After an unspecified number of glasses of rosé, we are roaring through the room. We go from the note game to iPads that you have to hold on your forehead. It's the boys against the girls. But both parties are shouting just as loudly. Friend C's baby is fortunately still sleeping peacefully, and during the break, the smoke crew goes to blow off some steam on the balcony. So, that is our ‘dinner club night’ on Saturday. We are officially 11 and it is officially the intention that during dinners like this we learn more about the wine that a couple specifically chooses to pair with the menu to then tell a story about it. That last part has somewhat fallen by the wayside and now it mainly involves a lot of wine, a lot of games, and a lot of laughing and roaring. Well past midnight, we come home. No photos were taken, but we did airdrop some unseen photos from Italy. The dinner club was of course there too.

In a packed Arthur Ashe Stadium, my husband and I sit with a pretzel, an XXL soda, and a panini in seats number 7 and 8. Nadal is getting ready and you can feel a wave of enthusiasm crashing through the space. Nadal. The man with the arms. The man from the underwear commercial. The man with still an unchanged and almost unintelligible accent. The man I used to secretly be so intensely in love with. The man whose lack of an upper lip I now find a dealbreaker. But above all, the man who is number 1 in the world. It is our first US Open. And Nadal wins. Of course.

Every, or well, almost every morning you can find us at Dépanneur. I get coffee, Blue patiently waits outside with fluffy companions. Now it can still happen, because you can feel that autumn is approaching. The cold hangs in the air and it won't be long before the streets are again hail white and the wind is biting.

Finally, a little sneak peek of my Fashion Week look for this coming Sunday. Hail white and fluffy and completely against the rule ‘No White After Labor Day’. More next week! Have a wonderful day.