The act of love . . . is a confession. Selfishness screams aloud, vanity shows off, or else true generosity reveals itself.
Albert Camus
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Maid of Bond Street
This girl is made of lipstick
Powder and paint
Sees the pictures of herself
Every magazine on every shelf
This girl is maid of bond street
Hailing cabs, lunches with executives
Gleaming teeth sip aperitifs
This girl is a lonely girl
Takes the train from paddington to oxford circus
Buys the daily news
But passengers don’t smile at her, don’t smile at her
This girl is made of loneliness
A broken heart
For the boy that she once knew
Doesn’t want to know her any more
And this girl is a lonely girl
Every thing she wants is hers
But she can’t make it with the boy she really wants to be with
All the time, to love, all the time
This boy is made of envy
Jealousy
He doesn’t have a limousine
Really wants to be a star himself
This girl, her world is made of flashlights and films
Her cares are scraps on the cutting room floor
And maids of bond street drive round in chauffered cars
Maids of bond street picture clothes, eyes of stars
Maids of bond street shouldn’t have worldly cares
Maids of bond street shouldn’t have love affairs