The Edge of Fug

Aw, Keira. You’re like the best-dressed granny in all of France:

Truly. Later in the evening, I hope you give me a Gauloise – the Werther’s Original of France — while you read me a story.

In all fairness, I actually feel like I kind of get what she’s going for here, and it COULD be kind of saucy and insouciant and chic, but she just looks SO GLUM and her shoes and her bag are so OLD LADY (I know that bag costs like a billion dollars and BLAH BLAH BLAH — I just have a personal distaste for small quilted bags with chain straps [I presume it's Chanel, but I have been wrong before] because I feel like they always make you look like someone who sleeps on a donut-shaped satin pillow to preserve your old lady hair) that it’s all kind of depressing. I don’t want to scamper through the streets of Paris, stealing Vespas and laughing charmingly at boys with her, I want to take her to a bar, sit her down in front of a fire, feed her a giant, cheesy sandwich with some fortifying wine, and make her tell me what’s wrong.