As I headed into our Twigs boutique today, it occurred to me we should really have a masquerade ball. It would be the perfect occasion to don a mask (here is my lace and pearl number from Venice), while professing one's love of philanthropy.
Of course, there would be a de-masking ceremony to conclude the caviar and champagne in some fabulous, clandestine location. Like a library basement or better still, the topiary-lined gardens of Versailles!
I digress. My current book, "The Rococo Interior" by Katie Scott, has me dreaming and scheming of parties on par with eighteenth century splendor. My Valentine's event looms, and I still haven't settled on the particulars.
Bon-bons to be proffered on a Twigs-procured platter?
Angels in gold masks and gilded wings to glide from one romantic scene to the next?
I'll have to roll up my rose sleeves in preparation. Fortunately, Twigs boutique is often the solution to one's party conundrums. The answer to gift dilemmas. And yes, increasingly the raison d'être of Rococo Revivalists.
Just the other day I found a wonderful Limgoes teacup for Priscilla Partridge, my platonic pal of many years, who deserves a remembrance this Valentine's-tide. . .
So here's to fifty shades of rose; I profess my love of Twigs and the volunteerism that makes our collective hearts race a little, quite possibly to the beat of an elegant and antiquated drummer. We specialize in the thrift and drift of the ages, the romance of "the find." Rum-pa-pum, rum-pa-pum, Ro-co-co, Ro-co-co, Ro-co-co anyone?