novel-grazing, milky coffee, autumnal walk around greenwich village and leaving the past behind.

lady-of-letters suggested a sunday stroll around greenwich village and we Whooped with joy as that meant bookshops, cafes and autumn leaf strewn streets.

And it Did.




and en route to meet up with some like-minded folks as dusk fell, we saw a movie shoot, just off 7th. Quelle glam!


we are now winding down in a spot not far from chez nous and flooded with Relief.

ever since the Surgery, we have been trying to be Kind and also True.

and there had been something weighing on our mind for a little while. some, how can we put this, some Not Good behavior/naughtiness on our Part……..and we just faced up to it and owned up to it and it was accepted (by the Injured Party) and now we feel Light and Free.

because, darlings, leaving the Past behind frees up a Vast amount of magical “energy” (deep meaningful nods from the Other Coast) and we are Whooshed into the Next Chapter rather Swiftly.

(imagine stance as per Barbra on the boat singing Don’t Rain On My Parade)

triumphant, darlings. yet beautifully humble, too, of course ;)


chet baker, a light supper of scrambled eggs and another handful of calcium pills.


ironically, this is how we like to wind down on a sunday evening: novels, listening to 1930s music from the Savoy hotel, then Chet Baker, a light dish of scrambled eggs (and peas, we Are British after all) and candlelight – but we could do WITHOUT the intense pain, the immobile neck and the handful of bloody calcium pills every four hours (as our body isn’t making any of its own, poor body, all hacked and bruised and sad and quite frankly pretty weepy).

by the way – weird excitement – we have a burn mark below our right collarbone. swiftly we checked the other side for a similar mark – PADDLES? DID THEY LOSE US?!!

oh. right. apparently it was the heart monitor. left on for five hours it got hot and singed us.

we are Very Sensitive.

and sore. did we mention that?


ok – we gave ourselves a strongtalkingto – a week to be really sick and then two weeks to build ourselves up again.

B (another B – we know a few, actually, all special in their own way) came by at 4pm to “walk us”. sort of like an escort to the Plaza. we’re far Too Vulnerable to go out alone (and very shaky still).

felt nice with the slight autumnal breeze on our neck dressings.

ah. the seasons change.

more tea? why not.

it’s going to be a long night:

but in 16 hours it’ll all be over and healing begins.

so – hmmm – not much point getting an early night – we are so wired and awake and, surprisingly productive, everything’s packed.

here’s how tomorrow looks (as they say in Los Angeles):

up at 4.30AM or shortly thereafter (and a panic at No Coffee Allowed) so we’ve put the yellow roses in front of the coffee pot to remind us and a black town car will pull up outside at 5.30AM. Cheltenham Lady is going to walk up to our house (we are Most Grateful) and accompany us to the hospital. 6AM we’re due in “admissions” (feels like boarding school and university all over again) and a variety of uncontrollable substances will be dripped into our body and hopefully we won’t care about what happens next…

under the knife at 0730 hours East Coast Time if you’d like to send us good thoughts and we know several people are going to meditate at exactly that time (isn’t That GLORIAous?! we are very charmed that we know such spiritual and deeply cool people – wonder if we’ll “see them” while under the influence of the scary shit they’ll put in our veins…..that will be Fun!)

and then the machine we’ve put into place will kick into gear, like this (just in case you’re going through a similar experience and need inspiration on how to get the right team onboard – our team ROCKS.)

* M will be here tomorrow to make the apartment into a nicely spare and super-clean recovery/nesting place for the next three weeks.

*J arrives sometime in the afternoon to pick up the overnight bag (which is a rather lovely beaten up but very glam brown leather bag – as seen in Oceans Eleven, actually – while others sighed:

“Oh, Brad Pitt. George Clooney”

team gloria leaned forward in the darkness of the cinema and said:

“now THAT’S a Delicious Bag……wonder where That’s from?”

because we have Connections in the Industry we found out the answer was something along the lines of Vuitton or Gucci at the upper end of the ridiculous scale of dosh (American friends = money). And then because we have Connections in Retail, we found out that the same leather factory (at the time, we hasten to add, don’t fact check us) in Italy was providing product to Banana Republic (for chaps). And so we dropped some cash there. and it’s traveled/travelled the world with us since then. Along with the trusty silver Samsonite.

we lost our thread….oh yes, (scrolled back), here we go (tomorrow):

*then J comes to our hospital bed and drops off the Oceans Eleven bag and we swiftly reject the nasty (nylon, we’re sure) “gown” for our Noel Coward celestial blue soft cotton long robe and comfy cashmere-mix socks, apply a little mascara, decent face cream from Boots, the Chemist in England (courtesy of Belinda at Lady Geek) and settle back to listen to William’s rockin’ “smack bottom” (he IS naughty) playlist (all those tunes that transport us back to 1992, the clubs in south london, gritty floors, Camel cigarettes smoked to the bitter end, nasty pints of something nasty chased with something ever worse, if our memory serves us right and mopping up the hangover with a full english at the greasy spoon caf’ in the small hours) – not at All Suitable for Hospital (and, as a result, Perfection).

