Jane Birkin

Bon.

As today is a new day and I'm brimmming over with creative energy, I thought I start a new rubric here on My Paris Apartment. I've decided to call it "elles ont du chien" and it will be dedicated to those French (or almost French) women who I so desperately wish to be.

Perhaps I should start by attempting to describe the expression "avoir du chien." There is, of course, no direct equivalent in English. I first heard the expression while talking to a friend about Carla Bruni, who was at the time still just the girlfriend of Nicolas Sarkozy. We both agreed that she was pretty, but in a very plastic sort of way. "C'est vrai," said mon amie, "qu'elle n'a pas du chien." I couldn't have put it better and will have some difficulty here trying to translate it. It basically means that she lacks a certain raw, honest power or sensuality. Now, I'm sure that for plenty of people, Carla Bruni a du chien, but not for me. That got me thinking abour women that do have "du chien."

Let's start with Jane Birkin, she of the famously-long-wait-listed bag by Hermes. She was just on a television program this morning, talking about her love-life with Serge Gainsbourg, her impossibly chic daughters, her adorable skate-boarding bull dog, et al. She still has her unmistakeable accent and those great, self-effacing and totally endearing mannerisms that have made her a star in France - i.e. messing her hair as she talks (not in a self-conscious way, but almost as if it helps her articulate her thoughts), cradling her neck in one hand while lowering her head, sucking her lower lip under her gap teeth. Looking at her, I asked myself what it was about her that made her so charming. It's not the fact that she is very stylish, which she is, albeit in a very androgynous way, it's more her honesty and joie de vivre. This is someone who loves life, loves to talk about life, loves to observe life. The television program followed her to the zoo at the Bois de Vincennes where she watched hippos mating and was amazed at the male's endurance (more than 30 minutes of motionless lovemaking). She then revealed that she would like to stick her fingers up the hippo's nostrils beacause they reminded her of raspberries, covered as they are by rough little whiskers. Suddenly, I wanted to do the same thing. Only a real trend-setter can make you want to stick your fingers up a hippo's nostrils.

Jane then went for tea at the Mosque de Paris for a tea and a sit down (how British!) and where the normally too-cool-for-autographs Parisians took her photo and she declared that it was such an honor for a young, handsome man to want her photograph. Again, totally delightful and self-effacing. We could be friends, Jane and I. In fact, I once dreamed that I was her. It was a strange dream inspired by a Frenchman's (spurious) claim that he wanted to record my voice reading a poem and compose a song around it. And so there I was in the dream, breathlessly chanting into a microphone, in front of an adoring crowd. I woke up still mumbling and surprised. I never knew I had a secret wish to be the whispering muse of French musician, but there you have it. Perhaps one day. Until then I'll just listen to Jane.