April 25th, 2002. - 1:14 a.m.

Sigh. So close to perfection, and fuchsia women.

There is a lingering remainder of cold in the air, clutching on. Sighing its last breath, its might waning.

Dreaming of the South of France. Nice, Cannes, Monaco. A yacht. Manolo Blahniks, a sheer black silk caftan, diamonds; drinking blood orange mimosas. Accompanied by a gentleman. Mastering the perfect day. Sigh. To live as a sybarite.

Astounding. Eyes are wide open, colours seem so vivid and strong. The mark of a good mood.

�You are in heaven now. This is heaven now.�

But really now, what is it with older women and the colour fuchsia? This is not Southern Italy, and you are not bedecked in gold, dears. It is a most unflattering colour, and blond hair does not carry it well at all. Pff.

This is really getting quite funny.

N.

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