The Love Of A Dog

"Free To Good Home –" the ad said. 

"Jack Russell/Maltese terrier. Slightly energetic – (I loved this, the way they'd tried to downplay what was obviously a crazy personality) but still full of love. Likes the beach, sitting on the heating vent in winter and licking feet. Also likes walks, lamb chops and chatting to other dogs. Looking for loving new home."

I looked at this ad, and the pixelated photo with it, and contemplated the idea. For the past three months we had endured fertility tests in an attempt to start IVF, but I was ready to pull out early. It was demoralising, frightening, and unexpectedly lonely. For months I had sat in clinic waiting rooms while RR was at work and for months I had quietly watched other couples hold hands while I sat on my own. It wasn't his fault: I had told him he didn't need to miss work. But a part of me wished I'd been more selfish. There is nothing sadder than sitting in a fertility clinic looking at a poster of a happy family when you're all on your own.

A few months later, after a gruelling work trip to New York, a bad publishing deal, some pummeling deadlines and a traumatic house move, I waved the white flag. "Let's get a dog instead?" I quietly suggested. So we bought Coco home.

Now I don't know why the previous owners called her Coco since she doesn't look anything like Ms Gabrielle Chanel. (More like Courtney Love on a bad peroxide day!) Nor does she act like her; with hauteur and smoothed-down sophistication. In fact, she's as mad as the Mad Hatter. Maybe more so. But it seemed like fate that she came along. I was writing a book about Chanel at the time. What were the odds of finding a dog with the same name?

I remember she looked at me as we drove up the mountain, wagging her tail in a courageous way. I remember thinking how brave she was, getting into a car with a stranger, and how well she faced uncertainty. I thought: I could learn a lesson or two from you little girl.

Then reality hit. And our home exploded. For the first few months Coco wrecked havoc on our lives. She chewed through iPods, iPhones, new shoes, new gardening gloves (see image above) and even my manuscript notes. I punished her, then cuddled her with guilt. It was clear I had no idea how to be a good mother.

But we persevered. We bought her a playmate – a Cavalier King Charles spaniel, which we called Cooper, after an Adelaide beer. (Don't ask.) She loved him at first lick. Then we bought her toys to keep her bright mind occupied. We encouraged her to dig outside (rather than in our shoe cupboards), and, after failing at Dog Training Group (we were the bottom of the class), worked out our own Coco Education Classes. It was a long, slow road.

But even though I adored her (they both sleep in our bed), I never really felt that rush of protective love some people have for their children and pets. I was too scared I guess. I still wasn't sure she'd stay, you see. I wasn't even sure where we'd be in two years.

Then last night she snuck into the pantry and – in typically Coco fashion – helped herself. This time, though, it was a packet of raspberry bullets. Chocolate coated. All 400grams worth. Chocolate is poisonous to dogs. It can kill them in 24 hours. Dark chocolate is worse (cooking chocolate is lethal!) but milk chocolate is just as bad. Coco went crazy from the sugar rush and then proceeded to gulp all the water bowl and vomit her way through the evening. Big chocolate-y vomits. Which smelled like you wouldn't believe. I stayed up most of the night watching her and cleaning up. We ran out of paper towels and fresh blankets at 2AM. It wasn't an easy morning.

Then, at 9AM this morning, barely coherent from lack of sleep, I looked up "chocolate and dogs" on the Internet. "CHOCOLATE TOXICITY," it said in big letters, and I felt the alarm bells go.
"Dogs that accidentally eat chocolate can become excited and hyperactive and then very thirsty. Vomiting and diarrhoea soon follow. The effect on the heart is dire. Death is possible, especially with exercise. Many pet owners assume their pet is unaffected as the signs of sickness may not be seen for several hours. Death can follow the next day."

Within two minutes, I had the leads, Cooper in his car harness and a sickly Coco in my arms and we were racing down the road to Moss, our lovely vet. He ushered us all into the surgery (Cooper stood on the table too) and calmly checked her heart, her eyes, and her stomach. When he said that she must have vomited most of the poison up, I gave a little murmur of thanks. And then I burst into tears.

That's the thing with dogs. You can hold them at arm's length but they'll still somehow sneak their way into your hearts. I had always looked after Coco. Walked her. Fed her. And ensured she was okay. But I'd never really cared for her. It was difficult loving a dog that was so naughty. And maybe I wasn't quite willing to remove the guard from around my heart?

But then she almost died. She ate some chocolate licorice and almost died. Driving down to the vets, sobbing "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" as she lay sadly on the seat beside me, I realised she had been the strong one all along. She had brought us all together and made us laugh. She had saved me from my loneliness and infertility. And she hadn't wanted anything in return but love.

So this is a tribute to Miss Coco. She may be naughty, and she may not look anything like Miss Gabrielle Chanel, but she's very much a dog with a heart.

Bottling The Smell of Books

Lately I've been noticing that more and more perfume entrepreneurs and fragrance makers are bringing out scents inspired by books and libraries. It's a great idea. I've always loved the smell of a brand new book. I just never thought of bottling it.

