From Danny Wallace's Charlotte Street.
Her favourite season was spring, because yellow was her favourite colour, and daffodils are yellow. She liked daffodils, because maybe she’d grown up on a farm somewhere, and as little as I know about farms I imagine sometimes they’re quite near daffodils. She liked animals, of course, because of the whole farm thing, and also it’s hard to like a girl who hates animals; it messes with the order of things. But her small flat in London with the shabby chic furniture she’d bought from a weekend fleamarket and painstakingly painted and restored herself when she’d moved down to London from – where? Wales, maybe, where she’d also left her childhood sweetheart, the only boy she’d ever kissed? Well, it was just too small for a dog or a cat and so she’d just pet them when she passed them in the street, and engage their owners in long, sweet conversations. Cats! It was cats she loved most! And she rode a bike for sure, even though both times I’d seen her she’d been in a taxi, and the blue coat she wore was her favourite, and she wore it everywhere, whatever the weather.
And then there was work. What did she do? Again, the ideas were probably better than the reality. In my mind, she was maybe a book publicist, working on quiet but important texts and making sure professors got their sandwiches before the lady from New Scientist turned up, or the fella from the World Service dropped by to record an interview on an ancient, scuffed Marantz. Or maybe an art student, with a free, cartwheeling mind and painted rainbow toenails and a rabbit called Renoir.
Or just French. I honestly wouldn’t mind if she was just French.