December 7th, 1990
At home, England
One of my favourite things about Christmas is the cards. I take my time choosing them, then I pore over what to write before popping them in the post, but mostly, I love to receive them.
By the time the post came flying through the letter box, I was already on my second cup of tea and roughly three thousand calories into the morning. I quickly scanned the handwriting on each envelope, settling first on the bright red one from Jean Jacques.
Inside, was a card with an old-fashioned scene of Paris rooftops, covered in light snow, as well as a photo of me he took earlier this year.
“Ecossais,” he wrote. “It is Joyeux Noel, time for friends! Come to Paris!” I smiled as I read it in his accent and figured I’d leave a message on his machine to say thanks but he picked up.
Fifteen minutes later he’d convinced me I need, “a little time in the city of love,” which is where I’ll be tomorrow.