die and come back as a fashion item, what would it be?

A pair of vintage levis. Or a black bikini. Both would take me on wonderful adventures in my new incarnation if owned by the right person!

Where on earth do you get the most style inspiration?

My mother and my father. They had great style when they were young, really wonderful authentic STYLE!

1. What is your most treasured possession?

Notes from my Dad who has passed, notes from friends. Collected memories and polaroids. I live in California and have had to evacuate our home a few times for various natural disasters and the things I take with me are my memory boxes of my life. Things that truly can’t be replaced. I have a Levi’s denim jacket of my dad’s that he bought in London when he was young. He saw the Rolling stones in that jacket in the 1960s, he lived so much life in it. The collar wore out and my mum delicately unstitched it and turned it over so the inside was on the outside. It’s totally threadbare on the underside. It’s all his living and life so deeply ingrained in it and its worth more than any birkin could ever be to me.

What do you consider the lowest depth of fashion rock-bottom (ie. Karl’s sweatpants)

Over consumption. I find it such a turn off. Influencers who have no back bone and are pushing absolute garbage product from terrible brands day in and day out. We all have to make a living, but please can we get some integrity back ? I think brands who just mimic and imitate other brands are the other real rock bottom. A lack of authenticity so obvious it reeks, but strangely is hard for many people to see.

What is your favourite fashion-related occupation?

I love working with tailors on set and in fittings. When I am working at Chanel there are a multitude of magically talented tailors who can work wonders on the most delicate of fabrics, who can nip and tuck and make things proportionally perfect on different body types. They all have a certain je ne sais quoi about them. It’s a very specific kind of human who has those kinds of skills and dedication and demeanour and they are just the sweetest most wonderful people. They work behind the scenes and no one knows who they are but the fashion world would not turn without them.

What is your most marked style characteristic?

A sun tan and a smile.

Who are your favourite fashion writers?

I really look forward to the 1 Granary newsletters led by editor Olya Kuryshchuk. I love the encouragement of independent designers, the honest analysis of the industry and the fact they speak to designers working in large design teams at houses for a real snapshot as to how life really is. It’s always interesting, informative and very well researched.

Which historical figure’s style do you most identify with?

Alain Delon.

Which individual that you know (or have known) personally most influenced your style?

My mother and father. They both had incredible natural style.

What would you like to wear to your own funeral?

I think I would prefer to be cremated! I don’t like the idea of rotting in the ground, I would rather blow in the breeze over the ocean and go back to nature that way. And perhaps my family and future children could wear a tiny bit of me in an Elsa Peretti bottle around their neck! Death is coming for all of us, something I have very much made peace with and the more we get used to that the less intimidating it becomes and the better our time here is too. Who knows, the other side might be even better than here! I have been reading Michael Pollan’s new book “A World Appears” on consciousness and feel more connected to the possibilities that exist outside our tangible world.

What is your style motto?

Less is more.

PS -My Matteau Greatest Hits:

Yes, I own all of these lol. And have them on constant rotation. (Hover and click for links)…

The Knit

The Fisherman Trouser

The One Piece

The Breton top.

The Work(ing overtime) Pant.

The Bikini

The Dress

THE shirt!

Emma is the co-founder and COO of Felix Health, the mother of three children (the youngest still a baby), and master of a puppy called Pepper. In what a lesser organiser might have considered a slight scheduling error, she and her husband welcomed baby Cecilia and puppy Pepper at almost exactly the same time. Naturally, they have made it work flawlessly.

I’m currently staying with Emma and have, at her behest, become very involved in her post-pregnancy wardrobe clear-out. My role is to recline on a daybed while she tries things on and I deliver an enthusiastic yay or an authoritative nay! I enjoy this job immensely.

The truth is, Emma doesn’t need me to choose her clothes for her. She has excellent taste. What she lacks is time. Heck, if you’re billing your hours at COO rates, spending three hours looking for the perfect pair of trousers is probably the more extravagant purchase.

I, on the other hand, can plausibly claim that this sort of shopping constitutes as work. So consider this a pilot. If all goes to plan, I’ll be producing more shopping edits for people who have great taste and terrible amounts of free time.

Below, I present Emma’s late-summer / early-autumn 2026 shopping list. She hasn’t seen it yet, although she did request it, and is a founding subscriber to this little Substack experiment (thanks, Em). I hope she —and you— like it.

High (Fashion) Tech

Steve Jobs eat your heart out

Weekend Wonders

From Little Kickers to Muskoka Dock Parties

I

Downtown Drinks

She can forget all her worries, forget all her cares!

Day-to-evening bonus alert!!

OK better stop now, I’m starting to influence myself !

(Emma, if you like this, I’ll do your fall/ winter wardrobe next…)

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Not unfashionable because they’re ugly or boring. Quite the opposite.

Unfashionable because they haven’t become destinations in the Instagram sense. Zero hype havens. You don’t need to book them a year in advance. Your hotel doesn’t require a second mortgage. The restaurants are still full of French families on holiday rather than people in Gucci photographing burrata.

Increasingly, I’ve realised these are my favourite family holidays in my adopted country.

Some are Atlantic beach towns. Some are islands that require enough effort to reach that only people who really want to go ever make it there. Some are wine regions. Some are villages tucked beneath ski resorts that somehow escaped becoming famous resorts themselves.

Canada, where I currently am (hi!) remains my true summer home these days with the kids. Most of my family is there, and I don’t think anywhere beats a lake in Ontario in August—but before or after Canada, we almost always squeeze in a French escape.

These are the places we’ve loved visiting and return to. The ones I’d recommend to friends like YOU!

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Forty-two degrees in the city. Consider that for a second. It’s Dubai without air-conditioning. It’s hotter here than 99% of the planet this week. It’s a cesspool of sweaty emotion, with nowhere to go.

Everyone is behaving strangely. Or perhaps just… honestly?

I don’t want to make light of this hellish clima(c)tic episode.

But there is a certain camaraderie. The whole neighbourhood stands outside in the brief shade of the early morning. Gardiennes, kids whose schools have been cancelled; people from the travel agency up the street, selling tickets to anywhere. The waiters at my local pizza place who can’t even look at the ovens. They call me over to their stoop and we bitch about the politicians’ inertia in the face of the obvious.

In the evenings you open the giant windows and wait for relief. Nothing. Only hotter air. That’s when you know it’s going to get worse.

The headache comes early afternoon. It stays long into the night. You are permanently hungover, though over-drinking to forget your woes is physically unfathomable. You have a UTI from that one kids’ pool you went to, and God knows what you have if you YOLO-bathed in the Canal. You definitely have a raging sunburn, wherever you’ve been. But maybe you had a glimpse of fun while getting it.

I went to Lisbon for twenty-four hours for a celebration of life. We were celebrating the life of someone I miss horribly but it was joyous for many reasons, primarily because this person was wonderfully, contagiously joyful, but also because of the fact that cities like Lisbon were built to shed heat. Cities like Paris were built to trap it. It used to be cold here, apparently.

I came back and the temperature had climbed again. I went to pick up my kids and I saw my father-in-law wearing shorts.

I saw my brother-in-law wearing them too. I’ve seen things I’ve never seen before.

But then Paris is seeing heat it’s never seen before. By Monday, every heat record seemed to have fallen. By Thursday the temperature was still climbing.

I saw a makeshift splash pad in the exceptionally manicured Jardin du Luxembourg and I saw French kids at school in pyjamas.

I saw bodies everywhere. Not good bodies or bad bodies. Just bodies. Legs, bellies, breasts, hair. No one cares anymore. Skin has stopped being aesthetic and become practical. Whoever figured out how to create enough airflow with the fewest layers won. Decency be damned.

If you happened to see me stark naked in my window at four in the morning, know that I do not regret it. That is the only air. It is the air. But there’s barely any left.

Sunday’s Fête de la Musique felt less like a festival than an act of collective denial. If we’re all going to melt, we may as well dance first.

I saw crowds cheering the firemen as they danced, though. There is a certain camaraderie.

This morning the government announced it was banning all street-drinking between noon and 7am —the hospitals are bursting beyond capacity. Tragically, at least forty people have drowned from jumping into unknown bodies of water.

Still, we saw young people at Canal Saint-Martin throwing themselves off bridges with the confidence of immortality. Backflips and cannonballs into water that was equal parts disgusting and magnificent. As, I suppose, much great art is.

We’d already had one celebration. My husband’s cousin got married on Friday and somewhere in the haze of mad heat, a pack of excited kids leaving school with backpacks and water guns challenged the bride to a dance off in a public square. She crouched down and break-danced with them, dirtying her dress without a care. The groom also hired the Montmartre choo-choo train for a breath of fresh air.

I saw parents arguing deep into the night on WhatsApp over portable air conditioners for our children’s beautiful old brick school with its enormous windows and exactly zero insulation, only to find they were all sold out for weeks.

Then I saw the teachers surrender and write:

“Pack bathing suits. We’ll just be throwing water at them all day.”

I saw inhibition dissolve. I saw people helping others in the street; young people offering to do older people’s groceries.

And I saw the opposite too. Strangers physically shoving each other over the last fans at Boulanger. Tempers at breaking point. News stories on TV so awful I’ll spare you. Everyone just a little less capable of pretending they’re fine. And it ain’t always pretty. Many of the scenes we saw this week bode terribly for mankind as the temperatures continue to rise.

There is actual science behind our state of mind. A Harvard 2018 study showed during heatwaves people perform worse on tests of attention and working memory. Other studies link higher temperatures to increases in violence and interpersonal conflict.

Apparently heat makes us dumber and angrier, which explains a lot.

My friends call me with their various survival strategies:

“I’ve always fantasised about an expat life,” said one. “So when it gets unbearable I pretend I live in Indonesia or Laos. I walk slowly. I stop fighting it. I enjoy whatever breeze there is.”

