hampton classic

Having checked in with some of my London & UK friends the other day, with the morning slipping away from me, I posted on hoodies then drove to East Hampton (getting lost along the way: my husband dubbed me 'Maps' our first summer together, but we work better as a team. When I'm both driver and navigator - and we don't use SatNav, I'm a real luddite and use paper maps.. anyway, I got there in the end).

One of my dearest childhood friends, Sherri, who is married to Marc, also a friend from high school, is in the loveliest house for August, with a great pool and lush gardens. It felt rather 'let them eat cake'esque, leaving my concern for the rioting behind, then toddling off to the beach and the pool and the swish cars. Woke early yesterday and wanted to swim while everyone was asleep, but was afraid Cooper, their fabulous French bull dog, would start barking and trying to save me from drowning. Sherri explained that the breed can't swim - apparently their heads and necks are too heavy for the back, and - I'm trying not to laugh as I type this - they'll basically topple forward, hind legs sticking up, and drown their poor selves. She even has a kind of floatation jacket for him.

'So they're bred for..' I said, trying to think of what possible 'profit', genetically, that shape would have. Rabbiting? Snapping little creatures necks quickly? 'They're bred to be companions to French royalty', said Sherri.

It's all so Marie Antionette.