The King's Speech and the Queen's clothes

I am writing this whilst waiting on the phone to speak to a call centre. ('Thank you for your patience; please hold, and one of our advisors will be with you as soon as possible'; dum di dum di dum). Woke up this morning feeling somewhat bleak in the rain, but have ordered myself to show stiff upper lip, inspired by seeing 'The King's Speech' at the weekend. Not that a stiff upper lip was necessarily very helpful in curing the King's stammer; but anyway, it is an excellent film, and deserves all of its many plaudits. Oh, and I very much liked the blue hat and dress that Helena Bonham Carter wore in the scene in which she and her husband visited Balmoral Castle, where they are dismayed to discover Mrs Simpson in residence, and a great deal of drinking and dancing going on... Rather pleasing to see Wallis as less glamorous than usual portrayals (there is such a thing as being too rich and too thin) and the plumper future Queen Mother eating sweets in the back of a car, but still retaining a chic sangfroid.

Fireworks in the rain?

6pm, and I've just got home -- did anyone else get caught in the deluges of this afternoon? -- with a bunch of beautiful white roses. Anyway, someone is letting off fireworks nearby -- slightly damp squibs, if I'm honest... Why, I wonder? Is it a reaction to the gloom of January? Or a local festival of the light? Very odd...

Happy New Year...

Sorry to be so belated with the blog -- after Christmas, I embarked upon a journey that involved so many snow-related delays that we ended up on a flight from London to New York that was diverted to Montreal at the last minute, then from Montreal to Chicago to Tampa to Miami. Thus began three days and two nights in assorted airports, all of which look, smell and sound spookily alike... But I know other people had even more frustrating delays, and the hours in various limbos sped up while I read John Le Carre's latest book ('Our Kind of Traitor') and 'A Week in December' by Sebastian Faulks; both of them big, dark, state-of-the-nation novels that felt somehow appropriate as narratives to accompany my jet-lagged zigzagging across time-zones and national frontiers.
Anyway, when I did get to New York, it was completely wonderful: we ate delicious food (downtown at the Little Owl and Barbuto in the West Village, uptown at the Mark); drank cocktails at the King Cole bar at the St Regis; and stayed in what is now my favourite ever hotel room, on the 39th floor of the Four Seasons, with a view over Manhattan and Central Park that made me very, very happy. Met the producer of the David Letterman show, and ascended to the heights of his office at the CBS tower (v. thrilling). Shopped for brilliant sale bargains at J.Crew (how I wish we had a London store, though you can get some of the range at net-a-porter), and bought the perfect pair of black velvet trousers and a soft tweedy black and cream cardigan (I like to think Mademoiselle Chanel would have approved of the latter, in the knowledge that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery).
Back in London again, facing the expanse of 2011. I've been clearing out cupboards and drawers -- trying to do at least one a day -- a task that I put off while working on Coco; and finding it both therapeutic and occasionally overwhelming.
Tiny shoots of green grape hyacinth stems are appearing in the back garden, though later than usual, and I fear the squirrels have eaten a great many of the tulip bulbs I planted last year. But now that the snow has melted, spring seems a little less distant than before, and I've been reminding myself that the days are lengthening, if only by a few minutes. I've sometimes struggled through Januaries in previous years, although this time (fingers crossed, wood touched), I'm feeling braver than before, and resolved not to wish the days away, but to embrace the month, as a time to potter and bake and nest, and make some plans and wishes as well...

What a week...

Up at 6am on Monday, for Start the Week, which had involved some serious homework in preparation; though it was a pleasure to meet Michael Peppiatt, and to discover his wonderful book, 'In Giacometti's Studio'. Slid home through the snow to write my Telegraph column, glad to be coming home to warm house rather than leaking Parisian studio, like poor Mrs Giacometti, then panicked about lack of Christmas preparations. Car was snowed in, so set out on foot to buy food supplies: fish pie for dinner, but two hands not enough to carry home any further shopping. Yesterday: got car out, drove to Muswell Hill, realized that the rest of north London had followed the same impulse, and we were all stuck in the M&S car park, which hadn't been gritted. If anyone is reading this who knows said-car-park, you will understand the skidding and panic that ensued on surely steepest gradient in London.
On the up side, the fish pie was delicious, and my amazon deliveries have arrived in time. On the downside, I still have two dozen presents to buy, and am steeling myself for a trip to the West End. Oh rapturous joy...

Christmas is coming, time to go to Daunt Books...

I'll be at Daunt Books in Chelsea tomorrow evening (7pm, December 15th) talking about Coco Chanel, and signing books (if anyone is out and about doing their Christmas shopping). Here's the address: 158-164 Fulham Road, London SW10 9PR; tickets available at the shop or telephone 0207 373 4997. Please do come if you can... I can offer wine, conversation, and a very surprise guest...

What to do next?

Still grappling with how to email pictures from my new iphone (I am foxed, even though everyone says it is so easy), but just managed to send one -- a very small one -- which goes no way to show the beauties of the Bowood garden on a frosty morning. The lake was frozen over, the folly wreathed in mist, the last of the roses as icy as those beside a fairytale Sleeping Beauty, but the landscape still felt astonishingly alive, as a heron swooped low from the sky.
Back in London, I am staring into abyss of What To Write Next. I feel lost without Coco, and longing to be absorbed into something (someone?) new; but guilty at the thought of abandoning her.
What do readers really want? Not that one can write a book by second-guessing the market; that way madness lies...
But I'd love to know what people here think... Is anyone out there?

White blossoms, midwinter

I'm off to Wiltshire to do a talk about Chanel at Bowood tomorrow; and very much hoping that the freezing fog lifts so that I can see the glories of the garden in winter. Last time I was there the rhododendrons were in magnificent bloom, huge drifts of them, and the wisteria was blossoming in the walled garden. It seems such a long time ago, but I'm sure there are hidden pleasures to be found in the frosty landscape of Capability Brown.