There are those early mornings where I'm stumbling about in the slush, snow, mud--take your pick--wearing only wellies and a bathrobe (a most beloved bathrobe it must be mentioned that was a Christmas gift lo these many long years ago and still bears the sweet label of Oscar de la Renta) over my naked limbs all for the love of my dogs who have no affinity for sleeping in and must pee upon waking.

Sometimes in those moments, if my brain is actually registering anything more than who has peed (Daisy), who is more interested in chasing red squirrels (Ollie), and who just can't seem to find the perfect, most deserving spot to release his precious urine--a spot that befits a canine of his discerning taste (Henry)-- I think, wasn't I supposed to be in some glamourous city somewhere doing some kind of fabulous something?

Most days of course the answer is get back inside and stop your mindless jabbering-- and then, there are magical days like today when I receive an email from someone I so admire for their style and charisma and bon vivant living and the email says: look what I saw in London

(LONDON! who cares if they hate the French--I love them anyway)

in Notting Hill!!! (like the movie!)

Blue Poppy. The boutique.

Best of all? It seems to sell "whimsical corsets" (per Paola).

Yes, Virginia-- now, NOW I can die happy.

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