IN MELBOURNE, A friend tells me about the look: a steely-eyed caress from hair to shoes, taking in every accoutrement, ending in decapitation. Parisiennes: they’re not like us.

I should be listening to my Michel Thomas, downloading Catherine Breillat’s filmography, re-reading Huysmans, as I said I’d do in my arts residency application. I google what not to wear in Paris. Bright colours. Shorts. Activewear beyond the gym. Obvious faux pas that’ll mark me out as a clueless Anglophone.