People, people who need used sofas ...

Breakfasting on the loggia the other morning, something happened to catch my monocled eye as it searched the serving tray for the elderflower preserves. What's that in the newspaper? An auction? Okay, you've got Old Ken's attention; I'll set aside the linen napkin and pull away from my poached egg a la Duc d'Orange. But who, pray tell, is the proprietress of this auction? Barbra Streisand? THE Barbra Streisand? Well, now you have my heart pounding like the hooves of a whipped filly on the homestretch at Ascot.



"Oh Pasha," I cooed to the sumptuous Persian sprawled on my lap, "what a coup it would be to scoop up some Babs-riffic morsels for our den." Too true, Pasha purred in sympathy, too true.



Moments later I was still trying to brush Pasha's downy mane from my tweed blazer as we zigged and zagged across Santa Monica Boulevard to that monument of good times, great parties and effortless poolside entertaining, the Beverly Hilton Hotel.



Swooping in like a falcon on a plump bustard, I parked the Digbometer in its usual spot, tossing the keys to Rochester with a flick of the wrist.



Gazing up upon the patroness of the lair I was about to enter, my excitement almost got the best of me. Be still my beating heart!



Nothing could have prepared me, though, for the riches awaiting inside. I could almost hear an angelic choir singing as I ran a finger along the glorious fur Babs had worn in Funny Girl and as I fingered the opening bars to "The Way We Were" on the baby grand.



Oh wait, Pasha, that was an angelic choir, led by chief cherubim Babs herself. Truly we -- the kind of people who need some old broken chairs, paintings on velvet and used coffee mugs -- we are the luckiest people in the world.