Ahoy, rules-based order!

The closest this newsletter will ever come to 'self help'

Photo by Iulia Matei

This week, while the world has been pondering whether the rules-based order of the postwar West even exists anymore, we’ve also landed in a prime calendar moment for doubling down on our own, much more domestic, checks and balances.

January has that effect. The urge to reset is strong; the stamina, less so. Trying to reinvent one’s entire life is a fool’s errand, but a few minor tweaks can feel genuinely restorative — especially after Christmas holidays with kids.

Here’s where I am attempting to establish some semblance or order…

Let’s start with outfits:

Because if you feel snappy without exhausting yourself, it’s easier to go forth and conquer.

I’m putting the one-tone trick to good use.

(As a teen, I made relentless fun of my mom for this. “Mom, you cannot wear an entire Bordeaux outfit — gloves and earmuffs included.” She was like: why? It’s cute.)

Reader, she was right.

I write to you now in an entirely navy ensemble, en route to London for a very quick day trip. It was the easiest packing job ever. Everything goes with everything, and any mix-and-match is chic enough for a meeting or dinner.

Quick run in with Ainley-fam star ‘Uncle Harry’ (kids v jealous) . Wore this outfit to lunch in London and dinner in Paris… efficacy! Had this shirt in navy underneath. Then went straight to my meeting, then straight back to the train and to a dinner party in Paris. PHEW.

Some of my best-dressed male friends swear by this too — navy or black layers, instantly dignified, minimal effort. It works just as well with greys, and even reds (my mother would insist I mention this).

This old chestnut. Red knit and cuordroys still available at Rohe btw.

Black on black on black is the easiest for lazy fancy, take it from every Parisian ever. (See the outdoor version of black on black on black in the first photo above).

Here we actually have an all -green tones vibe which I think works at cosy push.

Knit. Green corduroys (I love corduroys). I do not love the stain I’ve just noticed on my sofa!!??!

In one’s “routine”:

For me, this means having a locked-in work routine to fall back on.

There may be something else going on — something urgent you need to get to — totally fine. But if not, you always do X.

For me, it’s writing every single morning. Even if I don’t use what I write, it makes me feel like my life is in semi-order.

I truly have no idea what I’m doing, but my only advice to writers is this: get it all down while the creative energy is there. Edit later. The energy required for self-editing is different — less creative, more elusive.

Also: I’m genuinely trying to read an actual physical book at bedtime. This involves surgically detaching my hand from my phone (sometimes by leaving it plugged in in the kitchen).

Oh, and this:

Source of this excellent graphic unknown.

Currently enjoying the new book from Tom Holland & Dominic Sandbrook of ‘The Rest is History’. I also did a Monsplain zoom-in on one of my favourite morally unhinged novels on Instagram yesterday, if you’re interested.

Navel Gazing: The Bod

Before Christmas, I was crying to a chiropractor about neck and upper-back pain. She was like: Monica, you are already doing the thing that will fix this — you’re just not doing it enough.

One reformer Pilates combo class a week, when you “have time,” is not going to fix horrific posture.

Three will. Guaranteed.

Okay, I’ve only done two so far this week. But I already feel less schlumpy. Could be placebo.

Also (don’t laugh): Dear Husband and I have instituted a rule of not drinking at home. We weren’t getting wasted after bedtime, but a glass of red does take the edge off negotiations, and it’s a nice part of dinner for two.

As Frank Sinatra said: “I feel sorry for people who don’t drink — when they wake up in the morning, that’s the best they’ll feel all day.”

He had a point. But it’s a slippery slope, so long live only-mildly-damp Jan and here’s to feeling best in the AM. At least for now.

In slumbers

Way hay and up she rises — early in the morning — having had approximately one to two hours of real sleep, with Spotify’s “Pink Noise Sleepy Waves” blasting next to her left ear.

Yes, I’m getting personal. A very clever writer friend once warned me against turning Substack into a diary. Good advice. I try to remember it.

I’ve also avoided this topic because I don’t want to embarrass my husband, with whom — unlike a reported 50% of the population — I have an excellent relationship during waking hours.

But it occurs to me, as I lay awake at 4am, that maybe I’m not the only one in my current, highly-specific sleep-deprived predicament. And anyway, when there’s an issue at hand, one must write to know what one’s thinking. Or as another great female writer once said, EVERYTHING IS COPY (?)

