Winter Whitstable Bedroom View

Luna just ate my favorite scarf; my beautiful Etro scarf that everyone compliments is in tatters.

Oh well, just another thing. I have so many things. Addicted to things-buying addictively will spring into action the moment I put down the booze, the drugs, the sex the food etc. I can’t seem to do anything healthily! I think, ‘I must have.’ and nothing gets in the way of that thought. Greed, selfishness, immaturity. Am I alone with this? Judging by the way people are now in debt and losing their homes-I am not.

I want to share an embarrassing truth about shopping: I love sofas and I love 70% off. I just can’t help myself! A bargain sofa. I can’t resist it. A BARGAIN. I used to live in a two-bedroom house in Whitstable and there were sofas in all 7 rooms-even the kitchen!  Essential place to snuggle as a goose roasts in the Aga.

My goal, when searching for a place to hang my hat, has always been this: ONE ROOM WITH A PERFECT VIEW. The last house had 7 rooms with a view over the ocean. This present house has 5 rooms with a perfect view. I’m getting there. I’m heading in the right direction, just four more rooms to ditch.  Everybody else seems to be swimming in the opposite direction!  Everybody wants more and I want less.  Enough already!

view from my Malibu bedroom

Malibu garden

My ‘I must live in one room’ theory is based on my fear of knocking around a huge family house and not having a family. Everywhere I have ever lived is set up for an imaginary family of 8. A family of 8 who dine together, who play backgammon by an open fire in the bleak mid-winter or swim in the ocean on an August afternoon returning to piles of soft, sweet smelling towels. In every house I ever owned there are stacks of plates, silver wear, pots and pans and rooms for unborn children. If I had only been able to make a relationship happen then perhaps all these things would have been relevant. Instead they sit in unused piles in well-equipped kitchens.

Extended families of friends used to suit me fine but of late I have preferred solitude.

I used to cook exotic feasts from Morocco or Iran but recently I have not bothered. The mandolin bought to slice potatoes for gratin dauphinoise is buried at the bottom of the draw, the blender bought to liquidize thick butter bean and bacon soup sits unused, the heavy casserole which should be out every day boiling stock or poaching chickens sits dusty on the fridge. I tell myself that one-day, one-day when that prince comes, he who may appreciate the joys of home cooking I will bake again!

At this moment that seems very unlikely.

Malibu spring garden

Yet, I am still buying things for an imaginary family of eight who beg me to reprise my pineapple upside down cake.

Now, of course, it is just the sweet darling dogs and me and I suppose that is how it will remain. When I finally return to Paris, where I want to live out my last years, I will sell everything and start again. In that scenario there will indeed be just one room, one plate, one fork, one knife.

During the day I will have a silver topped cane and a tailored coat with a velvet collar. I will sit on the grand boulevard and drink thick black coffee and smoke untipped Gauloise.

This outcome, when written down seems deliciously glamorous. For now, in Hollywood, this is the way I want it to be. Just me and the dogs, one less scarf and a dream of Paris in the spring.