"[Its] language is as bare as a monk's cell, and as uninviting." - Clifford Longley

A somewhat welcome result of the drastic dip in the mercury...and the accompanying snow (not much but enough to require a winter sweater and mittens to be unearthed from what I'd foolishly assumed was their resting place for the remainder of the year)...has been the rare urge to do a little spring cleaning. I always forget how good it feels to purge things that I've been holding onto for what seemed (originally) to be a perfectly valid reason...yet (now) bear a striking resemblance to junk.

It's at times like this...bathed in the virtuous glow of someone who can finally see a few bare inches of counter space...that the sight of these images of Gwyneth Paltrow's TriBeca loft induces massive amounts of envy. Then reality sets in...and the accompanying knowledge that even with vaults of cash...and the corresponding ability to spread my crap (I mean, worldly possessions) around several homes...I'd still be an inveterate pack-rat, unable to live in an antiseptic environment containing one coffee table book and a couple of vases.