Below, Chapter 3 of a missed book, never published.
I decided not to dine. The bag of madeleines Happy Mother's day should be eaten cancels pronto. Especially since I planned to go to Beirut soon, and my weight accumulated can not be tolerated by the look strict and perfectionist Lebanese people for whom nothing comes before the body. The slim and tan. In London, in loose black clothes, comfort is paramount. It was already after midnight. I'm hungry.
In my fridge, a bag of lettuce could not do the trick. I decide to go out and buy something to eat. Everything is closed. Because the busy and crowded city still finds time to rest. And I envy her organization pushed to the extreme. I have not taken the time to dress. In my pajamas and my orange socks that I am more committed than my last love me Louboutin shoes cost a month's rent, I watch a supermarket open.
I do not think a Mc whose light is calling me and I can not ignore. I yield to the temptation. Inside, a bunch of friends dressed in evening dress see me. I can not drive out of my head orange heinous of my socks. And it is too late for me to hide myself. Then I remember the advice of my mother: "Look people straight in the eye when you talk to them. The light interferes at a point they may notice your clothes." And I do. The trick works. I buy my chips to two pounds and I get home I eat 600 calories disgusted, plagued by guilt and has met once. It is far
the time for romantic dinners I cooked every night without getting bored eager to please ... Eager to share. And I can not help thinking that in a city that does not care that it is shod with orange or Louboutin, there is a limit as that one creates. The city agrees. Everything. Even the orange. Yes gone are the days of "find me nineteen hours. But it is here that the two chips in the morning. And I do not care of Louboutin. ©
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