Mingling in her chocolate curls at midday,
A sunlight spot is hiding from her smile.
Remember the magic light-blue shade of gray
I‘ve been charmed by. It’s her eyes. I’m exiled.
No more have I met such beautiful girls:
Aiming for sun – to trap it in their curls.



Image taken from


Because of Rob. Chapter 2

I stepped out on the platform to be completely dazzled by city lights and city noises. I hadn’t realised by then what the word city really meant. It was speed in its purest expression. The speed of those lights blinding me. The speed of the crowd wave carrying me. I felt somewhat clumsy and stupid for the first time in my life, and you know what – feeling stupid turned out to be completely insufferable, much worse than being called a Crowned Bookworm. Now it seemed kind of a praise. The praise I had run away from. That’s what I did now. I ran again. Only directly. Physically. Until I pressed my back against the cool wall, thinking – everyone is looking at me, everyone sees how bewildered I am, everyone is laughing at me.

But then I realised that they hadn’t even noticed me. They didn’t know I had arrived. They had the crowd, not me. Not my story. I didn’t exist there.


Emma, you have come here to face this life, not to run away from it. You have made the first great step. An absurd, but right one, so do not let yourself regret it and hide here trembling. Go further – I was saying to myself. Nobody can ever make us move but ourselves, because we listen to nobody else. Especially at sixteen.

So – what would my next great step be?


Despite the fact that it was a hot summer day and the warmed-up park lanes and banks could be very tempting to sleep on at night, I was not this romantic to do so. But I also had no idea of where I could find a home. Newspaper advertisements were excluded – I was too an impatient sort of girl to go through them. Knocking randomly at people’s doors was a direct way to spending the night Scotland Yard and then being sent back to my parents. Impossible. I decided just to walk around a bit until some genius thought might occur to me. I was well aware it wouldn’t. But I didn’t have any other option.

After about two hours of wandering I was becoming hysterical. I was ready to kill myself for climbing out of the window at damn romantic summer midnight, having materialistic ambitions of personal growth. I thought of my parents who definitely assumed their daughter had gone crazy. Clinically crazy. They were certainly cursing me and cursing themselves. And the policemen, troubled by my parents, were also cursing me. And I was cursing me. I felt so damn cursed.

I sat on the bank and stared before me. I had been sitting so for a while until I realised someone else was staring at me during the last few seconds. I turned my head very rapidly, meaning what the hell do you want from me? But I didn’t say it aloud, for it was changed at once by a girly-curious wow, who are you?, as handsome guys always bring up such an interest. And it was a handsome guy. Dark eyes, brown hair, clean look, tall and sportive body. I raised my eyebrows, thinking – not bad. And it got even better, when he almost ran to me and asked anxiously:

“Will you be my girlfriend?” and rubbed his forehead in an obvious confusion.

I left my eyes wide open, took a deep breath and pressed out the only word I had in mind:


My ability to speak brought him into higher spirits:

“No, I mean… will you be so kind as to act as my girlfriend only for tonight?”

“A rather perverse offer, you know!”

I was talking freely. I saw that, despite his film star appearance and such a brutal pick-up line he was kind of afraid of me.

“Oh no, you’ve misunderstood me again! I’m only asking you to come to a party organized by my mother’s friends and be presented to the guests as my girlfriend. You see, my mother has made a deal with the hosts that I will finally bring a girlfriend with me. All you will have to do is to dance with me a bit and not to kill me if I kiss your cheek considering it part of the game. I just want to please my mum.”

He said the last phrase with such a genuine childish expression (although he looked a couple of years older than me), that I couldn’t help exclaiming:

“How sweet!”

“So you agree?”

What other choice did I have? At least I would meet some people who could probably help me, although I didn’t believe much in the huge quantity of compassionate souls.

“Will your mother be aware it’s only a trick?”

“Sure. I am not good at lying to her. Her friends are millionaires, you know, so we’d better win,” he winked.

“Okay. But I will also want my share,” I winked back and laughed at his being confused again.


Image taken from Daily Mail

Because of Rob. Chapter 1

Emily J. has never been a reasonable girl. You see, I adore self-criticism. But what else can be said, if at the age of sixteen I climbed out of my bedroom’s window right at midnight (for I wanted everything to look as romantic as possible) and caught the first train that arrived at the deserted station at 4 a.m. and took me to London. A little comment on this – my parents didn’t have the slightest notion of my most spontaneous change of place. I had left them a note on the windowsill:

Had a quarrel with Rob. Set off in search for a better boyfriend. Love, Emma.

