It’s that time of the year again, oh yes, oh yes. And oh yes, yes, yes! And while the way less fortunate are saying, adios, sayonara and bon nuit to the heady days of summer, we the Carmichaels are hitching our wagon to British Airways and taking up residence in modernist desert heaven. I’m talking Palm Springs, Baby!
It cannot come not a day too soon.
Here is the forecast. I cannot tell you how much I love you little yellow ball. Yes, it’s ever so slightly hotter than last year. But the desert is meant to be heated and dry and fiery, isn’t it? So, with adaptable now my middle name, I just won’t pack my jeans, my jumper or my umbrella. My sad face shall stay at home.
It’s going to be bikini-a-go-go at this pool.
And Negroni’s at dusk (“Make mine a Mojito,” says Mr C).
There will be much modernism
plenty of perambulation
hairdo’s, hijinks and hilarity
With Casa Carmichael’s caretaker in situ and puppy Lyle packed for his holidays (wee tear) we are on the runway.
I’m channeling Rat Pack mol.