You know the sort of thing I’m after, don’t you, fellow? Give me chic, give me classic, give me timeless, give me hip, give me glamorous, give me British, give me right now. I want clean lines, sweeping surfaces, trembling fountains and gilt doorjambs. I want taste, subtlety, and a Wagnerian opera in the corner. I want a Louis Vuitton sofa, the skull of Cary Grant, and a Japanese-style meth lab all in black enamel. I want nothing trendy, everything stylish. I want tons of storage space, and I want the floors papered with the pages of great books. I’m thinking rich, I’m thinking sumptuous, I’m thinking class, I’m thinking Posh and Becks, Brad and Angelina, Nick and Jessica. Can we put an infinity-edge-pool-slash-indoor-outdoor-stables over here? I’d like to wake up and jump my appaloosa into the sauna. I’d like all white-gold bathroom appliances, and a monogrammed mailbox with kittens painted on. Can we get a major world leader to sponsor each brick? Except I don’t want bricks – I want slate walls and a turf roof. No, scratch that – skylights! One giant skylight, a glass roof. I want the air conditioning to consist of three hundred beautiful, fit Polynesian boys blowing lightly through the windows. And for heat, my own personal sun. Can we build a dome over the property, so rain and snow don’t mar it? And decorate the dome to look like a Faberge egg. For the kitchen, a fully staffed Dean & DeLuca, and moving sidewalks in between the rooms. Closets should all come with masseurs. I’d like a colony of major, yet undiscovered, yet well-respected artists working in the central courtyard. Well rather, the anterior courtyard. Save the central courtyard for the celebrity petting zoo, featuring major celebrities, both pastured and in cages. Pay them whatever it takes, and make it happen fast enough for Nicole Richie to have her baby in a giant glass tank. And also let there be monkeys, because everyone loves monkeys. Let each celebrity have a Monkey Personal Assistant. Speaking of which, the servants’ quarters should be an underground bunker that ascends in the morning with the rise of the sun. And descends with the snap of my fingers. And for the grounds, get Central Park. Let’s get a move-on, so everything’s ready by spring. I don’t care what it costs, so long as it’s within the budget.