Note: Yes, my given name is Emily. But it has always sounded too soft and lady-like for the currently rebellious me. Therefore – Emma. Deal with it.

It is quite obvious that Rob was an imaginary alien, that I had never had a boyfriend, and, as a result, no guy could be brought to responsibility for quarreling with me. Neither did I have any intention to find one to quarrel with.


I was just fed up with everyone and everything, especially my schoolmates who kept on calling me a Crowned Bookworm.

It is strongly believed that love for books equals arrogance. At least here. I couldn’t go on like this. But I left for London not to throw out all my brain and prove I am one of those common glamorous blondes guys usually fall for. To start with, despite having long fair hair, luckily, they are darker. As to my eyes, my friend Eliza, one of the few adequate people of my acquaintance (gosh, I really DO sound arrogant, I’ve caught their virus!), used to say: “Emma, no matter what a nice singing voice you might have, blue-eyed soul is forbidden to you from the start.” True. They happened to be brown.

I was aware I was pretty enough for London (arrogant again, no?), but what really bothered me was – how the hell was I going to dress up all that sufficient beauty? You see, my style could be defined as dark-blue jeans and a loose shirt. Usually checked. If I want to look like a stylish bitch – tied up with a belt. That’s what I really loved. It gave me the feeling of a childish country freedom.

But, becoming a sixteen-year-old with a bitter sense of humour and somewhat poisonous manner of leading dialogues, you suddenly begin to understand that one freedom can be greater than another. An illogical thought, but very true. You throw yourself into this controversial discovery just to prove that you CAN. What exactly – it’s very unclear, especially to you. But it’s too late to pull back – one leg is already hanging from a windowsill, your backpack falls onto the wet grass, you are balancing yourself with a great difficulty to leave a genius note for your parents (leaving a note of any kind in such a moment is a sign of great affection, believe me), then you jump down next to your backpack, make sure the belt you have tied up your shirt with is in the right place… and you are already having a nap in the train which is taking you to places you have seen only on the map or in the movies. It’s a great step. And great steps are usually absurd. At least for me.


P.S. All persons and events portrayed in the story are fictitious. The only real name here is London.

Image taken from She Scribes

Driving Across Kent

Before my eyes – an endless road, an endless sky (its colour looks so special today – something between blue, green, and golden!), an endless row of surreal green trees and red bushes. In my ears – Sweet Dreams, Someone Like You, Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word, Can’t Fight the Moonlight, Everything Has Changed. In my hands – a necklace with a C hanging from the chain – just cannot stop squeezing it between my restless fingers. In my heart – the mood of awaiting happiness, because waiting for a miracle is more important than the miracle itself.


Life is a fairytale. Happy or sad – it still is. But the meaning of happiness and sadness is not certain at all. I need time to understand I am the princess in this fairytale. I do believe in fairytales. I always had. Love and Magic are ruling them, but they enter your life only when you learn to be happy.

I am sure that this drive is my first lesson.


Image taken from bhmpics


The First Date in a 100 Words. Version 1

He is staring at her, she – at her plate. He is admiring her, she – the wonderfully cooked pasta. He doesn’t look down, she doesn’t look up. He is not blinking, she does not stop eating. He is enchanted. She just had no time for her breakfast, obviously.


I am a passer-by. I see it all with my own eyes. It seems to me that only one of them is in love, probably.

But I can say that my admiration for this girl has no limits: I would have never been able to eat while being stared at. Especially so ardently.


Image taken from Smart Restaurants

Modern Friendship in a 100 Words

Flossy’s Instagram is full of Fanny’s photos. But Flossy’s thoughts are free of Fanny. When Fanny calls, Flossy avoids her. She has her studies and internship. No need to have Fanny.

Flossy tries to live in the same illusion her Instagram account does. She knows it isn’t Fanny’s fault that the business matters more. But the business matters, while Fanny doesn’t.

When Flossy will be tagged in a pic from another Student Council meeting, she’ll be too proud of it to spare Fanny. She’ll make her choice. She won’t be heartbroken if Fanny doesn’t press a like under that photo.



Image taken from Pinterest

A Pre-Dinner Post on Weight-Controlling English Breakfast

When you are looking forward to an exceptional meal in the evening (as I am right now), but it is too early to open the fridge, you start recalling all the delicious things you fed yourself with this morning.

