What a glorious day it was to be alive. In mid-afternoon, in eighty-degrees, I stepped out and went for a stroll with Dr. Brad; A brilliant blue sky complimented out brilliant walking attire, which made me think about the fact that it was Winter Break and a practically straight week of Season. As cute as these boys are, no one has ever taught them how to dress. (The Winter Party boys made a fashion statement by appearing in a state of "undress"; straight boys make a mockery of just putting clothes on.)

There is not another person who adores plaid more than myself, but there is no one more mindful of the dangers inherent. It is clear that these boys have never had any guidance from their parents about the subtleties of mixing colors and patterns, the thing that practically separates us from the barbarians at the gates. We walked down the avenue aghast at the most mindless matching of patterns and colors on the most adorable bodies. Somewhere, somehow a terrible mistake must be corrected.

It is apparent that these boys need to attend a fashion clinic when they come next year. The subtle nuance of color, the daring-yet restrained- use of patterns must be passed on by those ladies of quality who were born into this life. Only after offering Dr. Brad the position of house physician did he see the potential in opening another room of The Palace for undressing and re-dressing these lost souls; an adjoining steam room to soothe all their other ailments would put the finishing touch on this spa/school of fashion. Plaids, stripes, and colors can all be put to use for the betterment of the what is left of the "civilised world". This narrows it down, of course, to tiny strips of land that lie on the sea, rivers, and an occasional large lake. I don't think the warlords of Somalia or the idiots strapping bombs to themselves in Baghdad need to think about how an orange stripe simply does not marry a blue plaid.

Oh, well; it's nice to think that I just may be returning to my old self. This is touchy, because the "old self" certainly dates before Christmas and the three months of stress that ensued. I will have to consult old photographs to reconstruct the person and the era. I look around and see remnants of something that was truly wonderful: a tiara, a bottle of fabulous wine half full (see there is positive thinking, still), a jeweled gift from The Great Northern Court, my scribbled recipes for a casserole-du-jour for KiKi, a pair of jeweled mules worn to the opening the new opera house, and--of course--all those telephone numbers on napkins. An entire new life could be formed by just calling them.