I dreamed I wore my new pink Paris raincoat for a walk to the pond with the dogs. I let the day's drizzle fall gently on my face as I gave thanks for being blessed with an English rose complexion.
The rain did not frizz my pale blonde hair.
Storm clouds gathered but held off until I leisurely strolled around water's edge.
Eventually I walked back to the house, whistling for the dogs, my mind full of plans for writing the final chapter in my latest book, the aroma of a perfectly roasted hen, redolent of rosemary and lemon and garlic coming from the kitchen.
I knew that a chilled crystal bowl of creamy potato salad waited in the refrigerator and a bottle of Maison Veuve Clicquot was on ice in the silver champagne bucket.
A late lunch for two at a beautifully laid table was waiting only for RH to wash his hands after pruning the English roses in the garden.
Into your baskets, BreeBree and James Mason!
Hurry, before Mama wakes up!
[my raincoat-wearing alter ego from Harper's Bazaar, February 1936]