I can’t say all of Paris is following Alexandra’s path to heatwave enlightenment. Most are just desperately freezing damp towels then wrapping their feet in them. But maybe a little mind-over-matter zendom is necessary, because the city wasn’t built for this, and these temperatures are no longer exceptional. They are becoming summer. Or maybe we should just get aircon.

The debate is on everyone’s lips: to throw in the towel and embark on a great modernisation project, ripping open an entire city of heritage-protected buildings and installing air-condition everywhere. Or to stick out the inescapable heat, avoiding further climate damage in so doing. Naturally, like everything else, this has become a divisive right-left issue (respectively).

Whether it happens or not, part of inevitable adapting is, I guess, accepting that heat changes us. It strips away our layers and our inhibitions. It makes us irrational, communal, furious, sometimes dizzily joyful, and sometimes just disgusting.

What happens during a heatwave stays during a heatwave. Or so we tell ourselves. Though with a French presidential election next year, I suppose we’ll soon find out whether that’s true.

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On a considerably less philosophical note, here’s what I’ve actually been wearing to survive it.

Excuse the bad lighting below. The first rule of surviving a no-air-con heatwave in an old Haussmann apartment is to keep the damn shutters closed all day.

The second rule is obviously to go braless wherever possible. And if you, like me, have a boob or two to speak of, this creates a bit of a challenge. Still, I am committed to finding solutions as it makes a gigantic difference to one’s comfort and sweat levels.

Stay strong, Euros and Euro-dwellers, I hear a storm’s-a-brewing!

Refinement. Style. Cinema. Travel. Cheese. Haircuts. Architecture. The art of living.

France sits at or near the top of the cultural pyramid in all these areas and more.

And yet there are certain things drastically wrong with my adoptive country. Ignoring them feels increasingly dishonest.

Particularly right now. Because France is in the throes of a child-protection crisis so disturbing that it deserves attention not only from French citizens, but from anyone who cares about how societies protect their most vulnerable members.

(Content note: this essay discusses child sexual abuse.)

Before I explain what is happening, a story.

When I first enrolled my daughter at our local Paris kindergarten, another parent offered an unexpected piece of advice. If we could possibly afford it, she said, avoid périscolaire—the after-school and lunchtime programmes run by the city. Instead, hire someone to take the children to the park.

Why?

“Because that’s where the pedos are.”

I remember being shocked. I assumed she was exaggerating. Repeating one of those urban myths that circulate among anxious parents.

As it turns out, though I kept our nanny on for after school, our own périscolaire programme appears to be absolutely fine. The people caring for our children at lunch hour are largely kind, attentive and professional. I have no reason to believe otherwise.

Which somehow makes that conversation from a few years ago even stranger.

The warning wasn’t about a particular school. It was about a pattern. And it was delivered with the sort of shrug usually reserved for discussing the weather. Not as a conspiracy theory…as common knowledge.

That conversation came back to me this week.

For more than a year, allegations have accumulated against animateurs—municipal employees responsible for supervising children, including children as young as three, at school breaks and extracurricular activities. Prosecutors are investigating allegations ranging from physical violence to sexual assault and rape. More than one hundred educational establishments have been touched by investigations while 78 of staff members have been suspended in Paris alone.

Parents’ groups argue that the real scandal is not only what allegedly happened to children, but the repeated failure of authorities to respond when concerns were raised.

The cases differ, but a pattern emerges repeatedly: complaints not treated with urgency, warning signs missed, adults remaining in contact with children after concerns had already surfaced. What initially appeared to be a series of isolated incidents increasingly looked like something else.

Then came Lyhanna. On May 29, an 11-year-old girl from Fleurance in southwestern France disappeared after leaving school. Days later, her body was found in an abandoned barn. A 41-year-old local man, Jérôme Barella, was arrested and placed under investigation.

The horror of the crime alone would have made national headlines. What transformed it into a political and judicial crisis was what emerged afterwards.

Barella was not unknown to authorities. According to prosecutors and subsequent reporting, he had been the subject of multiple previous allegations involving sexual violence against minors. Several girls had reported him over the years. A more recent complaint involving a child had still not resulted in him being questioned by police before Lyhanna disappeared.

The details are almost unbearable.

Barella was reportedly the father of one of Lyhanna’s friends. The families had crossed paths for years through school activities. Lyhanna’s mother later said she had become uncomfortable with his behaviour after her daughter described him tickling her during a sleepover at his house. She told Lyhanna not to see him again. Yet the family later learned he was frequently near the school and would give her snacks.

As journalists reconstructed the suspect’s history, the question quickly ceased to be whether warning signs existed. The question became why they were not enough.

And that question has landed in a France already reeling from the périscolaire affair.

This is where this story becomes larger than either case. Because France has spent the past decade repeatedly discovering the same thing: people knew.

The recurring scandal is not simply abuse, it is the normalization of knowledge about abuse.

People knew about Gabriel Matzneff, the celebrated writer who openly described sexual relationships with minors for decades while much of the literary establishment looked away. People knew before Vanessa Springora published Le Consentement.

There were rumours before Camille Kouchner’s La Familia Grande exposed incest within one of France’s most prominent intellectual families.

Again and again, France has been forced to revisit scandals emerging not from the margins of society but from its cultural centre: elite schools, publishing houses, influential families, intellectual circles.

The geography matters. From Saint-Germain-des-Prés over to Rue du Bac, these stories challenge a national self-image in which intellectual sophistication was assumed to travel alongside moral enlightenment.

Instead they reveal something more troubling: environments where status, influence and social capital can discourage scrutiny.

This is also why the current moment inevitably raises questions about the legacy of certain strands of post-1968 culture. Not the emancipatory ideals themselves but the blind spots that sometimes accompanied them: a romanticisation of transgression, a suspicion of limits, a tendency in some circles to assume that liberation was inherently virtuous.

The Matzneff affair forced France to confront how profoundly unequal relationships could be dressed up in the language of freedom.

Of course, the children at the centre of today’s scandals have nothing to do with the literary salons of the Left Bank but the question haunting France feels strikingly similar.

What happens when adults convince themselves that their worldview matters more than a child’s distress? What happens when institutions worry more about reputations than warnings? What happens when entire social circles know, but choose not to see?

The périscolaire affair, the Betharram revelations, La Familia Grande and the Lyhanna case are not the same story but they belong to the same reckoning.

France remains the most visited country in the world. Paris remains one of its most admired cities. None of that is incompatible with confronting what is happening now. In fact, the opposite may be true.

A country that proudly calls itself le pays des droits de l’homme (the homeland of human rights) cannot afford to look away when children are telling adults they are in danger.

The question facing France today is not whether it remains a great cultural power. It is whether it is willing to apply the same moral seriousness to protecting children that it applies to protecting its ideals.

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Which is why I thought I’d take you on a little jaunt around my corner of Paris—a quick and easy rundown of my go-to spots, from dry cleaners to takeaway joints, mostly in my neighbourhood but with a few favourites further afield.

I also took a wander around the neighbourhood and snapped some (slightly haphazard) photos of a few all-time favourites in their summer glory.

Papeterie-Presse Cherche-Midi. I love these old-fashioned paper shops in France beyond reason. They stock everything paper-related you could possibly imagine: stationery, international newspapers and magazines, postcards, and every kind of notebook, pen, and highlighter under the sun. Pure soul food. For me, anyway. Please, commerce gods, don’t let them disappear—especially not this one. 50–52 rue du Cherche-Midi, 75006.

Just up the street, Ten Bells is, as far as I’m concerned, the best takeaway coffee in the city. (Challenge me!!) There’s also one in the 10th. Scones and sandwiches here are excellent. 53 rue du Cherche-Midi, 75006.

Cody’s bagels are the only truly satisfying bagel situation this North American has found on this side of the river. (And yes, there are of course excellent bagels in the old Jewish quarter on rue des Rosiers.) But the whole cream-cheese-and-lox bagel-sandwich culture of my youth has been largely absent from the Paris food scene. Then Cody’s appeared. I’m therefore deeply grateful and it seems to be doing a roaring trade. 51 rue de Grenelle 75007.

Boutique Gerard Durand AKA “The Tights Man” as my friends and I call him. This guy’s been selling stockings and tights to the stylish ladies of the Rue du Bac since the dawn of time and he’s got the expertise (and stockists) to show it. 77 rue du Bac, 75007.

La Sirene specialty dry cleaner (or “spa for clothing” as it cutely calls itself) is the ultimate in savoir-fair for all manner of high-end clothing dramas. Unremovable stains, zipper disasters, the 3-D roses falling off my mad old Prada coat —they’re on it —your pieces will be back better than new. Unfortunately closed today or I’d have showed you the gorgeous interior but even the building above is lovely and symmetrical so take a look at that. 45 rue Madame 75006.

Paris Queen Nails. My Queens! How are you supposed to survive without a fabulous Chinesenail salon in your neighbourhood, I ask you? The ladies in here are an absolute laugh a minute, incredibly fun (as is the playlist.) Walk-ins welcome. 89 rue de Rennes 75006.

Simon Le Coiffeur puts a smile on your kid’s face while trimming their hair to perfection. I have friends my age who came here as kids. A Left Bank essential and you’re in-and-out in a jiffy, with no crying, no fugly chops, and a lollipop. They also just saved Arthur’s mushroom cut from a sister-scissor debacle. 16 rue Vavin 75006.

Pressing rue d’Assas This place is barely even listed online —I don’t honestly know if it has a name other than ‘Pressing’ which means dry cleaner not “urgent” in French, although it’s the ideal spot for stain (or smell) urgencies of all kinds. Quick, easy and the price is right. Evidence I’ve been dropping my clothes here for 10 years below —I cannot begin to remember, nor believe I purchased, this pair of pink croc boots. Huh. 46 rue d’Assas 75006.

