Sod it. I want to lay outside with the Flannery biography, listening to the baby red-tailed hawk complain at its mother who is teaching it to fly, but instead the wretched puppy has managed to burst out of her collar and so I have to find a new one. The house is full of bright pink asters and orange gerberas and yellow daffodils and white freesias, bowls of clementines and pale blue candles from last night's girly party. I love my house the day after a party. I want to swan around in a fuchsia kaftan* listening to Groffe while the hawks swirl and dive overhead. The fridge is stuffed with delicious leftovers, and everything is jolly. Minky is nose-deep in her second Twilight book, barely coming up for air but tempted out by leftover gazpacho. It is so beautiful outside. Los Angeles is never this blue and never this green, never this fresh and never this optimistic. Today is March 22, two days after the vernal equinox. Everything is new and full of promise.
But, I must dash to the overpriced dog collar shop before the rain comes down.
*Miss Whistle wants it to be known that she doesn't, in fact, own a fuchsia kaftan but feels covetous anyway.