The first time I noticed it was in the Assouline bookshop in New York. Assouline is a French publishing company known for its sophisticated high-society books. So it was a surprise to see a new range of candles among the design titles. I couldn't see the retail link. Then I noticed the name.

BOOK. 

Yes, that's right, it was a candle that smelled like paper. Or as Assouline put it: a candle that "evoked the atmosphere of your fantasy library and the pleasure of reading..."

Here's the packaging. It's very slick and impressively sparse. Hemingway would have approved.

Then I noticed that Assouline had produced another candle inspired by – wait for it – a library! (Although they called it a 'Culture Lounge'.) Now I haven't smelled this but I presume it's the scent of thousands of books all piled together in a small airless room, many of them gathering dust, with an old leather armchair as the fragrance's 'top note'.

I'm not far off the mark. This is Assouline's description:

These scented candles are each designed to evoke the rich fragrances of a library. Inspired by the distinctive aromas of leather bindings, worn wood, and crisp pages, Assouline candles are the perfect accoutrement to any luxurious library.

If you need even more atmosphere, there's also a leather one and a wood one. 

Burn them all together and you could almost imagine you were in The New York Public Library. 

Or a summer bushfire.

Then I read a story about a talented perfumier in Brooklyn called Christopher Brosius, who owns a fragrance boutique called' I Hate Perfume'. (Nothing like telling it straight up!) Mr Brosius makes a scent called 'In the Library', which smells  – surprise, surprise – like a library!

Now I haven't smelled 'In The Library' but apparently it's quite evocative. One blogger described it as 'leathery and lovely'. (He's obviously been reading first editions. The only leather in my library is the half-chewed shoe my puppy's been destroying for the past week.)

The thing is, these are all really lovely but can they take the place of a real book? I mean, when you're sitting up there in bed with your iPad or your kindle, reading the e version of The Hunger Games on your computer screen and sniffing your Library candle as it sends wafts of paper scent through the room, is it really going to be as good as an authentic book?

I'm thinking of buying the 'Books' candle, just to see.

In the meantime, I wish Mr Brosius would create a really interesting scented candle or fragrance. Personally, I'd really love one that smells like New York – you know; urban-y and architecture-y and fume-y, with a top note of new-clothes-on-sale, the summer grass at Bryant Park, and the ambiance of Balthazar. Now that's a fragrance I'd spray!

Sofia and Francis Ford Coppola's New Hotel

Some people are so innately creative, their talents don't stop at just one thing. Sofia and Francis Ford Coppolas are two such aesthetes. If making successful movies wasn't enough, now they're venturing into hotels – and what sublime hotels they are!

The latest project is Palazzo Margherita, a magnificent, magical painted palace set in its own lush gardens in southern Italy, in a town that was the birthplace of Coppola's grandfather. The decor was a combined effort between Coppola (is there no end to this director's talents?) and the well-known French designer Jacques Grange.

There are Baroque, inspired hand-painted fresco ceilings, exotic tiled floors and rooms decorated with understated Italian glamour.

It is beautiful. Just beautiful. No wonder Sofia chose the setting for her wedding last year.

For more details, see www.palazzomargherita.com or coppolaresorts.com or click here.

Yellow: An Unexpected New Design Trend?

Yellow is a difficult colour. It's like the middle sister of the colour wheel: overlooked by some, left out by others, and adored by those who know just how bright, witty, colourful and uplifting it can be. It's never as popular as, say, red, or pink, or even that go-to-when-you-don't-know-what-else-to-do colour, beige. It doesn't have the gravitas of navy, or the glamour of black. And while it might be as cheerful and as light as white, it never seems to reach the same soaring levels of popularity of its pale-complexioned sister.

But all that might be about to change. Yellow, it seems, is coming out of its colour siblings' shadows. Crisp, refreshing and great as a pick-me-up, it's a colour classic that will make you as happy as egg yolks served sunny-side-up on a summer weekend. No wonder Sibella Court's just re-painted her store's front door in it!  {Image at top via indulgy.com – but uncertain of true source. Image below is a new addition to Jonathan Adler's home page on his website.}

"We just did a bedroom in Florida in sunshine-yellow walls. It's so eye-popping and energising. And when you wake up – wow! It's like having a glass of orange juice thrown at you!" 

– Christopher Coleman, House Beautiful.

"What I love about it is that you can't be in a bad mood around it..." – Amanda Nisbet

One of the highlights of New York Fashion Week recently was Oscar de la Renta's beautifully bright dresses, many of them in uplifting shades of yellow. This one was my favourite. Imagine it at a summer garden party in the Hamptons?

 Here are some more...

A current page from Kate Spade's blog. You can almost smell summer in the (northern hemisphere) air with these witty pix! {Via Kate Spade}

Can't find the original source but I adore this happy armchair.

