The day that ‘Galloway and Porter’ closed in Cambridge I experienced what can only be described as grief. I was aimlessly meandering amongst the shelves as usual, pleasantly surprised by the number of people who were blocking my view of the art criticism section. (I had put this down to the fact that ‘Borders’ had closed just weeks before, and so fellow book browsers were forced into even fewer shops.) It was as I impatiently glanced across to the window display that I saw with horror the sign reading CLOSING DOWN in giant red letters. And my heart sank. Now I spend my evenings weeping into my carefully preserved maroon and white carrier bag, thumbing through the pages of the books that I panic bought. There are quite a lot of them. Obviously the only way to express my sorrow and to work past it was to buy as much of the stock as possible.

This week I finally reached the last in the pile, a beautifully presented book full of black and white photos with a minty green cover. It details the life of a contemporary woman – Jannelle McCulloch - who moves to Paris in search of the kind of chic, artistic, glamorous life that can only be found in the City of Lights. I shall hold back on ranting about the beauty of Paris, I’ve done that elsewhere. But I remember the joy of finding La Vie Parissienne during my very final splurge, crammed away in the travel section. It was in mint condition (G&P often stocked damaged, and therefore cheap, books) and reduced to a mere one-hundred pennies. Since that fateful day it has sat spine-out in the pile on my sagging bookshelf. It was only when I picked it up again this week that I saw the front cover again, and read the subtitle for the first time: ‘Looking for love - and the perfect lingerie’.

Ah. Not quite what I had been expecting. However, it was not so very long ago that I was advised against a book containing a collection of famous essays on Paris because the editor’s only other publication was on martial arts and was entitled ‘2sexE’. A fair warning, but the book, Paris in Mind has turned out to be a gem. So I decided to give Jannelle a chance to surprise me. Big mistake.

For a start off, her metaphor for the way that Paris stands out from other cities is that it is “as different […] as stilettos are to thongs”. She claims that in Paris, even asapargus is sexy. She reminisces about the peace she felt falling asleep “listening to the neighbours practising their horizontal two-step”. So far, so appalling. She pads the rest of the opening chapters with extended descriptions of a failed relationship with the Queen Mother’s equerry. She mentions his job title so insistently that you begin to wonder what she is trying to prove.
  
Now to be fair to Janelle, writing a book about Paris immediately pits you against Nin, Hemingway, Stein, etc. But she knows this, and at several points tries to tie herself to this literary tradition. She cannot compete. After the first three chapters I checked some online reviews and some people do seem to have enjoyed it. Ms Billygoatgruff, however, is with me. She describes fighting to the “bitter end” of a book so shallow that it is almost unbearable, or to use her own words, “utter tripe”. I have decided not to bother. I cannot bear for my final memories of ‘Galloway and Porter’ to be of reading sentences like: “the Seine […] changes to a silver the colour of evening slippers at twilight”.
  
It is a rare occurrence for me to give up on a book before the end. This one will be given away or sold on at the first possible opportunity. In fact, if anyone is interested…