Iole is playing Wendy in her drama club’s production of Peter Pan, with a final performance at the Passe Muraille Theatre in downtown Toronto. She knows her lines by heart, but it’s very possible that she’ll forget every word once the big velvet curtain goes up. “I’m scared of all the grown-ups,” she said to me last night. “Of course you are,” I said. And then I told her what my friend Polly said to me just before I spoke in front of hundreds of people at our friend Zelmira’s wedding. “Just remember, everyone in this room is on your side. Everyone in this room wants you to succeed.”
I’m not one for watching sports on the tele, but few things beat a wicked Wimbledon final. This year, if the weather holds, I’ll be feting the finalists on my front porch with flutes of champagne and piles of strawberries. Feel free to join me. Dress code: Tennis whites.
I lost my sunglasses last week, and of all the sunnies I have ever worn, those black and white graphic Illestevas suited me the most. I loved how they made me look and feel just the right amount of eccentric, and how they could take an outfit as mundane as joggers and a tshirt and give it attitude. The problem with the ones I’m wearing now –– a pair of pink gold glittery miu mius –– is that they are a smidgen too extravagant. They’re conversation starters, and I’m not always in the mood to talk. And I’m definitely not always in the mood to disco. So, I’m on the lookout for a wicked pair of sunnies, that like my Illestevas, sit on the ride side of ridiculous. If you see something that hits the mark, please holler.
p.s. I found them! Moments after writing this post, wrapped in a pair of Luma’s bloomers! But a girl can never have enough sunglasses, can she?
I like gardens to be wild, imperfect and bursting with whimsy. It’s this time of year that our own garden is most enchanting, when the neighbour’s wisteria spills over our fence to mingle with our fabulously unusual fringe tree and when the path that leads from the house to the garage is covered in tiny white blossoms from the sky high trees above. The rickety Ikea table and chairs that we abandon in the snow year after year looks just fine, considering, but I would like to see something more charming there. Yes, a chaise or a table that looks like it leapt from the pages of Alice in Wonderland would be lovely, thank-you.
It’s on two occasions that I wear black –– to funerals and on Halloween. It’s not that I dislike the colour, it’s just not for me. Some of my most colourful friends pull off black with aplomb. Me, I can barely wear the black cotton M&S knickers that my mum sends me from London without feeling out of sorts. Of course, that doesn’t stop me from lusting after the perfect black dresses. To be worn with the punchiest accessories, of course.
It takes one butterfly to produce the 300 eggs needed to make one silk carré. I’m not sure how many butterflies are hard at work on Hermes’ Maxi Twilly –– a great big swath of heavy twill jacquard silk worn on the chicest necks of the Cote d’Azur. I’d wear mine, as a cumberband around my waist. Unless, I am invited for a spin in someone’s MGM roadster, in which case that scarf will be on my neck, à la Ms Kelly.
As much as I like the idea of muted tones –– sage green, stone grey or the moody blue of an overcast sky –– I simply cannot resist the punch, wallop, bam of a bold colour. If I could nip over to London for the day, I would spend at least half of it at the Tate Modern’s current Sonia Delaunay exhibition. Now, there’s a woman who understood colour. “Skin of this world of ours” is how she defined it. Her Citroën, painted in multi-coloured blocks, became a Jazz Age icon; here she is in 1925 wearing a coat and dress to match the car.
It’s a dream of mine to live in a hotel. Not for long, mind you. Three-months or so of room service, frette sheets and fresh daily towels is all I need. I wouldn’t choose Coco’s Ritz or Eloise’s Plaza though. My hotel is chic and bohemian, with chamber maids that call me, “Honey,” and a concierge that walks around with a rare bird or a Persian Chinchilla in his arms. My favourite hotels have always been the small, eccentric ones with views that take your breath away. These days, we’re a three ringed circus, so we need a place that won’t fret over spills on the frettes, and a place that will take Iole, Antimo & Luma on room service rounds while Jason and I play rummy on the terrazza. Any ideas?
If you love meringue, whipped cream and berries, here’s a cake for you. Serve on gold trimmed plates with glass tumblers of ice cold lemonade. Hello spring!
All our walls are painted white –– a clean backdrop for the carnival of colour that is our home. But an empty white wall (of which we have very few) is so exciting to me. I see possibility. I see woven wall art in eye-popping hues.