Bathtubs are necessary château accoutrements. I usually require claw feet, but when you’re bathing your bits amongst nature, the rules relax. THIS lovely spot is where I come to get clean after an exhausting day of flower arranging and dressing my dog like Michael Jackson. I hate to embarrass you, Michael, but Paris basically pays you to shove your dog into adorable, impractical doggie outfits. Last Saturday, a woman gave me three pairs of Givenchy platforms and a free meal at Pétrelle.

I spend a lot of time scheming about ways to make my dog even more adorable. It’s stressful. Pepito suggested an outdoor bathtub, so he scoured Place de Verdun and found this beautiful basin. When I fill it with my soaking salts and gaze up at the stars, all worry just melts away. Except for the fact that dark energy is ripping the universe apart. Sorry, love. That shit is just too scary to release from my consciousness.

There’s a tiled breezeway that connects the outdoor salle de bain with the main house. We tore off the roof so nature could run wild, and let me tell you, it runs WILD. The cicadas serenade me to death. Sometimes the little bull fighter joins me in the evenings. On Saturday nights, you can find six people in the thing and we just add more bubble bath so that everyone feels comfortable.

Must be off. Tarte aux Pommes needs primping and I need more free shoes.

Bisous, loves. xx