A Palm Beach entrance hall dressed in the wittily named 'Showtime' by Benjamin Moore, decorated by Christopher Drake. {Via Home Beautiful}

Nancy Lancaster's famous yellow drawing room in London, which was decorated by John Fowler using numerous layers of glaze over a butter yellow paint. {Image source unknown}

Courtney and Robert Novogratz' country retreat in Massachusetts, New England. Aren't those shutters just so inviting? {Via Absolutely Beautiful Things; magazine shoot unknown}

A sweet Cecil Beaton print {via Kate Spade}

A colourful cottage with a clear love of boldness. Love those cheeky polka-dot stools! {Via Home Beautiful}

A fantastically glamorous yellow dining room belonging to Caroline Inge's father – who must be one stylish man! {Via Absolutely Beautiful Things}

A classically elegant yellow houndstooth print by Lee Jofa. Imagine this on a banquette in a kitchen?

Retro with a dash of lemon. {Via indulgy.com}

A favourite painting – 'Girl with the Pearl Earring' (1665), by Johannes Vermeer. Although now I can't look at this without seeing Scarlett Johansson in the film version.

 A chic little number by Coach.

A cuter-than-cute print from Freya's Art's Etsy Shop – here

Why Gardening Is The Best Therapy

Pamela Page is one of those supremely talented plantswomen who can knock together a lavender parterre and then pen an inspiring piece about gardening in almost the same breath. A self-taught landscape designer (as many of the best gardeners are), she and her husband purchased an 18th century farmhouse in southern Connecticut – which seems to be something of a hothouse for talented horticulturalists (Bunny Williams' famous garden is also in the same part of the country) – and then embarked on an ambitious plan to restore the property. Ten years later, she has created a spectacular space that is so productive, she often sells the excess produce out of the back of her Mercedes each week.

I love the fact that she's happy to use her Merc as a luxury mobile wheelbarrow, but what I love more is that she calls gardening "sexy". She also uses the words 'spiritual', 'whimsical', 'healthy', and 'fun'. I have to say, I like Ms Page. She sounds like a gardener to love.

Recently, I discovered a piece that Pamela wrote about gardening for the Huffington Post – which you can find here: Why I Garden. I was so moved by it, I thought I'd compile my own little list. I'm not as erudite as Pamela Page (far, far from it), but I still hope it inspires some of you to take up this wonderfully therapeutic activity at some stage of your lives.

WHY I GARDEN...

I garden because it's procrastination disguised as a spade. Plus, you can hide in a garden –whether with a digging fork or a good book – and no one will ever know you're there! But if you're cooking raspberry tarts in the kitchen or watching Oprah re-runs in the living room, you have no excuse for your pathetic lack of productivity.

I garden because it's cheap therapy. If I'm mad I can go out to the potager and stick a rake in a weed's heart. Or do something unmentionable to a slug.

I garden because it's great exercise. Pulling up weeds, shovelling soil or hauling bundles of leaves to the compost heap is almost as exhausting as doing a spin class.

I garden because – like a relationship – it takes effort, hard work and lots of love to reap rewards. It won't grow if you don't give it life.

I garden because there is nothing better than wandering out at twilight to pick some fresh rosemary for the roast lamb, or plucking a just-ripe lemon to slice for your evening G&T.

I garden because some of the loveliest people in the world are gardeners.

I garden because I like sticking up for the underdog. While some horticultural snobs prefer the posher produce – such as the Purple Podded Dutch thingamebob (apparently it's the Elle Macpherson of beans) – I'm happy to support the little fellas. Such as the good old-fashioned radish.

I garden because it is not for poseurs or pretentious souls. It doesn't matter whether you own a late-model Merc or a McLaren F1, whether you went to Harvard or the Sorbonne, or whether you wear head-to-toe Chanel or haute couture. If you can't grow a squash or some other simple thing, you're not going to last very long.

I garden because it's the only subject in the world where, no matter how much you learn, you will still never know it all. Even Rosemary Verey admitted she was still an amateur.

I garden to be surprised. A new-spring hyacinth one day. A perfect pink summer peony the next.

I garden because even the unwanted flowers are beautiful. (Japanese anemones grow like weeds where we live. But oh – what beautiful weeds they are!)

I garden because it's a living painting. And you get to be Monet for a day. (Or longer, if you're lucky.)

I garden to smell the scent of jasmine on a beautiful spring morning.

I garden because, even though I don't know the Latin names of plants ("what's that pink thingy called" is my oft-repeated phrase at our local nursery), and I often mispronounce names (Pittosporum is such a silly word anyway), the Latin Set still forgive me.

I garden in order to be enthralled by heirloom seeds. Such as Listada di Gandia. And Bohemian Pumpkins.

I garden because there are few things more entrancing than a hand-drawn garden plan.

I garden because a potting shed is one of the most magical places you will ever see.

I garden because it's humbling. Mother Nature is a wicked boss. You can spend a day preparing a lawn and then a heat wave will hit. You can spend a weekend planting an avenue of pears and then a disease will float in on some foul wind. And you can spend a month digging out a potager and planting all your beloved vegetables, only to find there's not enough sun in that spot to grow even a spinach leaf.

I garden because if you try being a little rebellious, it won't work. (For example, just try ignoring your mother's advice and growing that Japanese wisteria or Robinia Casque Rogue and see how much it overtakes the house.)

I garden because there is nothing more spectacular in the world, in my opinion, that the Chelsea Flower Show.

I garden because the rhythm of the seasons makes one aware of one's own mortality.

I garden because it nourishes the soul.