Thursday, 28 July 2005

gosford park

This post has been triggered by a throw-away remark in an un-related comment Pia made a couple of weeks ago, saying that the plumbing stories reminded her of an "English country novel in installments". So just to set the record straight ...

We live in an urban terrace, built around 1900. It has three bedrooms (soon to be four, once Attic Man comes back to us and fits us in to his hectic schedule). It has two bathrooms (please god, please let it actually have two bathrooms by the time I come to post this ... ). And note the incredibly kitch stained-glass swans above the front door, that you can just about make out, making up the house number. I love them. But hating them would involve having to remove them, so I'm morally obliged, you can make your own mind up.

We have stripped plaster off one wall in the kitchen and oiled the bricks. My Aga is going to go in that archway there, where I assume the old range used to be, as soon as I have saved up the thousands and thousands of pounds it will cost (like in a million years). It will probably be as or less expensive to move house than to put one in, so that is probably a more sensible course of action. And then I could have ducks, too.

Difficult choice.

There are scary, scary wallpaper and carpets in the sitting and dining rooms ... I always feel that I should be wearing a high-waisted dress and offering tea to the Curate a la a Jane Austen heroine, whenever I stop managing to blank it out of my consciousness.

Note the books. I like books. We have lots.

There is a yard, that we are about to convert in to a courtyard garden. I am very bad at watering pot-plants - so the Garden Conversion Budget includes some sort of automatic watering set-up for the hot weather.

Isn't it supposed to be an indicator of becoming middle-aged when you start spending more time thinking about home improvements than you do planning late nights in shabby bars drinking tequila?

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