Sunday, December 4, 2011


I'M HAVING AN ANGRY BIRDS KIND OF DAY. And it's only just gone 11am. Yikes. Honestly, sometimes I think if I don't get some time to myself I will explode. Or implode. Or like those naughty rogue i-Phone4s, spontaneously combust.
 I do hold graciousness very dear, plus I've just written a book about being gracious and elegant and delightful as possible at all times. So it's really super bad to be grumping and harrumphing about the place, simply because someone calls or comes by to collect something or drop something off. But this morning I am literally blowing dragon-like smoke out of my nostrils so stroppy and tired and desperate for a holiday am I.
I am dreaming so hard of an entire day spent sipping cups of herbal tea lolling in a swing seat surrounded by lupins and hollyhocks and a gentle but-not-too-cold-please breeze that I can almost taste it. Except not quite because I have to struggle with a load of dumb-ass tangled hangers that insist on falling on the floor and catching silks and thumbing their hanger-y noses up at me. And I have to do the banking, and write at least three overdue stories and take the hem up on a silver gown. And I have to sweep the shop because I'm on my own today. And I have to answer the phone at least seven times to tell some poor bugger in India that I don't want a new phone provider. Thank you, though, Thank you so much for thinking of me.
There is a scene I always remember in The September Issue where Nuclear Wintour (who is actually kind of warm in this movie, and in fact has been getting warmer ever since; the editorial ice caps are melting) says the reason she will stop being the boss, if in fact she ever does, will most likely be the same reason her father stopped being a journo: THE ANGER.  "He got very angry. I do see that tendency in myself. Perhaps, when I start getting too angry, it might be time to give up.”
Well I'm not quite ready to give up, but I might just throw my phone.

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