I am a huge fan of English breakfast, but I almost never eat the full version of it. For those who are desperately working on weight-loss (or at least controlling their weight, like me), it may seem a bit too heavy: sausages and bacon, eggs and hash browns, oatcake, beans, mushrooms…  and and toast with butter and jam to sweeten your tea.


Well, the good side of it that it is not an English supper. I have discovered that the key to staying in shape is paying utmost attention to what you eat before going to bed. For breakfast, almost everything is acceptable, as long as it is not too much. I personally know that a full English breakfast implies a serious work-out session for me. Due to the lack of time, I have decided to go for a small English breakfast.

My favourite parts of it are: a poached egg, fried beans, bacon, and a toaster with a thick layer of both butter and jam (no sugar for the tea then!). As to the oatcake, I substitute it with a bowl of oat porridge. This is a perfect breakfast for me.

Of course, I vary it from time to time. There are some days when I am in a mood for a couple of sausages and scrambled eggs, but then I refuse myself the pleasure of eating the toast and enjoying my beloved peach jam.

Not that I am having this or that variant of the English breakfast every single morning – but it is still the most preferred way of starting my day, as it brings me lots of pleasure and energy.

Highly recommended to everyone!


Featured image taken from The Telegraph

An Emerald in a Puddle

This is what your eyes are when you’re sad,
And what the earth is when storm drives it mad,
What your heart feels, when quarreling with dad –
An emerald in a puddle.

The storms of day – you hear them in your sleep,
The earthquakes in your heart are strong and deep,
But there is only one treasure to keep –
An emerald out of puddle.


Love in a 100 words

He was born in Rome, she – in July. They were neighbours of the same age.

He was coming from a poor family, she – from her best friend’s birthday. They met at the doorsteps. She stepped back. He opened the door for her. His birthday was the next she would come from.

One day, they were travelling along a lovely road. He fell from his bicycle, she – from her scooter. They found themselves fallen in love. It was funny to feel how love hurt their knees.

Knees healed. Love didn’t. Because they stood up – but remained fallen – for ever. In love.



Featured image taken from Keep Calm-o-Matic

© 2017 Cathy Sanju, My English Paradise. All rights reserved.

Why You Should Not Eat Chocolate Cakes While Reading “Pride and Prejudice”

I was so eager to make an argumentative essay out of this, but I doubt whether my ambitions are commensurable with the content. Whatever the form of this text is, I urge you to read it – it will help you avoid tons of problems, while the experience of reading Jane Austen’s masterpiece will not become less delicious if you just put a couple of plates aside.


There is a single reason for not trying to make the process of getting acquainted with an English literary classic twice as paradise-like: every plot twist will serve you for an excuse to sweeten the anxiety you will fell for the protagonists, or to celebrate the fortunate state of affairs. Imagine:

Mr. Bingley comes to Netherfield. No matter how silly Mrs. Bennet might seem to you, you cannot help rejoicing with her, because Mr. Bingley’s arrival is an inevitable start of some kind of a love story. A piece of cake to this.

Mr. Darcy refuses to dance with Lizzy. You know that Lizzy is watched by dozens of people and cannot cover her distress with a thick layer of chocolate cream. So you do it yourself.

Mr. Collins. Just everything about this fellow puts you under suspense, starting from his wish to marry Lizzy to his actual proposal which is hardly to be born. Your plate is empty and you go for another. You applaud Lizzy’s refusal by drinking some hot chocolate in addition.

Mr. Bingley leaves for London. The initial celebration of a possible good match proves to be an illusion. Hopes are shattered. You are almost in tears. Something sweet is the only escape.

Lizzy refuses Mr. Darcy. How about ordering a pizza? You have eaten lots of chocolate, but who cares now? There is such a collapse of everything!

And so it goes until the very end. Meanwhile, Mr. Wickham manages to damage not only your diet, but also your nerves (along with those of Mrs. Bennet). The final resolution of all pains results in a huge wedding party you organize for the protagonists – and get all the meal as the only guest.

So, my advice is – read Pride and Prejudice as far from the refrigerator as possible. Not that I am afraid for your willpower. It’s just that sometimes we sympathize with fictional characters that this sympathy might result in stress – and food, especially chocolate, and especially cakes, and maybe some pizza for dessert is the best cure for our all-consuming emotions.


Image taken from wikiHow

© 2017 Cathy Sanju, My English Paradise. All rights reserved.