Paris in a winter dance

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Love for the city, just as love for the man can never be season-bound. The real love, that is, the once-in-a-million-lives love. I have been to Paris in blooming spring, in scorching, mind-altering summer and in burgundy-coloured autumn. Yet it was that chilly, delirious winter that made me swirl in the most dizzying of dances. That winter, with its silver, transparent and yellow, with its colours of winter blues penetrated under my skin and filled me up.  


Home-made memories

home-made memories. two in the field

A five-year-old girl standing behind the curtain was blushing from being despicably ashamed. You might think that she has broken her mum’s favourite vase or spilled her juice over a new dress, but, actually, she just ate a caterpillar a couple of minutes ago. There is nothing wrong with eating a nice juicy occasional caterpillar, you would argue quite rightly. The girl, however, thought the opposite and mistaking-a-caterpillar-for-a-cucumber seemed so much more of a deadly sin for her than it really was. Then there was the elder sister (cousin, in fact, but some cousins do become real sisters, don’t they) who sewed the most amazing doll dresses and organized single-handedly doll catwalks on the sofa. The small girl will never be able to tell afterwards why she will remember the unfinished wedding dress forever after and buy her own of the same kind 20 odd years later.  


Catherine

CatherineN

Catherine N. Moscow, Russia. Freelance English teacher. Fairy Childhood Editor. nigmatulina.livejournal.com Whenever I am asked to tell something about myself, I keep wondering what little piece of this puzzle matters more than others. Shall I be telling you, for example, about the first cup of tea I drink every morning before anyone in my world has a chance to wake up? Or shall I indulge in the story of the types of chocolate which are right for this 5-o’clock-tea? Maybe, it would make more sense to tell you about my favourite smells of newly-printed books, of jasmine and that of