We've just had lunch at the Cat Cave (arugula pies from La Nonna, our favorite), the pink shades are rolled higgledy piggledy over open windows, Fleurs de Nuit candles are flickering, the music playing at just the right volume, my desk is a mess.
Non sequitur, but it lines up so nicely inside of my head: Rita Konig's Manhattan apartment is a green little dream, a fully contained small world. I very much enjoyed her columns in British Vogue - this snippet from her Selby interview sums it up:
Q: Tell me about the first memory you have of NYC?
A: The sound of the cars tooting up Park Avenue.