Ok, here’s one I’ll cross the river for:

I’m not generally someone obsessed with the latest skincare technologies but FACESTELLAR Paris may have concerted me. Their treatments are very high-tech with the sort of futuristic machines that make you feel like you’ve wandered into a beauty laboratory rather than a spa (in a reassuring way—I swear!!)

On my last visit, someone pointed what can only be described as a cryotherapy gun at my face, blasting it with air at roughly -40 degrees. Reader, my skin looked like glass afterwards.

If your beauty philosophy leans more results-driven than scented-candle-and-whale-music this is probably your place. It’s also surprisingly easy just to pop in: they often accommodate same-day bookings and last minute appointments. 46 rue de Richelieu 75001.

Oh, and by the way:
My favourite massage therapist Teresa Savoie has recently added facials to her repetoire. Rather than focusing on products or machines her approach is entirely hands-on, with her magic hands combining lifting, stretching, drainage and massage techniques that work across fare, neck, décolleté, shoulders, scalp and even fascia.

The aim is less miracle cure, more glow (and total relaxation): reducing puffiness, encouraging circulation, releasing tension and leaving the face looking and feeling refreshed. If it’s anything like the treatment she gives my perpetually knotted shoulders, I’d happily put my face in her hands too. Bookings at 06 58 61 77 68 or via Instagram DM.

See you around!

(Of course, I’ve also been out in the big bad field, gathering Paris info, weird facts, hot tips and unlikely gossip ;)

Speaking of hot—it’s a zillion degrees in Paris this week and feels like summer is really and truly upon us, which means many a Eurotrip (ha, remember that movie?) will officially be in the works. And no, there isn’t any air con, with very few exceptions.

SO paid subscribers, hit me with your Paris Qs, fashion conundrums, anything (ok, within reason.) Either in the comments section below, OR in the ‘Mon Review’ group chat on the Substack app, which is now reserved for Paid Subscribers.

Everyone else —new newsletter out soon. Thanks for subscribing, Monicuddlers!

It seems the rise of the “Beta Mom” is upon us, and, as I realised while reading, I may very well be one of them. Ok maybe not quite Beta but much closer to B than A.

For decades, high achieving (or “Alpha”) moms have felt pressure to “optimise” their kids for success. Now, many of us Millennial moms aren’t having any of it.

When I think back, part of the reason I was nervous about having kids in the first place, even though I knew I definitely wanted them, was that I wasn’t sure motherhood really aligned with my personality at all. The idea of fundamentally changing who you are felt dangerous to me, like cramming yourself into a perky yet suffocating box that would eventually explode, leaving emotional debris for everyone around you —offspring included— to clean up.

Then I moved to Paris and started observing the French mothers around me, women who didn’t even pretend to care whether their child played softball or was a miniature conservatory musician. They just cared that their kids were smart and kind and “autonomous” without flunking. That’s when I realised: oh, maybe I could do this.

On a slightly-different-but-related note: I remember sitting at a table full of Parisian mothers while pregnant with my first child and asking whether any of them had considered…breastfeeding? “Même pas en rêve,” they all answered instantly. “Not even in my dreams. And embark on a fourth trimester are you crazy?!”

Some people would find this extreme, but it reflects something very specific about a typically Parisian approach to parenting. To be clear, the women around me are excellent mothers. They’re loving, engaged, attentive. They simply take a more hands-off, figure-it-out-yourself approach. They have their own hobbies and take care of themselves. They preserve their independence, refusing to transform themselves into sacrificial lambs at the altar of motherhood. WSJ seems to be suggesting this approach exists in LA too (see the Wall St Journal) but with more of a hippy lilt.

The other day, I admitted to a Parisian friend that I was anxious about finding time to help Mia improve her spelling so she could be sure to be at the top of her kindergarten class. My friend just stared at me.

“Monica. Never waste your time teaching them something they’ll definitely learn at school. Save your energy. Enjoy your time with her. Take her out for lunch!”

She may have a point.

Because does anyone really manage to be both an alpha in their career and an Alpha Mom simultaneously? Without existing on a pharmaceutical cocktail of amphetamines? I’m sceptical.

But I also don’t think I’m a Beta Mom purely out of selfishness (or career ambition). The more I think about it, the less convinced I am that overscheduling, overcoaching and relentlessly steering children toward achievement necessarily leads to fulfilment — or even to the prestigious white-collar jobs that seemed to be the end goal of 90s-style alpha mothering. Will those jobs even exist by the time our children grow up? AI suggests many won’t.

As WSJ’s Rachel Wolfe puts it:

“WOMEN HAVE always shouldered the bulk of household and child -rearing responsibilities.But it’s only recently that mothers were also expected to be project managers for their kids’ futures. That began around the 1990s, economists say, as widening inequality and a shift toward a knowledge-based economy made parents fear their children would fall behind without a competitive edge.”

This doesn’t mean I’m anti-education. Far from it. I care deeply about what my children learn, about the schools they attend. I loved school myself. But it increasingly occurs to me that the most successful people of the future will be resilient, adaptable, curious, capable of thinking independently and knowing what to do when left to their own devices.

Boredom, too, feels like an essential part of childhood.

My parents put a lot of effort into raising us, and my mother, as the 90s in our neighbourhood largely dictated, gave up working as a lawyer in order to devote herself entirely to us: driving us to endless activities, supervising homework, making personally damn sure everything got done properly. I appreciate her infinitely for it.

But the world has changed. And continues to change. Also, I simply do not possess her level of patience. (Nor her apparent secret vocation as a kindergarten teacher. Respect.)

Some of the best moments I have with my five-year-old daughter aren’t when I shrink myself into her world, but when she expands herself into mine. It becomes a special occasion when she gets to come to an art exhibition with mummy — even if she doesn’t fully understand it — or sit at a grown-up restaurant. She’s old enough now to recognise that. She rises to the occasion.

As a Beta Mom, I read her children’s books I find interesting, or funny. Always in English, which helps her zero at her French-only school. But it will help her in the, um, world. Sometime the books are slightly above her age level, but they stretch her imagination, and I know I read aloud better when I’m genuinely entertained by the material myself.

She says she hates being dropped off at after-school activities, so for now, I’ve decided to let her stay home with her little brother and his babysitter or go to the park with them instead. Worst case scenario? She gets bored. And then she has to invent her own world to play in. Surely that’s a useful muscle to build.

And maybe the most important thing is this: I am so much more emotionally present when I lean fully into Beta Mom life than I ever would be trying to perform Alpha motherhood.

100 Years of David Attenborough

Even Lego have changed their recommended age limit to accommodate him, as they should.

How do you stay relevant for 100 years?

Consistency, it seems, is underrated. For more than seven decades, Sir David Attenborough has refused to treat nature as background scenery. He has made the living world feel dramatic, intimate, and urgent; whether whispering over footage of a now leopard or explaining the fragility of coral reefs. Crucially, his curiosity has always felt genuine rather than performative, and audiences across generations trust him because he speaks with clarity, humility and wonder instead of spectacle.

But also!! As filming technology evolved, Attenborough evolved with it, embracing everything from underwater cinematography to drone footage while keeping the storytelling deeply human. What’s more, while confronting bleak realities about climate change, he rarely sounds cynical, balancing urgency with awe, giving people a reason to care rather than simply guilt-tripping them into doing so. That combo: authority without arrogance, consciousness without hopelessness, is a big part of why he remains not only respected by genuinely beloved.

It was beyond heart warming to see Attenborough on such good form as the entire Royal Albert Hall sang to him last weekend. This video was pretty cute too. My British Granny would have been Attenborough’s exact age and I think between his achievements and the King’s masterful speech to Congress she’d have been proud lately (Starmergate notwithstanding.) Ratbags be damned.

Should Fashion Rules Even Exist?

If you follow me on Instagram, you may have seen my latest Monsplaining video, detailing the sartorial feud between my husband and my brother on the topic of shorts. Yes you read that right. Harry and Marc agree on a lot of things but whether a man can wear shorts in the city is not one of them.

Apparently, they aren’t the only ones with extreme, unflinching points of view on the subject. The comment section is divided almost fifty-fifty, with a solid half of people (male and female) insisting that a hairy male leg on the metro is an absolute no-no, and another half makes the case for a flashing a bit of the ol’ knee. Things have become so heated I’ve decided to let this deeply unserious debate play out on its own.

But this division does raise the question as to whether any actual rules of dress —male or female— should apply in our modern world. And if so, how exactly do you enforce them other than pure, unbridled judgement?

I listened to a podcast the other day about how, for centuries across much of Europe, married women covered their hair (singling elective modesty —not like a man choosing long trousers in 35-degree weather).

Bonnets also signalled marital status: a way of saying “I’m taken!” Or perhaps simply ensuring you looked like a man repeller. The custom blended older Roman and local traditions with Christian teachings, and in many societies visible female hair became associated with youth, sexuality, and unmarried status, while covered hair marked adulthood and social dignity.

The practice faded gradually between the late 19th and mid-20th centuries as Europe urbanised and secularised and women gained greater social independence. Changing fashion, factory and office work, shorter hairstyles, mass media and declining religious authority all weakened the idea that respectable married women had to concealer locks, until the custom survived mainly in conservative religious or rural communities.

The adult male hat has all but disappeared too. From roughly the 19th century through the mid-20th, men across Europe and North America were expected to wear a hat outdoors: flat caps, bowlers, homburgs, fedoras, top hats, depending on class and setting. Going bareheaded in public could be seen as sloppy, lower-class, or immature, much in the way uncovered hair once carried a similar meaning for married women.

And perhaps, today, shorts on an adult male leg carry a similar charged symbolism. At least according to my husband and his equally selective compatriots.