Then we shall also crack open our novel sent from George (1904) and settle in for a long read (while peeling back the top from a zero percent fat greek yoghurt and waving away the scratchy broccoli probably on offer – “hello, people, we’ve had our Throat Slit!” – yes, that’s what was given to someone else who’d had the same operation – pur-lease).

*in the morning, mC arrives with a copy of the Financial Times and a lukewarm misto (cafe au lait for our french friends), and hopefully will sit on our bed and tell us that we don’t look like we just went through hell. (note to self: more mascara and Boots finest creams).

*then we’re sure various doctors will come and nurses will administer (not any scary drugs – we’re going to work through the pain…..believe us the consequences for not doing so are too hideous to bear) tylenol (British = Nurofen, no codeine)

and, at some point in the late afternoon, bF is going to drive up and sign for us as we sit in the lobby in a wheelchair doing our best (young’ish) Elizabeth Taylor impression in large dark glasses and a wrap and a big Hollywood smile.

of course, if we have cancer. then, we guess, the story is slightly different.

depending on what they found and cut out and can ZAP with the radioactive iodine (we are still confused how they squish the radioactiveness into a “pill”) for six weeks.

quit the chat?

share some pictures?

of course, darlings.

a few from today.

bless you, habilleuse helene!

we had a delicious breakfast (abstemious oatmeal and fruit and a Ton of Coffee) at Balthazar with lots of newspapers and Very expensive imported fashion magazines from Continental Europe.

and of course we spent some splendid moments on instagram with our glorious companions from all over the globe, sharing pictures and sentiments, much needed to raise our spirits…..

and now we’re at home: drinking more coffee (yeah, completely aware how insane that is) because the option of staring at the ceiling wondering what it’ll be like having our neck slit compared to hanging out on the interweb, listening to music, talking to people and then a…

double feature!

we’ll probably start with glorious and educational yet witty and profound and uplifting like:

prime of miss jean brodie (thank you william)

and then we’ll need something (ahem) else like:

coyote ugly.



naughty. we are ever so naughty.


convalescence companions: bedside tales.

in preparation for our bedside vigil at the witness of the slit throat people keep asking (which is VERY thoughtful) “what can we do? ” and we think about the person offering and come up with answers.

sometimes we ask for a mix-tape (or whatever young people call a bunch of tracks to get well to), or a list of their favorite/favourite movies so we can feverishly have a good excuse to use the commercial interweb. we saw a friend recently whom we might ask to take us for a ride in their car to see the east river if we are mobile enough.

and then there’s d.

who has the Best Speaking Voice.

“will you come and read Tales of the City to us?”

he threw back his head and gave a deep fruity-rich laugh. “yes!”

Convalescence might not be so bad.

It’ll be nice not to ride the subway for a few weeks.

sometimes it feels like the jaws of hell.


novels, novellas and a neil simon by the hotel chamberlain pool

we would like to stay.

does anyone/anything have the power to make this happen?

we promise to wear sunscreen and keep the english accent.

the rest can turn pure Angeleno, baby ;)

oh, we need a green card first. and a dream of what to do next – you know – after they slit our throat and remove the tumors and let us know if we need chemo and shit as the young people on the venice boardwalk might way. you know – after that – and then?

any ideas?


btw, neil simon’s california suite makes an excellent companion by the pool.

1904 threw a marvelous/marvellous party.

oh how team gloria wishes we could have been there – we heard it was a truly marvelous/marvellous party – can’t WAIT for the book to come out on Amazon. we shall do that “linking thing” most definitely.

this just in: oh! we had no idea….we can link to “b&n” instead – here you go – buy some damn copies, we loved it (and yes, we have a cameo – check out “celia” the over-achieving british one ;-)

tickled pink.

and can’t wait for tea-and-the-cover-shoot-for-next-book in Los Angeles not-this-saturday-but-next.

from 1904: Where the Author was supposed to sit.
The William Randolph Hearst Suite, Los Altos, Los Angeles, July 24, 2011
Photo by Judd Minter

we live charmed lives, darlings. we really do.