Oh, how much I like to possess a dressing gown. At best in a midnight-blue. Not made from satin, but from a light and gentle cotton, Egypt cotton would suit this purpose best. Because those who wear dressing gowns, and this is for sure have a life that swings easily and friendly along their legs. If I would do as I wish in my midnight-blue gown, I would stay in bed till 10 AM. I would yawn then and look in the mirror, quite pleased and not as I do now, stick my tongue out to myself. Never I would be in need to rush out of the house and no way that I would realize on the DART that I have a run in my tights. I just would get back to bed with the news in my hand. Of course I would not read what unpleasant happened in the world but just look at the theatre critique and nod when an actor was blamed for his bad articulation. Tea from the white china porcelain would stand next to my bed and careful, careful not to spill over the long and wide arms of my gown I would here and then drink a cup and look out of the windows. The ships leaving the harbor I would count and gently stroking my cat. Maybe I would walk to the shelves and look for a book. Washington Square maybe, because I always had a sweet tooth for Henry James and nineteenth century novel in particular. The ringing phone I would ignore, my Macbook it would get dusty in some corner of my desk. For lunch I would cut an apple in four slices and later I would eat a bread buttered with honey and turn on the record player. Elisabeth Schwarzkopf would sing Schubert songs and I still in my gown would slowly dance through the parlor, closing my eyes, engulfed in the safety of my midnight-blue gown.