I think I should run away.

I should withdraw all the money from my term deposit and buy a one way ticket to Paris.

I'll rent a small room in the attic an old run down place owned by a crotchety old Frenchwoman. My room won't contain much except a small desk in front of the window and an old dingy bed. The ceiling will be sloped and the floor will be wooden and the walls will be white. The window will open out onto a series of red brick tiled rooftops and I can climb out and sit there, gazing at the moon and the stars and the rooftops and the chimneys, smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap wine. I'll also throw crumbs to pigeons and sparrows from my window like Sara Crewe did in A Little Princess.

I'll slowly make the room mine. I'll buy cheap old worn books from markets ad secondhand bookstores and let them take up most of my floor space in stacks. They'll be scattered around me on my bed so their physical weight will keep me company and their words will lull me into wonderful dreams. I'll buy red and black moleskine notebooks and cheap parchment paper and, like Roald Dahl, start my day with seven newly sharpened pencils. My pages will be stained with the coffee and tea which fuel me as I write into the early hours of the morning with the streetlights and moonlight shining through my window as my lamp.

I'll cut my hair short and the only makeup I'll wear is red lipstick and mascara. I shall only ever wear dresses, even in the winter, except with trenchcoats and heavy scarves and stockings. 

I'll take up a job in a small bookstore or cafe or bar and be paid a miserable wage (obviously, they'd have to pay me under the table because I wouldn't have a work permit). I'll learn French from my boss and colleagues and try to converse with my customers in broken French. When I'm not working, I'll explore the streets of Paris. I'll walk down every small alley and bask in the romantic notion of my isolation and loneliness in this beautiful city. I'll sit next to the river, ignoring the couples around me who are making out. I'll  sit under a sheltered outdoor cafe and watch rain pour and the streetlights illuminate the raindrops. 

I'll send postcards to my friends and family daily. I shall write them letters every fortnight. I shall perhaps call them once a month from a phone booth next to a busy street so that they may hear the sound of traffic and people and life in the city I am making my home. 

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