Oh dearest readers. I have been laid up in agony for most of the weekend courtesy of a pulled/trapped something-or-other in my shoulder/arm. It’s been a bit hellish at times, two nights in a row I was only able to get four hours sleep and I’m still waking up every two or so hours in almost unbearable pain. Hot water bottles and codeine are my friends right now.

It started out so beautifully though. For M’s birthday, we went to a beautiful hotel in the Sussex countryside. In fact, the same location as last year. I’m hoping it will become an annual tradition because the hotel, grounds and restaurant are completely and utterly divine. Even *I* managed breakfast on both days. And I never do breakfast in hotels.

M is now in possession of a menswear Biba nightshirt/kaftan (I keep saying it makes him look very John Paul Getty. I wish I looked like Talitha.) and a draught-excluder, made by mine own fair hands, *proud of self*, amongst other things. We celebrated by doing quite a lot of walking in the crisp, misty February air, drinking some champagne and, later, a scrum-diddly-umptious beanfeast. With no beans involved. And with a Michelin star.

My hair wasn’t really behaving, as per, and I’m in a bit of a shy mood photographically right now. But here are my YSL shoes (having long-overdue outing), seamed stockings and the hem of my Bus Stop dress.

And here is a [deliberately] blurry photo of the top of the dress. It’s black satin, ridiculously puffed sleeves and an integral choker, which is perfect for a jewellery dunce like me. I always forget to either bring anything or to put it on before leaving, so I’m rather fond of things which prevent me from even needing it.

On the way back, we found a splendiferously old-school charity shop where I picked up some decorated coupes for myself (£1 each). It’s rare enough to find coupes which aren’t Babycham-branded, but decorated non-Babycham coupes have got to be worth picking up!

And I have decided to become the anti-platitude by buying two books largely for the incredibly illustrated covers.

It has caused me to ponder if judging a book by its cover is really such a bad thing? After all, the point of a cover is to give an impression of the insides, otherwise it’s not doing its job, surely? Musings about appearance and clothes ensue, and I find myself going round in circles. Far more interesting, for me, than London Fashion Week anyway…