I am getting away this weekend. I can’t remember the last time I snuck away for a few days just for the sake of doing it. I don’t really need to go away, the Chateau is such that I could retire to the West Wing and be completely uninterrupted by the goings-on in the East Wing. Some months back, a party took place in a few of the salons and I remained blissfully unaware in my reading room. Well, yes, I had planned the fete and promptly forgot about it, but I am still a bit concerned with an entire soiree taking place without one person noticing my absence. That’s happened once before, you will remember. Perhaps I should have a bit of a sit-down with the staff about letting in undesirables; although I realize those lines are a little loose here at Place de Plume.
I am stealing off with one of Opie’s friends to a quaint B&B a couple of towns over. You remember Opie, don’t you? He’s my precious Hollywood playmate from across the way and he has plenty of other playmates from which to choose. This one is simply delicious; I handpicked him the moment I saw him – all 6 plus feet of him. I simply adore his gilt-edged accent and his manners run from sublime to rakish; it seems I have a developed quite a tooth for souvenirs from dear old Blighty. I am not entirely sure how old he is but he is one of those old soul types. You know the type – a young man who is so charming he makes your teeth melt but is too young for decency’s sake, so you say he is an “old soul” because no one knows what the hell that means and they simply nod in agreement rather than admit their ignorance. I have no real idea what his soul is like; his soul isn’t the part that interests me. It’s the bulge lying on his right thigh that has my attention.
Anyway, at Opie’s last shin-dig, when Romeo had finished a discussion on Timon of Athens that I did not understand but emphatically concurred, he invited me away for the weekend – right under Opie’s nose. Oh, Opie won’t care – he has some tie/sweater/pocket square combinations to sort out – so Romeo and I should have a rousing good time; provided I can convince him to stop talking long enough to see to the needs of moi. He seems quite obliging; I am sure I can use that willingness to please to my advantage.
My point is, darlings, packing for the weekend should begin with “who” not “what.”