Perhaps this too shall pass. Is progress, after all, a hairy calf on the metro? Or, maybe some traditions are worth preserving. Time will tell.

Reverting Back to Early Spring

After two months of warm sunshine Spring has taken a brief vacation, as everyone in France liable to do in May. So here’s my current uniform. The white jeans and basket maintain an “estival” feel, I guess, and I’m glad for an excuse to wear this excellent knit by Frances de Lourdes.

David Attenborough would say we need the rain for nature to flourish and besides which, summer, with its sweaty nights is coming! Enjoying the breeze while it lasts.

Solo holidays, yes —I love those, as you know. I find a few days alone, away from one’s orbit, with an intention in mind (write, “reset”, “detox”, or just effing chill, ) is an excellent idea, especially for us moms of young kids.

But I don’t normally subscribe to ultrabionic self-optimisation parentheses. I know I know I know, the science is there. Work out daily, eat mostly veg most-of-the-time, meditate (or at least, breathe properly), cut out coffee (yikes), alcohol, nicotine, partake in cognitive exercises… and you’ll improve your chances of being the best version of you for as long as possible by a long shot. I don’t dispute any of this. It just seems to me that what really counts is figuring out how do a more lowkey version of it all within the parameters of one’s everyday life. And that’s a lot harder.

Do I need, for example, to work my muscles within in a virtual reality via Icaros VR machine? To be rocked like a baby in the womb during a Watsu water massage ritual? To have vitamins injected into my veins via intravenous? I tend to think not. And yet…

Perhaps I’ve been mistaken. Because after a mere three days following the “Rebalance and Energise” at SHA Wellness Spain I’ve got to be honest: I feel more energetic than I have in years. At least since having kids.

Yes, I did everything they recommended. My schedule — from anti-inflammatory nutritional consults, to abhaynga massages, to acupuncture, to ginger therapeutic compresses, to photobiolmodulation red light therapy— started at 8am and went until 7pm, moving between tailored workouts, health optimisation rendezvous and niche relaxation rituals. The only rule I broke was one coffee in the morning (exceptions may be made for press at SHA mwahah). But other than that, I was all in. No dairy or meat, no copping out of the schedule for a nap. Didn’t even sneak in a pack of Doritos, (though I did consider buying such contraband when I landed at Alicante airport and started panicking.) Nope. Nada.

Now, there is a certain absurd vanity to the idea of locking oneself in a self-sufficient, expensive health center. But there’s also a genius to it: with no temptation available on premises, the only way of feeling good is to exercise (or intermittent hypoxia therapy via oxygen mask). No reaching for quick fixes. And I imagine if one had paid (to be clear, I did not, this was a PR invite, merci beaucoup to all involved,) one would have all the more reason not to sneak in a few Marlboro lights (you’re only cheating yourself!) Besides, one’s day is so jam-packed with self-improvement, one simply doesn’t have time to yearn for a Diet Coke. Or almost doesn’t.

Frank Sinatra once said “I feel sorry for people who don’t drink: when they wake up in the morning, that’s as good as they’re going feel all day”. He obviously hadn’t tried an apple cider vinegar shot and veggie conjak wok dinner.

Now back to reality, and off to find a several-shot coffee at the airport. Hold the dairy. Namaste!

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In the past five days in Paris, I’ve been to: the ballet, a major art exhibition, and a 17th-century-style salon where we discussed the concept of “taste”.

The ballet was Sergei Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet at the Opera Bastille after a dangerously pleasant apero, with invitations courtesy of Vince (who very wisely brought in Alexandra Van Houtte to shape the guest list). The exhibition as the opening of Calder. Rêver en équilibre at the Fondation Louis Vuitton. And the salon was organised by Massimo Dutti at their new Paris pop-up location, and moderated by HURS founder Bonnie Langedijk (also an excellent call on the brand’s part).

Guess what, I loved all of it. The salon especially. Ideas were exchanged. It worked.

So why am I telling you this?

Not because I am trying to position myself as unbearably sophisticated (heaven knows I am not) but because these brands pulled off something quite effective. They gave me a reason to show up to cultural experiences I would otherwise have noted, thought “I should do that” then… probably not done.

Because it was “work” (lol). But it was : for people in my line, those brand relationships matter and invitations carry a very specific weight. So I went. And I learned something. And I enjoyed it. And I came out, however marginally, more informed than I went in.

Which is where it gets interesting…

I left not only with a slightly expanded cultural vocabulary but also with a quietly improved perception of the brands that got me there. I wonder if the people who watched it all unfold on my Instagram account did too?

It’s a simple formula for brands that some will call cynical; poseur-ish even. But I think it’s just effective because even if, say, the brands are in it for the wrong reasons, everybody still wins.

In a digital ecosystem where everything is flattened into content, attaching your brand to real, physical cultural experiences feels… smart? Almost necessary. If these institutions need audiences —and they do— then this kind of cross pollination isn’t the worst thing. (Feel free to disagree Timotheee Chalamayyy).

Of course, it also taps into our collective urge to broadcast our lives: the same impulse behind influencers casually displaying their bookshelves (guilty). This isn’t a new observation within fashion-adjacent discourse.

But as a communication strategy, it works. It makes brands feel like participants in culture; patrons of it even. (LVMH may well have started this trend, and it’s true that the Fondation Louis Vuitton is undeniably breathtaking, so… yeah.)

But crucially, this strategy gets people in the door; because “influence” doesn’t have to be reduced to shopping ideas.

So personally, I’m curious to see what comes next. Ideally: musical theatre.

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But not for the reasons one normally falls for a new creative director’s take. It’s not about entirely new shapes or silhouettes I could never have dreamt up. Strangely, it’s the way Rider has, through pristine forms and bold primaries, reacquainted me with my own wardrobe. And, at the same time somehow, the house of Celine.

Of course, it was clear he had the chops: Rider’s CV is highly impressive. He was on the front line of Phoebe Philo’s Celine at a formative age and seems to have imbibed her magic —without imitating. I also loved what he did with Polo Ralph Lauren.

Rider’s first seasons at Celine have been so effortlessly cool yet wearable —the sweet-spot between Clean Girl and Bad B*tch; between that side of the Atlantic and this; in short: something very close to my soul style— that I suddenly saw my pair of slim black jeans completely differently. My navy or red knits, too (what if I threw them all on at once?) etc.

A bright red trench I wasn’t wearing much became a kind of Mondrian all-purpose gem; my somewhat-random winter hat and giant ’70s aviators suddenly made sense together.

My sparkly silver skirt, normally reserved for fancy-dress parties, felt totally wearable with a trench or boots. Wait! And I had a leopard jacket. The skinny leather belt my mom forgot when she stayed with me. Even pink pants! I have pink pants somewhere don’t I? Pieces that once felt “extra” somehow feel grounded and Paris-street worthy simply by styling them like it’s no biggie.

Rider is an American in Paris of the highest order: he fits in, yet he’s using the life he’s carved out for himself to have a little fun. At least where clothes are concerned (I don't actually know him personally to be clear, but he seems fun!)

Now, I’m not saying you shouldn’t invest in his Celine Autumn/Winter 2026 collection when it hits stores. Or SS26 right away. I’m certainly saving up for a piece myself. But when a designer makes you turn back to your own wardrobe with a sharper, more inspired point of view, he’s performing just as much magic as any boundary-breaker, in my opinion. Besides, with his latest collection, I suspect Rider might just do both.

Well, mostly. Almost everyone in France has a bank card, but most of those are debit, not credit. Debit cards (called “carte bancaire” or “CB”) are the standard payment method here, unlike in Anglo countries wherein true credit cards, with their revolving line of credit, are much less common. Which is strangely revelatory from a fashion perspective.

I can’t take credit for this revelation: the line comes from Delphine Del Val (via Laurel Pantin), and it’s amazingly diagnostic.

For what it gestures toward is a different relationship to consumption. The French largely have a more cautious attitude toward debt, (which I must say resonates with me personally, given even the simplest back loan makes me itch with anxiety. “Neither a borrower nor a lender be,” my grandpa used to say. This is probably why I will never make millions. Anyway.)

Aaanyway I’m clearly generalising but all this expands the age-old style question somewhat. For it isn’t simply what people buy in Paris, but how they buy: within limits, without wild excess, and with the expectation that a garment will be lived in rather than cycled through.

The result is not minimalism as an aesthetic, but as a byproduct of constraint. A wardrobe edited by circumstance rather than aspiration.

Seen from, say, North America, where abundance and optionality tend to drive decision-making this can read as discipline, even mystique. We call the Paris look je ne sais quoi but in reality, it may be something closer to coherence.

After years of observing up close (casually, then less so), this seems like the most plausible explanation.

Btw, to my mind, (whisper it) Carolyn Bessette operated stylistically within a similar logic.

Anyway here’s a snapshot of what actually circulates (and endures) in daily life here… and my current picks from each.

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Street style, in its truest form, is a different beast. Personally, I like seeing how people stitch pieces from the collections into their own wardrobes. I’m also always here for the occasional blunt, bs-free runway hot take.

But the dinners. Sigh, the dinners. I’ll attempt to explain. Basically industry codes dictate that it’s considered extremely bad form to attend a dinner and not post something. It’s basically the modern equivalent of a thank-you note. Which means you — a dignified professional human at home — may well be looking at your phone thinking “what gives?”

Broadly speaking, one doesn’t accept a fashion or beauty brand’s dinner unless you either A) already work with them, or B) would like to. Occasionally there’s a C) all your friends are going and you feel like leaving the house. (Rare.)

Still, most people with any dignity aren’t angling toward brands they don’t love/believe in. Contrary to popular belief, we’re not all paid every time we leave the house; much of the hustle is simply relationship-building. Which can be long. And, I fully appreciate, incredibly tedious for one’s audience.

