A Touch of Hermes

Slightly superfluous background note - I was originally hoping to greet you with some nice happy snaps of my home away from home (possibly also so you can secretly go 'I hate you' and then I can smugly smile and say 'Well...yes...naturally...I was actually warm for a change...') but then Blogger decided to be a bitch and not process the photos. Maybe it's out of computer envy. Possibly. In short, story for another time.


But the tropics would not be the tropics without the requisite South-East Asian indulgence of retail therapy. Never has the Visa been worked so hard in its life. Actually no that's a lie. But anyway. And there's nothing like a bit of Hermes and tea. I'd like to take both at the same time. But I can't actually afford the tea cups even if Elle Macpherson (yes she of the bras and The Body) tells me that I should. I couldn't resist taking a little piece of the fantasy home with me. The fantasy involving me and a Birkin bag. And not much else.

Possibly a few decadent silk scarves that I could turn into a dress. Luxurious nonchalance.

Like the Twilly. Kind of ridiculously pointless. I mean, it probably doesn't even constitute an actual real scarf. But deliciously pretty in a kind of classic, traditional spoilt princess kind of way. She who owned a pony at the age of five when the rest of us dreamed. And eventually morphs into the type of woman who 'lunches', has an affair with the Costa Rican pool boy and owns a wardrobe full of Hermes bags (the Kelly, the Birkin...god forbid...also the Constance). This is disturbingly starting to sound like my own twisted fantasy. But we can all dream.

And even if all that never happens. And we end up stuck in libraries in very gray wintery conditions. Getting lost in Le Monde d'Hermes. Playing with that Twilly. With an old broken cup of tea. And the scent of Annick Goutal's Petite Cherie in the air. It comes pretty close.

Keep it dreamy and pretty today my loves!

Love (from she who is depressingly back in Melbourne)

xx

Bec