Stuck in a Moment You Can’t Get Out Of

I keep waking up with U2 songs in my head. One morning I wake up humming All I Want is You. It’s with me all day and from then on, I get a different U2 song every day, as soon as I wake up. It’s as if someone is waiting to press play the second I open my eyes. Next morning Sunday, Bloody Sunday is on repeat instead. The morning after that it’s Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses. Then it’s Love is Blindness, then Pride In the Name of Love. Is my subconscious setting the agenda and trying to tell me something, or is the order play completely random? I don’t know, I’m just trying to keep up and hum along.

Maybe U2 are nearby and their closeness is shaking, rattling and humming all their music through the air until it finds a receiver; an ear, anywhere with a bit of empty space first thing in the morning. Well all I can say is, if they’re doing it on purpose, they’re getting up pretty early in the morning. What happened to the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle lads?

 

I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For

I’m in sunny Saint-Tropez on the French Riviera and I actually I did hear that at least two of the band members own a property nearby. I haven’t seen them around though, not in the picturesque winding cobbled streets, nor the stylish cafés, not in the leafy, dappled market square.

Saint-Tropez is a funny little place. It’s gone from being a military stronghold in the fifteenth-century, to a small fishing village. Now it’s renowned for being a playground of the rich and famous, but as far as I can see, if you were ever looking for proof that money doesn’t guarantee good taste, Saint-Tropez has it. Leopard-print leggings? Check. Frou-frou hair-do? Check. Ridiculously inappropriate stilettos? Check. Leopard-print leggings matched with a frouo-frou hair-do and ridiculously inappropriate stilettos? Check, check and check-mate. This beautiful, picturesque little town bears witness to some of the worst fashion, French or otherwise I have ever set eyes on.

 

Even Better Than The Real Thing

There is a fashion up-side though, and it’s a biggie. Every year in October, the town holds its Braderie when its boutiques sell off all their Summer stock for unbelievable knock-down prices. Stalls are set up on the streets and the narrow laneways are thronged with eager bargain-hunters. The word Braderie translates roughly as flea-market or clearance sale, but no other flea-market I’ve ever seen sells the poshest brand names you can think of at a fraction of their original price. Or at any price, for that matter.

Saint-Tropez’s Braderie is where us, ahem, normal folk can get our hands on out own little slice of high fashion heaven and snap up some serious label bargains. Most shops set up rails of clothes out on the street and most of them sell mouth-wateringly beautiful pieces. (I don’t know where the leopard-skin ladies get their clothes from, maybe it’s the local Carrefour). Beware, there’s a real danger of over-spending at this market, because there are so many gorgeous and dazzling deals to be had.

 

With Or Without You

So, ready, set, go; on the first morning of the Braderie (I’m told I’ll find rien in my size if I leave it any later), I’m off on the packed ferry across the bay, ready to do some serious investing. I’m travelling alone; this is definitely not a social occasion. (By the way, a return ferry costs €14 return which I think works out at slightly more than the Sliema – Marsamxett crossing). The crowds are not yet out and I make my way up the main shopping streets, keeping my eyes peeled and my wallet in hand. I pick up a pain-au-chocolat for elevenses, and get back to work.

 

Tryin’ To Throw Your Arms Around The World

By lunchtime I am sated. I’ve bought: necklaces and bracelets for a fiver each, reduced from around €90, a pair of pumps for fifty squids, reduced from €300, a pair of boots (with sequins, so Saint-Tropez don’t you know), also for fifty, a simply divine dress for eighty, a woollen skirt for sixty (funky, not frumpy), the list goes on. I won’t bore you with details of the labels, but let me assure you, that on a day like this, only the best will do. I’m replete, satisfied; my shopping arms are laden and all’s well with the world.

Next morning She’s A Mystery To Me is on the turntable in my head. But that’s OK, I have a feeling U2 are looking after me.