I think it was Donald Mainstock, the great amateur squash player, who pointed out how lovely I was. Until that time, I think it was safe to say that I’d never really been aware of my own timeless brand of loveliness, but his words smote me because, of course, you see, I am lovely in a fluffy, moist kind of a way and who would have it otherwise? I walk – let’s be splendid about this – in a lightly accented cloud of gorgeousness that isn’t far short from being, quite simply, terrific. The secret of smooth, almost shiny, loveliness of the order of which we are discussing in this simple, frank, creamy, soft way, doesn’t reside in oils, unguents, balms, ointments, creams, astringents, milks, moisturizers, liniments, lubricants, embrocations or balsams, to be rather divine for just one noble moment; it resides, and I mean this in a pink, slightly special way, in one’s attitude of mind. To be gorgeous and high and true and fine and fluffy and moist and sticky and lovely, all you have to do is to believe that one is gorgeous and high and true and fine and fluffy and moist and sticky and lovely, and I believe it of myself. Tremulously, at first, and then with mounting heat and passion because, stopping off for a second to be super again, I’m so often told it. That’s the secret, really.
07.10.11 @ 13:14♥789
