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Postcard From Anya Hindmarch

Anya Hindmarch sends news from her carefree summer holiday.

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I am here in Mustique staying with our dearest friends, and it is a perfect day…in fact it is perfect, full stop. I have to keep pinching myself to remind myself that it is real and how lucky I am. Hurricane Bill is skirting around the island which gives us permission to dream about being stranded here and never making the British Airways connection back from St. Lucia. And there is just no point brushing your hair — ever — as it is so windy here.

By noon, however, the indecision starts: a glass of wine at lunch or not? It took all my willpower today to avoid the delicious Château Barbeyrolles Pétale de Rose that was so kindly pressed into my hand, so as not to ruin my afternoon walk.

Mind you, indecision seems to be the name of the game here on holiday: take the children to dive vs. lie in bed; play in the “Mustique Tennis Open” with the handsome tennis coach vs. trip to the beach; snooze vs. book, and so on.

Post-lunch, though, things are always much simpler — head to the girls’ naked sunbathing terrace for gossip and lots of Sisley sun cream (I have discovered that their oil makes you nut brown). Then comes the big 5 p.m. walk (subject to winning the “no alcohol at lunch” battle). All ages don trainers for the daily march. It’s the most social part of the day (failing a Macaroni Beach picnic) with endless bumping into friends en route trying hard to sabotage your efforts with frozen vodka daiquiris.

We had a busy night with obligatory Cotton House drinks followed by Belle Robinson’s birthday party, a table of 40 lit only by candles and more lovely wine…oh dear, especially as debates on religion, environment and education went well into the early hours the previous night with the older (overeducated) kids, who rather got the better of our woolly arguments.

Pressure is on, too, to notch up the midnight naked airport runway streak (don’t ask)…so much nakedness in Mustique…no wonder we all resort to the bottle! Well, tomorrow is another day and September and Fashion Week seem a while away yet. I’m getting to that lovely stage at the end of the summer when I don’t care if life back in England all goes up in smoke. Guess it is time to go home and get back to work…

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