All of which is to say: over the past few days I’ve seen plenty of Fashion Week roundups of the look who I’m friends with / watch the velvet ropes part for me variety. I understand the temptation, I too love my friends and feel lucky, but something often gets lost along the way: imagining one’s audience.

My taste may not be exactly yours, but my access is! And while I don’t have the keys to every kingdom, I’ve been around this rodeo long enough to know that not everything worth seeing gets the attention it deserves on social media.

So this is a small Paris Fashion Week scrapbook, of sorts. No particular order, not many bells or whistles. Just pieces I loved, styling ideas, and a few treasures, including the most unexpected trove of mid-century modern furniture discovered in a Paris parking-lot-turned-showroom.

I took far too many photos for one email, so click through below to keep unearthing.

*The Wear-Forevers*

Arma

This leather brand from the Netherlands caused somewhat of a stir in Paris this season. I can’t quite say “all the cool girls were wearing it” because if you’ve been here long enough you know I’m a massive NERD, but ‘twas the general vibe.

I have never felt so compelled to wear a jacket every. single. day. It goes with everything, is ideal for the season, and makes every outfit so much more… intense?Check out their whole collection here.

CO

The Co show was my first of the week and was met with great all-round satisfaction, particularly in that we were all fresh off a Love Story binge. This LA insiders brand’s sudden appearance in Paris felt like gift from the minimalist-but-not-uninteresting styling gods. Some seriously snappy jackets here too. Also unexpectedly, Jerry Seinfeld was in attendance.

TWP (Trish Westcoat Pound)

Another highly-wearable fave of stylish New Yorkers. Went to see what all the fuss was about and found the fuss was completely merited. So glad these brands are showing in Paris, with try-ons optional/encouraged. You want to understand the fabrics and how they move.

Managed to walk out with this current season trench, complete with reversible chestnut cashmere insides and its own detachable scarf situation. Took it for a stroll up Montmartre with the kiddos on Sunday and felt tres chic.

Collector Square

Behold the bowels of the vintage Birkin (and not just) source in Paris. I like to climb up to the top balcony, rather dangerously, and gaze upon their well-ordered treasures.

Rare Fendi finds like the below also abound. Check it out here, or make an appointment (which I recommend if you’re in town),

TOVE

There is simply no better occasionwear, to my mind. Hard to put across in photos but the materials, draping, and understanding of the female body apparent through Tove’s construction and design make each piece truly exquisite.

Savette

Luxury, logo-free bags for all the CBKs out there! Get innnn.

LouLou de Saison

Chloe Harrouche’s brand is a pretty unusual masterclass in the content-creator-turned designer category. Her eye is simply unwavering. She was meant to do this! Some favourites from her presentation below:

The Accessible Excellence

Sezane

Paris queues-round-the-block fave Sezane are on the up-and-up again, with a more precise, elevated design plan for the coming seasons (I’m told). This is evidenced through new season pieces like this perfect dress and the suede jacket below (yes, I know I have enough jackets… Or do I?)

The below, meanwhile, reminds me of that Calvin Klein number Alexa Chung wore to their show this season, except a practical versatile two-piece. (Also: a more affordable take on my Zimmerman set above).

Doen

We’re all inclined to hit up Doen for a bit of romance and/or the seductive modern-day take on a Jane Austen frock (adore) but I am very into their outerwear and winter knits lately. Here’s a little preview of the pieces I’ll be ordering from the AW collection.

Polo Ralph Lauren

I already talked about this on insta but the styling at the Polo Ralph Lauren presentation was perfectly evocative of the kind of low-key collegiate eccentricity we indulged in at Edinburgh uni circa 2007 (complete with unbrushed hair for weeks on end). Loved.

The Pursuit of BEAUTY

I had a rare and much-appreciated glam-team situation assigned to me before the Louis Vuitton show which allowed for a much-anticipated foray into my “wet” hair look fantasy. It turns out that first thing in the morning, this can look like you just jumped out of the shower. Still, I enjoyed it.

Thanks Ben Talbott for the hair dreams and Tobi Henney for the cute face. Would that they were with me every morning!

I also had an excellent hair morning with Nathan Di Natale, who was making a guest-star appearance at David Mallet. I’m sure you’ve heard about this Paris salon but I have to say the hype is merited here too (plus I would go just to see the ostrich!)

Moutain-Top Fairydust Inspo

The big shows of the season that reframed my personal aesthetic viewpoint the most, whether I was physically present at them or not, were as follows:

Tom Ford

What in the name of outrageously sexy precision is this? I, perhaps naively, was not expecting something quite so exceptional from Haider Ackerman at TF. Shame on me, eating my hat etc.

Also, this skirt. THIS SKIRT. Be still my rain-weathered heart.

Dries Van Noten

Always a passion but particularly this season. Julian Klausner just gets better and better at filling Dries’s giant boots. Had a similar youthful, well-travelled, higgledy-piggledy coming-of-age vibes to Polo RL. (The elevated kind you can still channel at any age.)

Prada (all of it)

A thrilling study in layering from two of the greatest living experts on the subject. Mrs Prada should give lectures on onion dressing. I’d pay good money.

As for the Pressure-Cooker Twins: Let’s preface this with I think both Matthieu Blazy at Chanel and Jonathan Anderson at Dior are doing incredibly well at putting their modern marks on both fabled houses. Big revivals officially activated on both sides (and with legs: just look at the reported Chanel boutique sales once the Americans hit town —wowzers.) However, my two cents:

Chanel I loved almost everything —and Blazy’s custom Oscars gown for Jessie Buckley inspired by Grace Kelly was off-the-charts — but there was one part of the Chanel runway I couldn’t get my head around. And it was the way-too-dropped waist skirts that reminded me of my daughter when she’s just used the potty and is so excited to keep playing a game she doesn’t pull her skirt back up properly. You know which ones I mean.

Dior I think Anderson puts his best foot forward with his simplest looks for Dior. Plus, lily pads are the perfect humour-laden palette cleanser.

*Top Secret Furniture Bonus*

My design guru Dan Thawley (of Matter and Shape fame) set me up to see collector Philippe Menager’s showroom in the basement of a parking lot in my neighbourhood. When I say I couldn’t believe this was here. Rare mid-c-modern fans rejoice/ contact @PhillipeMenager for a private visit (almost everything’s for sale!)

And there you have it, the woman I’m shaping up as for fall/winter ‘26. Not so far from the one I am now, just a tiny bit older and (therefore?) zhuzhier.

But on Thursday I was in Milan for 24-hours of fashion (and sadly not enough pasta), and kept having to ask The Robot where to get an egg or a coffee around the random edges of town in which I found myself. This made me wish I had a Milanese friend. (I do have a Roman friend, so life could be worse.) Didn’t stay long enough to organise a dinner with fellow visitors, but would’ve needed tips for that too.

Now it strikes me I may be helpful in this regard for the flustered fashion crowd descending on Paris this week — bienvenue.

So here’s a shortlist of places, both chilled and fancy, to book last minute that aren’t Hotel Costes. (Excuse the rare industry-focused newsletter but all this obviously applies to people coming here for reasons other than Fashion Week, quelle idée!)

Honestly, I am always astounded by fashion brands’ capacity to host dinners you leave feeling absolutely starving. Contrary to popular belief, we want actual food. Here are some ideas of where to book now…

(Paid Subscribers can also write to me in the chat section for last-minute ideas!)

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[TOP SHELF, FROM LEFT:]

There’s something rotten in the state of Utah

As a kid in Canada, milk was just this thing a milkman dropped off in a bag. No one questioned it. We slurped it at the bottom of cereal bowls; in cups. My mom was way ahead of the curve when she started buying cartons of skimmed for her coffee.

Now, thanks largely to an outlier Kennedy with bad fashion sense and an alleged worm in his brain (yes, I’m looking at RFK Jr.,) raw milk has become such a hot topic that it may finally be the scandal that brings down Ballerina Farm’s empire. Well, that and possibly Claire Caro Burke’s upcoming novel Yesteryear. But more on that later.

What now, Monica? Well… here’s the gist.

Ballerina Farm, the homestead brand run by Hannah Neeleman and her family, has built a cult following selling a back-to-the-land fantasy: sourdough starters, prairie dresses, choreographed children, and increasingly, old-fashioned dairy. Raw milk (the unpasteurized, straight-from-the-cow kind) has become a kind of purity badge in certain wellness and trad-life circles. It signals distrust of “industrial” food systems and a longing for a simpler, pre-regulation America.

Enter RFK Jr., who has been publicly enthusiastic about raw milk for years, framing pasteurization and federal dairy regulation as examples of government overreach. His broader brand: skepticism of public-health institutions, romanticizing “natural” immunity, questioning modern food systems, dovetails with the raw milk revival. The problem, of course, is that pasteurization exists for a reason: unpasteurized milk can carry pathogens like E. coli, salmonella, and listeria, which is why its sale is restricted or tightly regulated in many states.

So when Ballerina Farm leaned into raw milk aesthetics (and reportedly expanded its dairy operations in ways that drew scrutiny) critics began connecting dots. Was this wholesome agrarian content… or a lifestyle funnel normalizing fringe health politics? In a moment when Kennedy’s views are under a brighter spotlight, even a mason jar of milk starts to look ideological.

In other words: what was once a niche crunchy choice has curdled into culture war. Udder madness!

There’s something seductive about Tavares 1922

(TOP CENTER AND BOTTOM LEFT)

I am a complete sucker for a brand with history, which will explain my newfound obsession with the Tavares 1922 homeware section since my insanely elegant friend Pirrie introduced me to this Portuguese family business.