I don’t know if it is, but get this. When my husband sleeps, the handsome, dignified man I know and love transforms into a living fog horn. Or, if he has even a faint cold: a dying wombat. I don’t know what a dying wombat sounds like this is how I imagine the tenor of the beast’s last breaths as they reverberate. And it’s enough to drive a sane woman utterly batshit.

We spend 1/3 of our lives sleeping, ideally. Adults are generally recommended 7-9 hours sleep per night, and 8, by my calculation, is one third of 24. Over decades, that adds up to roughly 25-30 years of sleep in a long life.

The CDC describes sleep as essential for health, emotional well-being and daily performance, with clear links to heart health, metabolism, memory, attention and mood. National Institutes of Health researchers note that that good sleep helps the brain clear out toxins and supports immune function in the same way a kidney filters waste. A process that can only happen during sleep.

NIH sources also explain that sleep deficiency significantly increases risk of heart disease, high blood pressure, diabetes, obesity, poor immune function and mood disorders like depression and impaired decision making. There’s also growing scientific evidence linking poor sleep to Alzheimer’s risk and dementia. A recent NIH study found that losing just one night of sleep led to measurable increases in beta-amyloid, a protein that clumps into plaques in brain’s affected by Alzheimer’s in regions vulnerable to the disease.

Given there is some Alzheimer’s in my family —and given that I generally don’t want to walk around being a huge bitch to everyone I meet on account of cumulated fatigue —I recently decided to insist that Dear Husband do something about this problem of ours.

Why do I say “ours” when he is the physical source of it? Well, because it’s not technically his fault. That’s the horrible thing about a snoring partner —you hate them for it and then hate yourself for hating them.

The dude wakes up from a night of auditory bulldozing, stretches and gives me a hug and a smile. Lo, I love him again.

I wake up when my three-year-old boy has a night terror (apparently this is common in male children around this age? Never happened with Mia),or, when his snoring becomes so loud it rips me from my slumbers. To be fair, my husband wakes up with the kids too, and deals with midnight issues regularly, but I hear everything. Once I’m awake, with the horn next to me, there’s no going back —unless I’m seriously high on sleeping pills (also an Alzheimer’s risk, so we’re done with those.)

There are nights of musical beds, where after being woken by Arthur’s night terror, of Marc’s snoring I wander round the house like a zombie looking for a place to sleep (Mia’s sleepover pull-out mattress?, the “nanny trundle” in Arthur’s room? The sofa?) undoubtedly disturbing everyone in the process.

There are the old French male doctors who assure Marc that the isn’t the worst snorer they’ve ever seen, he doesn’t have Sleep Apnea and that cutting down on cigarettes and working out more will do trick. It almost certainly won’t, and these guys are my real enemies in this whole ordeal.

I do not want us to sleep apart (why does the concept traditionally carry such shame, when back in the day, the very chicest people did this?)

But I now realise I have no choice. Besides, you can always visit!

So 2026 is the year I am taking sleep into my own hands.

I’m off to buy a bunk bed so the kids can sleep in the same room, and I’m taking Arthur’s room (and yes, I do realise the luxury I have of this being an option.)

Any bunk bed recs welcome. (Or snoring solutions —we’ve tried everything but hope springs eternal.) Sometimes rather than simply complain, you gotta negotiate with reality.

Great Outdoors

Before I go, we should briefly discuss what to wear in the snow, because I am apparently the resident Canadian in Paris.

I love snow and the cold evidently never bothered me anyway.

Paris in the snow is both beautiful and hilarious — people skiing down Montmartre, hitchhiking to work because every mode of transport has collapsed. Rare camaraderie..

In fact, I wrote a whole newsletter about what to wear in peak winter in the city two years ago. It’s here.

People seem very concerned about footwear so here’s what I procured for the Paris girlies WhatsApp group. They were like ooh lala quelle efficacité. Yeah.

When it first started snowing this week I broke out these guys: waterproof, grippy, comfortable and room for some double-sockage.

Boots here.

But then it melted a tad, froze and snowed again! Never-before-seen scenes in Paris. It was time to break out my trusty JCrews, normally reserved for Canada visits / apres ski adventures. Fluffy lining, comfortable, and functional-chic in my opinion.

These are old but love the new version JCrew have made, here.

Inspired, my friend Alexandra went for these, to which I gave my wholehearted approval.

Orange laces, quite fab.

Bonne année!