Françoise Sagan. It should be obvious why I read her books, no? And I'm not even sharing my favorite photographs of her zipping away in her beloved Astor Martin or Jaguar (the mere mention of a Jag XK 140 makes my ears prick up and my mouth water). Any woman who spends her first novel's check on a delicious sports car is more than okay in my book. I should be choosing my words carefully tonight, but instead I am sucking on apricots in my plaid flannel pajamas, listening to All Things Must Pass (this is my jam), trying to decide what I will wear to this and my dear's shipwreck Titanic themed birthday party. I have the weighty choice between dressing as first class or steerage. Hoom hum as those dear Ents say.
Ever since I went to Carnegie Hall to listen to Liszt & Schubert this Friday past, I have been decadently overdressed. At first, I felt sheepish taking off my coat to see everyone in the balcony draped in cotton and blue jeans. During the intermission, I snuck down to the parquet and felt less out of place as elegant men held their hats to their breast and the woman glanced searchingly into the depths of their glasses of champagne. Alas, I had to return to my seat with my bubbly ginger ale in hand and lack of opera glasses in the other. I suppose if I truly wanted to restore old-world elegance to Carnegie's good name, I would have had the forbearance to bring opera glasses or a monocle. Foiled, yet again!