Picture me, just for example, ladling a soup I have probably not made myself with the Tavares utensil at the top centre of my cabinet above. Or serving eggs in the contraption centre-row left. I can’t explain my attraction to these pieces and to be clear will probably never buy a luxury egg holder but do I want them? Yes.

Martin Parr’s current exhibition at Jeu de Pomme

The late British photogrpaher’s current major show at Jeu de Paume Paris until May is a sweeping retrospective of his images over five decades, presenting his saturated, iconic ironic snapshots, from crowded beaches and supermarkets to tourist hordes and techno-saturated scenes as a vivid critical portrait of modern life and its excesses. “Are we enjoying modern life” they seem to ask, “or just performing it?” They’re also just really cool to stare at.

[MIDDLE SHELF]

Violette Fr’s ‘Feather Matt Lip Whip’ appears to have solved my lipstick problems forever.

I am committed to a red lip, especially in the evening and especially in the winter: the perfect antidote to drab, slightly greening skin that has forgotten what vitamin D feels like. And yet. How are you meant to keep a bold red lip from going topsy turvy while eating dinner? Violette has the solution and I am a total convert.

American Love Story: John F. Kennedy Jr. and Carolyn Bessette

This weekend’s weather was conveniently horrible, which gave me the perfect excuse to binge the first three episodes of Love Story: John F. Kennedy Jr. & Carolyn Bessette, now streaming on FX and Hulu.

I’m not as mad at the fashion as I thought I’d be. After early social-media backlash to the initial stills (fans called the aesthetic “cheap,” including Carolyn Bessette’s actual colorist) Ryan Murphy’s team apparently went back to the drawing board. Aesthetically, Sarah Pidgeon, who plays CBK, is now believable, and she doesn’t play her half-badly. Then again, did we the public ever really know CBK? As in, her actual personality? Who are we to say this wasn’t it?

The pacing feels slow at times, and the romance scenes hover at Bridgerton-level cheese but what do you expect from a series titled Love Story?

The real bee in my bonnet after Episode 3 is Naomi Watts’ portrayal of Jackie Kennedy Onassis. Especially as Watts is the most established actor in the series. Jackie is depicted in her later years as a half-drunk, chain-smoking widow obsessed with her son’s love life. I have trouble buying this. Jackie was by most accounts far sharper and more serious than this wet portrayal allows. The real Jackie navigated the most intense public pressures imaginable, not just with style, but with strategic intelligence.

The show’s Jackie is frankly kind of insulting, especially knowing that this branch of the Kennedy clan is reportedly not thrilled about the production capitalizing on their family tragedies. (Jack Schlossberg publicly asked that Ryan Murphy at least send some proceeds to the Kennedy Foundation.) But as always, the public thinks it owns this family in every way imaginable.

With all due respect to CBK, whose memory has informed countless outfit choices for yours truly over the decades, the real hero of this generation of Kennedy tragedy is, to me, John Jr.’s sister, Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg. Played gracefully in the series by Meryl Streep’s daughter Grace Gummer.

Maybe it’s because my own adored sister-in-law is named Caroline, or because I’m more at Caroline’s stage in life in the show and therefore more able to relate to her character, but it got me thinking about these two Caros’ relationship — or lack thereof. There are very few photos of them together, not for lack of public attention, but apparently because the two were never particularly close, moving in different worlds even within the same family. (Camille Perrier’s book L’autre Madame Kennedy gives some interesting insight for French readers).

So yes. To me Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg is the real all-round icon. Her intelligence, quiet steadiness, and strength have carried her through enormous challenges, including the assassination of her father; death of her mother from cancer with paparazzi swarming; death of her brother in the dreaded plane crash that also killed Carolyn; and now the heartbreaking death of her 35-year-old daughter Tatiana in December. Beyond personal resilience, she has built an impressive career as a lawyer, author, diplomat and public servant, championing education, philanthropy, and diplomacy. And she doesn’t just quietly endure, she speaks up when it matters, as she did during the RFK Jr. confirmation hearings. She has lived the Kennedy legacy with enduring integrity and grace truly worthy of admiration.

I’m thinking of her as she takes over raising her daughter’s small children, and I can’t help but hope the show isn’t causing her new anguish.

Should we go back to Tamagotchis?

Speaking of the 90s I’ve found myself considering Tamagotchis for the first time since ‘95. Unlike tablets and streaming platforms designed to hold attention for as long as humanly possible, a Tamagotchi is gloriously limited. It does not autoplay. It does not recommend. It does not glow with the promise of “just one more.” It beeps, it waits, it demands a small act of care —then it stops.

Obviously books first, but if screens are ultimately unavoidable, are these strange little critters the ideal compromise? For kids, the containment is the point. The interaction is brief and purposeful: feed it, clean it, check on it before school. It introduces the rhythm of responsibility without the vortex of content. Neglect it and it wilts; tend to it and it thrives. No ads either. Maybe it’ll inspire them to tidy their rooms.

BOTTOM SHELF:

Claire Caro Burke’s Yesteryear

I haven’t been able to get this wild novel out of my head since I tore through an advance reader copy a few weeks ago. It’s out in April, and early whispers are probably right: I think it’s going to be huge. But not necessarily because it’s flawless.

Here’s the setup: a social-media trad wife living on a perfect farm with her hapless-rich kid husband and their swarm of children (plus all the invisible nannies, producer and Insta-fairy dust that makes “simplicity” possible) wakes up one morning trapped in 1805. No sourdough starters. No ring lights. No escape hatch.

Early on, she calls herself “perfect at being alive” and this self-certainty collides spectacularly with the brutal realities of pre-modern life. The premise is high-concept, yes, and it demands a generous suspension of disbelief (even with a final plot twist). You may roll your eyes on occasion. But those moments let Burke’s dark humour shine through.

Plus, beneath the time-slip conceit, the novel asks a sharper question: how many of the cages women inhabit are inherited, and how many are enthusiastically self-constructed?

It’s impossible not to think of aspirational homestead empires like the aforementioned Ballerina Farm while reading —though Burke’s novel is very much its own satirical creation. Fiction, after all, is allowed to wander where “angry women” commentary can’t quite. (That’s what the narrator calls her critics: The Angry Women.)

Wickedly readable.

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Wuthering wondering

OK so I wrote this part before everyone else on the planet had already weighed in on Emerald Fennell’s Wuthering Heights. But here it is anyway:

The first physical description of Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights the novel (1847) is not subtle.

Mr Lockwood observes:

“A dark-skinned gipsy in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman…”

That’s page one.

By Chapter 4, Nelly Dean is recalling the child Mr Earnshaw brought home from Liverpool — filthy, black-haired, speaking “gibberish that nobody could understand.” Earnshaw shrugs and speculates he might be:

“a little Lascar, or an American or Spanish castaway.”

Brontë does not clarify, She doubles down. Liverpool — one of the great ports of Britain’s slave-trading economy. And yet: no answer.

Scholars have been arguing about Heathcliff’s racial coding for decades. Is he colonial return? Romani? Irish? Symbolically Gothic rather than literally racial? What most agree on is this: the ambiguity is deliberate.

Heathcliff’s “otherness” is not an aesthetic flourish. It is the engine of the novel. It explains his degradation. It justifies the household’s cruelty. It curdles into revenge. It poisons the next generation.

He is never allowed to belong — and that is the point.

So it is… a choice… to cast Jacob Elordi.

Let me be clear: Elordi is magnetic. The camera loves him. I am not protesting two hours of sexually charged scenes between him and Robbie. But Heathcliff is not meant to be comfortably desirable!

He is meant to unsettle; to destabilise lineage. To feel like a threat to bloodlines and property. Like a subtler, less-murderous version of Barry Keegan’s character in Emerald Fennell’s last hit, Saltburn, actually. He is the figure onto whom 19th-century England could project its anxieties about empire, race, class, and contamination.

Actually, lots of British toffs are still pretty scared of arrivistes today. Not because they’re all a bunch of basic racists: because of this inherited old-fashion queasiness drummed into them about intruders trying to steal their country piles, titles and what have you. Hence why I thought Saltburn kind of actually kinda worked before spinning into OTTness.

Anyway, back to Heathcliff: when you cast one of the most recognisable, commercially bankable young actors of his generation (who happens to be white), you don’t reinterpret that tension. You erase it. Mystery becomes marketing, ambiguity becomes aesthetic, and something dangerous in the novel goes soft.

No, not everything is about race. Or empire. Or inheritance. But Wuthering Heights the novel absolutely is. In 1847, in a Britain still in the aftershocks of slavery, a 27-year-old Emily Brontë wrote a novel about ownership: of land, bodies, children and names. She created a character whose very origin destabilises the idea of English purity. Two centuries later, we’ve given him a jawline and a press tour.

The film is highly entertaining and aesthetically thrilling though.

And the Lintons’ house decor reads like a metaphor unto itself: the abject vulgarity of marrying strictly for money. Plus the sex scenes are committed. The audience (myself included) showed up: it was a full house on opening night in Paris.

But if we love Wuthering Heights, I dunno, maybe we should feel at least a flicker of discomfort watching Heathcliff made safe. Brontë wrote him to be “a problem” for the other characters and in so doing created a compelling critique of her own time.

Still, again: worth seeing for the clothes and bonking.

JW Anderson clogs

Last but not least, having sworn off clogs since I left summer camp (no shade to Birkenstock) I suddenly felt a physical urge to put these on at the JW showroom the other day. Spring summer version here. Only Jonathan Anderson could make me go garden gnome.

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So you want to write something interesting on the internet. With your own brain. How quaint.

Before you embark on your “journey,” here are some common mistakes to swerve at all costs.

I see you love fashion. Sweet! Enjoy. But please, don’t write about fashion unless you want to wind up poor and potentially uninvited to any fashion shows you may have been on the wait list for. Fashion is for looking at, not reading about. Words wrinkle silk. Have you heard of Instagram? Or Substack Notes?

