Lately I've been thinking about jobs and personal fulfillment. In particular, wouldn't it be lovely to work in a cosy little bookshop? To wear dainty dresses and turquoise spectacles, to drink espressos on the street with other shopkeepers? To spend your days sharing personal anecdotes and book reviews with the customers that float in and out of your store? Or alternatively, to own a florist, but not just an ordinary florist-- one with moody lighting, draped fairy lights and lots of shrubbery everywhere, evoking the feeling of a magical forest where nymphs dance?
Spending my days with books and flowers, now that would be a dream. But then one thing bothers me: how on earth would one afford Lanvin on a humble wage?
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