Spent a day in my cabin, today. Eggs Benedict for breakfast. Baked ham for lunch.
Why not holiday from one’s holiday, in the lap of luxury and room service? The Cabin Steward is ever obliging.
As cabins go, it’s impossibly extravagant. I have a double bed to myself and a huge circular rug as a centrepiece, which lies like a lily pad on the polished parquet. One wall has a bold colour scheme of silver, black and chrome that matches the linoleum in abstract designs in the bathroom (I do, finally, have my own private porcelain throne). Glossy walls. Metallic threads in the bedspread. Reflective fabrics. Everything is so clear of clutter.
As one enters one’s boudoir, one is elegant and restrained. Why show more than a striking painting of a deconstructed violin? Or a bronze statue of dear old Summer, herself? I’m pretty sure my chair must have been made by Eileen Gray, the mirror by Le Corbusier.
There’s a mother-of-pearl letter opener on my writing desk next to the most darling, enamelled cigarette box. I may take up smoking, just so I can appreciate its lovely, violet glaze and the click of its silver hasps (smoking is, after all, supposed to be good for you). There’s even a cocktail cabinet in my room, for cat’s sake (though I confess that might not be quite so good for me)!
All I need now is one of those white, ostrich-feather centrepieces you so loved in Vogue, Maud, and my own film-projector and Cecil B. DeMille to crank it, and I’d think I’d died and gone to heaven.