If you must write about fashion, make sure it is full of praise.

Don’t write about something too long and complicated. No one has that attention span anymore and anyway, Substack will gently inform you that you’ve exceeded “ideal email length.” This is its way of saying: honey, no one cares about your too-thoroughly developed idea.

But don’t write something too short. The customer must get their money’s worth.

Don’t write about sex, you silly perv. There are sensitive nuns about the place.

Dear writer, do not under any circumstances attempt poetry. There are already enough unpublished geniuses pacing their kitchens at midnight.

Try to avoid writing too much about “culture.” You are sure to sound pretentious.

Avoid also writing your best material. Lest some unwitting publisher decide to let you write a book one day, only for you to sit down to write it and find there is no ink left in your nib; only air left in your cranium. You poured your finest sentences into the algorithmic sea and now the well is dry. You wasted your best material on the vortex and will be condemned to content creator status for eternity.

Don’t write about politics or controversies with any sort of nuance whatsoever. Listen carefully now: if you consider both sides of the argument, it will only make the people on either side hate you for even bothering to consider the argument of the other side. Traitor.

Actually, best avoid writing about politics at all*. No one wants to receive an angry direct message reading, “Unsubscribing! You just had to write about politics didn’t you.”

*Unless you are a card-carrying, self-proclaimed “political journalist,” in which case pick a side and stick to it forever or risk public tar and feathering.

Same goes for international conflicts. Tell me, writer, why are you so depressing?

Do not under any circumstances use diereses. This is not The New Yorker. You are not a Brontë. Get ahold of yourself.

but don’t try 2 write too gen z either we know how old u r lmao.

And for godsake do not ever use an em dash. Overuse, or for that matter, misuse, commas, proving your humanity at all costs.

Now that all that’s out of the way, one more word of advice: don’t even consider including a photo where clothing, objects, books, or any other potentially acquirable item is not credited in the caption with a direct, live shopping link. What do you think you’re here for anyway? Your lofty ambitions are in direct opposition to your capitalistic potential.

Now add the links.

You are not above commerce. You are inside it.

At least you’ll make a cut. You can pay the babysitter again next week.

And churn out another.

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“Why would you want to look rich when you could look interesting? I don’t want to look like a kept wife, I want to look like a member of the literati.”

[I promise this was said tongue-in-cheek, and yet it somehow landed. For context: she was giving quiet luxury its final send-off.]

“I want a closet that looks like it was built through years of travel. I want pieces that, when people ask where they’re from, you just say ‘it’s vintage, sorry!’”

This has been looping in my brain every time I open my closet. Why? Because I feel exactly the same way — with one small add-on. I don’t just want my wardrobe to look like it was built through years of travel. I want it to actually be.

Rather than going for pure, unbridled luxury (boring, show-off, snooze), or blindly following trends, or sticking to any restrictive style code or tribe, this ethos leans more toward the subtle clothes as armour persuasion. But without the cringe.

It’s using one’s past lives — or past iterations of oneself — as adornment. Who was I in 2016 when I acquired a black velvet jacket that still makes me feel, dare I say, mysterious? Who was I in 2019, travelling through Brazil on honeymoon, when I bought that Haight swimsuit? I don’t know exactly, but I must have learned something while being her. And she clearly had okay taste, because it still looks decent on a body seven years older and two kids later. (Bikinis are deeply important in Rio in that they regularly sub as tops while walking down the street.)

My past lives are with me. Or better yet — where vintage is concerned — the past lives of others. May their spirit give me strength during school drop-off.

Whenever I visit anywhere — a nutty bohemian shop in Portugal, a vintage store in Milan, a cashmere mill in Scotland, a flea market in Muskoka — I find myself wanting to bring one thing back. Something that feels aesthetically representative of the place, or the lifestyle of its residents, or just the life I briefly led there. Then comes the real challenge: integrating it into my general Paris wardrobe without it looking forced.

This, I think, is the essential defining factor of an eclectic wardrobe. The same goes for interiors, when you think about it. I’m pro elevated clutter — the kind that drives true minimalists mad and remains eternally seductive to me (see my desk above lol.)

There are, however, pitfalls to swerve while dressing this way. It’s very easy to miss eclectic and land squarely in poser territory (I say this from experience). There’s also a fine line between well-travelled (read: interested in others, and interesting) and straight-up cultural appropriation. One must obviously tread lightly with other cultures’ traditional dress — and for the love of God, no total looks.

It’s also alarmingly easy to veer into kindergartener-playing-dress-up, or worse, try-hard Victorian goth wannabe. (There can only be one Tish Weinstock.)

In Portugal the other day I became suddenly desperate to buy a velvet housecoat — the kind you could theoretically wear to a louche party. I allowed myself to be talked out of it and regretted it almost instantly, but we were on our way to the airport and there was no turning back.

I once read a David Sedaris essay about taking weeks-long trips to Tokyo with his equally bonkers sister Amy for the sole purpose of shopping. Odd, but I kind of get it — and hope to do the same with my own sister one day (okay, fine, plus some tourism).

The funny thing is that at home I’m not even close to a shopaholic (RIP Sophie Kinsella). I’m very set on French wardrobe building-block essentials. But when I either A) enter a great vintage store or B) travel, I suddenly become… grabby. Right now, for example, I’m in Canada and am struck by an obsession with buying Roots camp socks and Province of Canada lumberjack shirts.

To be clear, what I’m describing is not haphazard, over-accessorised “boho” (there can only be one Sienna Miller). It’s more like: a Victorian detail. Something slightly dark or goth. Something ironically Little House on the Prairie. Something Western. Something equestrian, in its purest form. Something purposefully… out of place. Ever-so-slightly off. The kind of thing that makes someone bitchy and basic wonder (and maybe even ask) why on earth you wore that — and maybe even sends them spiralling into a brief internal identity crisis.

I haven’t entirely mastered this aesthetic (it’s a lifelong project), but I’m proud to say my current star wardrobe item is a vintage Kenzo Mao-collar top in red corduroy that I found at Skat Vintage. It fits freakishly well. I often wonder about its first owner, quietly thanking her.

The essence of my ideal wardrobe? I’d liken it to a face you can’t stop looking at because its minor flaws are entirely to its advantage. My favourite outfits on others always have something just a teeny-tiny bit weird about them. I think because, ultimately, they signal that the wearer has a rich interior life — and doesn’t give a fuck what you think.

Here’s a stream-of-consciousness list of women I reckon possess this elusive style quality, which I jotted down after a glass of wine on my flight to Toronto the other day (buckle up)….

Donna Tartt (look at those cufflinks!)

Look at these Prada cufflinks Amuse Bouche just shared actually. Prada menswear ss26 but I’m stealing this whole getup.

My friend Chaimaa

My friend the author Emma Knight

My Gran casually whipping out the vintage Dior kit until the day she died. The woman bought like one piece of clothing every five years, if that. Dunno what her dry cleaning secret was and it’s too late to find out, but the whole thing was impressive.

Zoe Kravitz.

People with gap teeth they don’t fix.

People who have the same haircut forever, as they age.

Rama Duwaji I feel like goes in this general category of dresser, even though a friend and I recently had a heated argument about it. Discuss.

I already went on about Tina Chow a few weeks ago but Tina Chow.

90s Winona Ryder

Weirdly Gwyneth kind of had this vibe in the 90s too?

My friend Sandrine, where is she getting these cardigans?

Pirrie does the whole thing brilliantly but the extra-fancy way (respect!)

Jackie Kennedy from the 70s onward.

Alexa Chung and this is exactly why she stands out from the other fashion ITs.

Zadie Smith.

Hard to define, as you can see. Let’s just say, the woman in question has fashion sense that evokes all the other stuff she’s been seeing and doing, without looking pretentious.

Ambitious! But isn’t ambition what January’s all about?

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Oh and for Your Woman in Paris subscribers, here’s where I’ve been hankering after such items lately…

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This week, while the world has been pondering whether the rules-based order of the postwar West even exists anymore, we’ve also landed in a prime calendar moment for doubling down on our own, much more domestic, checks and balances.

January has that effect. The urge to reset is strong; the stamina, less so. Trying to reinvent one’s entire life is a fool’s errand, but a few minor tweaks can feel genuinely restorative — especially after Christmas holidays with kids.

Here’s where I am attempting to establish some semblance or order…

Let’s start with outfits:

Because if you feel snappy without exhausting yourself, it’s easier to go forth and conquer.

I’m putting the one-tone trick to good use.

(As a teen, I made relentless fun of my mom for this. “Mom, you cannot wear an entire Bordeaux outfit — gloves and earmuffs included.” She was like: why? It’s cute.)

Reader, she was right.

I write to you now in an entirely navy ensemble, en route to London for a very quick day trip. It was the easiest packing job ever. Everything goes with everything, and any mix-and-match is chic enough for a meeting or dinner.

Some of my best-dressed male friends swear by this too — navy or black layers, instantly dignified, minimal effort. It works just as well with greys, and even reds (my mother would insist I mention this).

Black on black on black is the easiest for lazy fancy, take it from every Parisian ever. (See the outdoor version of black on black on black in the first photo above).

Here we actually have an all -green tones vibe which I think works at cosy push.

In one’s “routine”:

For me, this means having a locked-in work routine to fall back on.

There may be something else going on — something urgent you need to get to — totally fine. But if not, you always do X.

For me, it’s writing every single morning. Even if I don’t use what I write, it makes me feel like my life is in semi-order.

I truly have no idea what I’m doing, but my only advice to writers is this: get it all down while the creative energy is there. Edit later. The energy required for self-editing is different — less creative, more elusive.

Also: I’m genuinely trying to read an actual physical book at bedtime. This involves surgically detaching my hand from my phone (sometimes by leaving it plugged in in the kitchen).

