la coco noire.

Sometimes in life (if you're super-lucky and the gods of good karma are shining cheerfully upon you from on high), you'll get to experience a niche brand of holiday heaven I like to call Killer Airbnb-ing. It's important to note that this cosmic feast doesn't come along too often, so if or when it does, make sure you book the shit out of that location pronto. And I mean SNAP. IT. UP. 

Question: what do you get if you take 3 French uni grads and stick them in a villa in the South of France for 3 days? Answer: 6 different types of cheese, one sunburnt backside, some serious #freethenipple and one hell of a lot of red wine. 

One thing that always becomes shockingly apparent on holiday is that my love of France knows no bounds. Like, for real there is no metaphorical or literal boundary to my enthusiasm, gusto and gratitude for everything French. I mean, it might be something to do with them producing more than 246 varieties of cheese, or their attitude to wine that can be summed up simply as ‘...want some?’, but nothing in the world makes me happier than a warm summer evening in the south of france (except, perhaps, picking up chocolate eggs in tesco for half the price following easter cos y'know - the only thing better than cadburys in egg-form is half price cardburys in egg-form. Everyone knows that). 

My parents have always told me that I have no grey area. I either love something, or absolutely hate it. It's the best roast dinner I've ever eaten, or categorically the absolute worst. I am so in love with Justin Bieber that I cannot even fathom how to think about anything else / Tess Daly is the most tragic thing that has ever happened to prime time TV. I'm pretty black and white, even if it's not always strictly true (I'm pretty sure the burger-van burger I ate when drunk at a festival at 2 in the morning was probably not the best burger I'd ever eaten, but that didn't stop me telling anyone that would listen that night how effing incredible it was and not shutting up about it for 3 weeks afterwards). 

So far this holiday has consisted of a lot of swimming, a lot of sunbathing, a worrying amount of food, a hell of a lot of gin and very, very, very little room for anything else. Of the surplus outfits I painstakingly rolled up in my suitcase back in England little over a week ago, I have lived practically single-handedly in two; a white bikini and a black bikini. Hallelujah.

Hands up if you were happily going about your business and enjoying your merry little summer and then - WHAM - autumn slapped you in the face like a cold, damp fish?! *Insert hand up emoji closely followed by tears streaming down face emoji*. Where did this summer go?! And how has it been almost two months since I returned from mon vacation au Riviera?! Time will you stop moving please and allow me to finish my summer in peace, you speedy little hoe. 

There is one reason and one reason alone why Saint Tropez holds a special place in my heart: it was the first place I ever sampled the delectable delights of the creme brulée ice cream. Now we all know that good food is the key to my heart/pants/inheritance tax so you can rest assured, that this place ranks pretty highly on my freakin'-naughty list. Beautiful as it is though, this little hubbub on the south coast of France has an incredible habit of reminding me just how poor I really am. You kinda feel like you can't afford to look at some of the shops here. Like some sort of Gucci clad man in boat shoes and a jumper flung frivolously around his shoulders is gonna demand your current salary and politely suggest you return to Bognor Regis.

Bleurgh. Bleurgh. BLEURGH. Yep that pretty much sums me up right now. Partly due to the ongoing inner turmoil of DO I OR DO I NOT TAKE A COAT / UMBRELLA / SKI BOOTS to work today because the damn weather can’t decide whether it’s coming, going, maybe leaving, possibly staying a bit later or not even bloody turning up at all.  And partly because, well, life is just a little bit shit sometimes isn't it? So in my most despondent yet actually incredibly poignant and reflective post yet, I leave you with photographs from a day of torrential downpour on my most recent holiday. Because you know what? You can't have a rainbow without a little rain.

Let's all say a huge great big hello to the most inaptly named village in the French Riviera. Port Grimaud evokes images of a dark town with black buildings, lots of iron work, fire, smoke and probably loadsa horrible little goblins holding lanterns and grunting at you as you walk past (...too far?). But in actuality, despite its nasty little name, it's a really cute place. Kinda like Venice. Just with a lack of overpriced gondolas and, praise the lord, far fewer selfie sticks.

Sometimes if I reminisce about living in Paris too much, I actually cry. Like a big old wimpy baby I well up; my bottom lip starts quivering and I full on ball my eyes out. I miss our apartment with its hideous green bathroom/orange kitchen combo, I miss how we had to cook nachos in a slow cooker because we had no oven (takes 1 hour 15 minute for cheese to melt sufficiently if you're wondering), I miss the freezing/scalding kitchen tap that offered no washing up level appropriate heat compromise, I miss losing my shit on Disneyland's Tower of Terror every other weekend, I miss pain aux raisins being my only source of fruit and that being totally okay... Kim K cryface in full flow over here so let's look at some pictures instead, eh?

With summer so nearly on its merry little way I am;

a) gleefully counting down the days until I can lay sprawled on a sun lounger in the south of France with nothing but a book, a cocktail, a lack of work and the calming sound of silence to accompany me

b) forcing myself to go to the gym at least three times a week so I don't give any unlucky onlookers the fright of their life and 

c) wondering why it's so easy to polish off an entire packet of mini eggs but then so difficult to sculpt an ab. Such are life's mysterious ways, eh. 

spent most of the week playing candy crush saga obsessively, going for the most beautiful walks, and drinking beer. me and m spent the whole of one day lying outside on the balcony in a bed we made of sofa cushions drinking desperado's and soaking up the sun, definitely one of the most relaxed days i've ever had. we went for a walk down to the sea front and bought ice cream and sat on the end of a jetty with our feet off the side for  a while in the sun, the next day we went for a long walk right around the cape d'antibes metres from the bright blue sea the whole way round. the path was exactly like what you'd expect the yellow brick road to look like and in parts it was surrounded by flowers and trees, we walked for hours right round all the posh houses on the coast. i would up and move to some of the houses we walked past without a second thought if i had 500,000 euros, they are lush and each one is so different.