My mother deserves a whole months worth of blogging to describe. I don't feel like it, so heres the basics:
She enjoys wine, and young boys. To much wine sometimes and that often ends with to young boys, fresh mens with curious eyes and jersey sweaters.
She does not show affection, I'm not sure she likes me at all. But she does call me darling, Belle-darling, almost like it's my full name. And she disappeard the day before I started blogging to seek an endless summer in Australia with a lover of hers, and has not returned yet although he died from heartfailure ( you know this, right?)
That's all I know. And that she smelles of Chanel no 5, wears nothing but Jimmy Choos and does not speak fondly of my father. But he askes about her all the time. So I stole his lap top and climed up to the attic. All the company I want right now is you dear readers and the girl with dark bangs from the photos. And the bottle of wine I so cleverly hid in my lugage. I haven't had wine in forever and I'm sure it'll feel very Proustian, sort of like remembrances of guilty pleasures past.