Oh, and this:

Currently enjoying the new book from Tom Holland & Dominic Sandbrook of ‘The Rest is History’. I also did a Monsplain zoom-in on one of my favourite morally unhinged novels on Instagram yesterday, if you’re interested.

Navel Gazing: The Bod

Before Christmas, I was crying to a chiropractor about neck and upper-back pain. She was like: Monica, you are already doing the thing that will fix this — you’re just not doing it enough.

One reformer Pilates combo class a week, when you “have time,” is not going to fix horrific posture.

Three will. Guaranteed.

Okay, I’ve only done two so far this week. But I already feel less schlumpy. Could be placebo.

Also (don’t laugh): Dear Husband and I have instituted a rule of not drinking at home. We weren’t getting wasted after bedtime, but a glass of red does take the edge off negotiations, and it’s a nice part of dinner for two.

As Frank Sinatra said: “I feel sorry for people who don’t drink — when they wake up in the morning, that’s the best they’ll feel all day.”

He had a point. But it’s a slippery slope, so long live only-mildly-damp Jan and here’s to feeling best in the AM. At least for now.

In slumbers

Way hay and up she rises — early in the morning — having had approximately one to two hours of real sleep, with Spotify’s “Pink Noise Sleepy Waves” blasting next to her left ear.

Yes, I’m getting personal. A very clever writer friend once warned me against turning Substack into a diary. Good advice. I try to remember it.

I’ve also avoided this topic because I don’t want to embarrass my husband, with whom — unlike a reported 50% of the population — I have an excellent relationship during waking hours.

But it occurs to me, as I lay awake at 4am, that maybe I’m not the only one in my current, highly-specific sleep-deprived predicament. And anyway, when there’s an issue at hand, one must write to know what one’s thinking. Or as another great female writer once said, EVERYTHING IS COPY (?)

I don’t know if it is, but get this. When my husband sleeps, the handsome, dignified man I know and love transforms into a living fog horn. Or, if he has even a faint cold: a dying wombat. I don’t know what a dying wombat sounds like this is how I imagine the tenor of the beast’s last breaths as they reverberate. And it’s enough to drive a sane woman utterly batshit.

We spend 1/3 of our lives sleeping, ideally. Adults are generally recommended 7-9 hours sleep per night, and 8, by my calculation, is one third of 24. Over decades, that adds up to roughly 25-30 years of sleep in a long life.

The CDC describes sleep as essential for health, emotional well-being and daily performance, with clear links to heart health, metabolism, memory, attention and mood. National Institutes of Health researchers note that that good sleep helps the brain clear out toxins and supports immune function in the same way a kidney filters waste. A process that can only happen during sleep.

NIH sources also explain that sleep deficiency significantly increases risk of heart disease, high blood pressure, diabetes, obesity, poor immune function and mood disorders like depression and impaired decision making. There’s also growing scientific evidence linking poor sleep to Alzheimer’s risk and dementia. A recent NIH study found that losing just one night of sleep led to measurable increases in beta-amyloid, a protein that clumps into plaques in brain’s affected by Alzheimer’s in regions vulnerable to the disease.

Given there is some Alzheimer’s in my family —and given that I generally don’t want to walk around being a huge bitch to everyone I meet on account of cumulated fatigue —I recently decided to insist that Dear Husband do something about this problem of ours.

Why do I say “ours” when he is the physical source of it? Well, because it’s not technically his fault. That’s the horrible thing about a snoring partner —you hate them for it and then hate yourself for hating them.

The dude wakes up from a night of auditory bulldozing, stretches and gives me a hug and a smile. Lo, I love him again.

I wake up when my three-year-old boy has a night terror (apparently this is common in male children around this age? Never happened with Mia),or, when his snoring becomes so loud it rips me from my slumbers. To be fair, my husband wakes up with the kids too, and deals with midnight issues regularly, but I hear everything. Once I’m awake, with the horn next to me, there’s no going back —unless I’m seriously high on sleeping pills (also an Alzheimer’s risk, so we’re done with those.)

There are nights of musical beds, where after being woken by Arthur’s night terror, of Marc’s snoring I wander round the house like a zombie looking for a place to sleep (Mia’s sleepover pull-out mattress?, the “nanny trundle” in Arthur’s room? The sofa?) undoubtedly disturbing everyone in the process.

There are the old French male doctors who assure Marc that the isn’t the worst snorer they’ve ever seen, he doesn’t have Sleep Apnea and that cutting down on cigarettes and working out more will do trick. It almost certainly won’t, and these guys are my real enemies in this whole ordeal.

I do not want us to sleep apart (why does the concept traditionally carry such shame, when back in the day, the very chicest people did this?)

But I now realise I have no choice. Besides, you can always visit!

So 2026 is the year I am taking sleep into my own hands.

I’m off to buy a bunk bed so the kids can sleep in the same room, and I’m taking Arthur’s room (and yes, I do realise the luxury I have of this being an option.)

Any bunk bed recs welcome. (Or snoring solutions —we’ve tried everything but hope springs eternal.) Sometimes rather than simply complain, you gotta negotiate with reality.

Great Outdoors

Before I go, we should briefly discuss what to wear in the snow, because I am apparently the resident Canadian in Paris.

I love snow and the cold evidently never bothered me anyway.

Paris in the snow is both beautiful and hilarious — people skiing down Montmartre, hitchhiking to work because every mode of transport has collapsed. Rare camaraderie..

In fact, I wrote a whole newsletter about what to wear in peak winter in the city two years ago. It’s here.

People seem very concerned about footwear so here’s what I procured for the Paris girlies WhatsApp group. They were like ooh lala quelle efficacité. Yeah.

When it first started snowing this week I broke out these guys: waterproof, grippy, comfortable and room for some double-sockage.

But then it melted a tad, froze and snowed again! Never-before-seen scenes in Paris. It was time to break out my trusty JCrews, normally reserved for Canada visits / apres ski adventures. Fluffy lining, comfortable, and functional-chic in my opinion.

Inspired, my friend Alexandra went for these, to which I gave my wholehearted approval.

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Anyway, before that, I wanted to leave you with a little snippet of “light up the room” inspo for New Year’s sartorial choices. Possibly as a reward for getting through my newsletter last week. If you’re one of then ten people who read whole thing, I both commend and thank you.

The Apple doesn’t fall far..

I was impressed by Apple Martin’s choice to pull out her mom Gwyneth Paltrow’s iconic black archival Calvin Klein dress the other day…

Nearly 30 years ago, Gwyneth wore it to the 1996 NYC premiere of Emma with an exceptionally well-executed smoky-eye and wavy bun.

The whole exercise proving that where cool-mother-daughter duos are concerned thou shalt both a borrower and a lender be.

This got me thinking about whose old party looks I’d like to steal (other than my own mother’s/ grandmother’s) and I then realised I had a collection of relevant screenshots saved in my phone. So thought I’d share them before quitting town. Many of these are astoundingly easy to imitate in time for New Year’s Eve — nepo kid or not. Actually, they’d make for some pretty epic entrances at Christmas dinner too. All you need is a good vintage shop, or a glam Gran’s closet, and a healthy dose of imagination…

Candice Bergen in an embellished jacket and jewellery is an image I keep thinking about this time of year. Break out some costume jewellery, grab your faux fur, slick your hair back and you’re laughing.

Forgive the photo-quality of this next one, but someone showed me a double-page spread in my in-laws’ family album the other day, wherein there was a photo of my first dinner with them. Underneath the photo of me was scrawled “first sighting of Monica!” which warmed the heart to no end. But I was distracted by this nearby photo of Aunt Valerie in her going-out top (complete with old school champagne coupe) circa 2009. Obsessed.

Moving swiftly along. As I said, the right accessory definitely a fancy party-look maketh. And no one, and I mean no one, knew how to accessorise like Bianca Jagger.

Throw a slightly mad hat/ headband on a simple black jacket look and you’re festive as anything.

I feel like I could make a headband like the below. Could be a good holiday activity with Mia actually.

I’m not suggesting this last one for NYE per se, I just can’t resist adding it.

Maybe for a wedding? Or fashion funeral? Idk.

OK. So I know I’ve shared this literal image of Kate at Cannes with Johnny before in this newsletter but I just love how unique her 90s red carpet style was. Also, Cannes is obviously in May but I see this vintage house coat as a pretty perfect New Years’ look, depending where you’re celebrating. Again, hair pulled back in a bun, add some red lipstick and you’re the chicest, least-fussiest glamazon in the room.

Mia Farrow as Daisy Buchanan in Jack Clayton’s Great Gatsby (1974) definitely deserves a spot in here too. Trying to work out if I’d wear a hat like this.

I definitely would’ve as a flapper girl in the 20s. But I reckon I would today too, if the right occasion arose.

Lee Radz has her place here too, no doubt. When in doubt, go head-to-toe sparkles for NYE (at any age I should add!)

Tina Chow (right) via Sofia Coppola agrees:

Also, I love Lee’s take on the Mandarin jacket. Excellent array currently at Rohe, as I’ve mentioned.

Speaking of the immortal Bouvier sisters, you can never go wrong with a white shirt and black jacket with fabulous layered jewels, as on Jackie here in the 1970s. I’ll be adding vintage cufflinks to mine this Christmas (have my size XS men’s shirt ready and waiting).

Or, why don’t you…

…Steal your look from Diana Vreeland via Matthieu Blazy’s tribute at Chanel’s Metiers d’Art show in the NYC subway a few weeks ago? So easily imitated. SO effective.

Or, if you’re in Palm Beach or Marrakech something, here's the summery version I accidentally preempted six months ago, which, as you may remember, was met with mixed reviews by my family members. No matter.

Cheers, m’dears!

See you in 2026.

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