Whenever I think of making something new I try it out myself – obviously! So I spent last night under a new set of linens and woke up with the feeling of it on my skin and the scent of hyacinths. I toddled back to bed with my coffee and a good book, closed the window against the rain and wrapped a pashmina round my shoulders, and suddenly thought: this is the life.
The focus of the feeling was the pashmina, given to me by a dear friend just back from Nepal, who said deprecatingly, ‘I don’t think it’s real, I was cheated!’ To me the soft colour, slight slub and unfinished edges exactly meant it was real but she wasn’t persuaded, which is a pity because she had given me something I truly adore. I think of her every time I wear it, she has impeccable taste, but with every beautiful thing she comes across she is haunted – because instead of truly feeling it, she looks for the worm in the apple. She wasn’t cheated, she was cheating herself.
I don’t enter the minefield of fashion – my every inclination is to carve back, and back: to essentials, things that are elemental. My expensive linen is integral with the fresh air and silence of the night, the flowers in my room, my books, a pashmina with loving thoughts attached, and good coffee. Real luxury.