Last week’s letter was something of a love note to Paris. Well, it turns out that I returned from the City of Love with more than some extra joie de vivre. I came home with a heavy dose of French flu (the worst strain, non?) and have spent the past week in bed feeling sorry for myself and medicating liberally with Lemsip, zinc, vitamin C and Traitors. The only good thing about this bout of illness is that I missed the last, desperate week of January. With perfect timing, I’ve emerged phoenix-like (too dramatic?) just in time for February and, here’s hoping, with my annual flu already out of the way.
I think we’re all glad to see the back of this January. Surely the longest, darkest and windiest 31 days ever known to man; at times, it felt a bit like the new True Detective. But no matter how bleak your Jan was, you’re not Greta Gerwig smarting after the worst Oscar’s snub in memory (for the record, I absolutely hated Barbie but WTF, Hollywood?). Over on page 8, Hamish MacBain takes the Academy to task on their perversely unpopular nominations.
