It's old hat now, this photo-taking business. Turn left, turn right, look at your imaginary friend over there on the sofa and laugh at the very funny thing she's saying. I was posed: on the rug reading a Nobel Prize–winning Icelandic saga; still on the rug, but now taking a break from the Nobel Prize–winning Icelandic saga to drink from a dainty cup of tea; by the banister looking out the window; next to the table reaching for a porcelain bowl; just kind of standing around looking bloody gorgeous. Cleary, the kind of thing I get up to every day.



I was waiting for someone to Austin Powers it up and say, "You're a lemur! You're a lemur!" but it never happened. And then I'm not sure what kind of Zoolander look I was giving Tria as she clicked away, but she said, "Beautiful. You're a vixen." "Uhh," I said, "I don't know how I feel about that." "It's great," she said. "Sex sells. Even for Bargain Style."



It's possible the heavy-lidded look was simply the after-effects of having had Maud over for a ginger-carrot chicken noodle soup the night before; and then the two of us having stayed up till almost three, doing that thing where we keep trying to go to bed but then keep, instead, riling ourselves up with radio show goofiness, and road trip excitement, and girls we know, and boys we know, and (I swear this is true) French grammar and Montaigne and Proust; and then waking up just after six this morning to get ready for photo shoot day number two.



Still, I seem to be doing okay running on pure adrenaline and my iPod's shuffle selection—

(true story, when "Give Up the Funk" came on, people got very excited)

—and even managed to make a very large bowl of pancetta-chestnut-sage fettucine for lunch and the best chocolate tart yet. Hot damn, but this thing gets better every time I make it. I., are you reading this? This is the tart from that Pie and Pastry Bible. And with pouring cream and fresh raspberries mmmm.



The funny thing about this photo shoot is that by the time the magazine's out, I won't be living here anymore. But that's almost the best thing about it, too, because I'll have a souvenir of this thing I once created—this life I once had. What's especially sweet is that every picture seems to include something that was given to me by someone who means something to me—the little gold oil burner from Schmio; the pink cosmetic box from Ren; the enamel teapot from Beefy; the antique Chinese treasure chest from Ryan; the Ladurée pique-nique box from Maud; the gold and pink Chinese teacups from my grandmother; the mint green crackle vase from Tom and Vio; the dog-shaped pillbox, the mod ceramic candy dish, the luxe red bookcloth-covered Paris guide from CC. I'm pretty good about getting rid of things, but some things are things and some things have stories, and the thing is, we like stories.



Anyway. I'm still here, and there are flowers blooming all over the house, and I have a clean bathtub and some fancy bubble bath, and I'm going to go make good use of that situation. I'm going to sink into the warm, and I'm going to close my eyes, and it's going to feel good the way Nina Simone filling the quiet night feels good. Because some of us are officially very, very tired.