The way that I exuded confidence from the bed was to be the absolute opposite of dishevelled bedhead; crusty-eyed and blinking. I was dolled up, from top to toe: gold lamé, heavily beaded halternecks, diamante-encrusted stilettos, enormously long earrings, feather boas and opera gloves in pink satin that went all the way up to the elbows. Absolutely everything you could possibly imagine, all on the bed. Dress for the most extravagant, flamboyant fête champêtre of your life.
Just channel Sir Elton John. I try to do that most days. What would he be wearing? Put a cameo brooch on it, put a large signet ring, put a lovely applique dandelion on it. I am actually sharing these thoughts from my own bed. I am not just saying it, I really am in bed. I am wearing my Christmas pyjamas.
You don’t have to make your bed, but it has to be attractive dishevelment. It can’t be just bits of old sheet bedewed with Chinese takeaway cartons. You are not thinking Tracey Emin here. Artful dishevelment is contrived, like a flower arrangement – as if it’s all meant to look as if it happened naturally, but you sure didn’t find it in any hedgerow. Each hump in the sheet or eiderdown is carefully curated.
Although you may want to eat in bed, do not. Everyone succumbs to the urge. But once you encounter breakfast crumbs at teatime, it’s gross. Somehow rouse and arise, and go to another venue for the actual consumption of food. You can have an attractive stack of macaroons in different colours just toning with the cushions, duvet, curtains and eye shadow, but don’t eat them in bed.
Remember, it’s your bed and you are entitled to be in it. You are owning your space. You are saying: ‘Hello, here I am, talking to you from places I consider to be perfect.’ It could be the chaise longue. It could be the billiard room. But today I have chosen my bed. That is my choice, and I believe in it. I inhabit it.