Here is the carpet in my two-room rent-a-home.
It soothes me in my most savage hours (not that I'm particularly afflicted by savage hours, but sometimes I catch a glimpse of the spraycrete ceiling in my two-room rent-a-home, and the aesthetic shudder is so awesome it's a wonder I'm not immediately driven to excessive consumption of Pimm's No. 1 Cup; although, in fact, there's no need, because the carpet, as we've established, soothes me in my most savage hours).
Note: bottle of Pimm's unopened; your trusty correspondent looking, nonetheless, distinctly unsavage.
The carpet conjures up visions of Louis Bougainville, in a wig, with a frangipani behind one ear, of owls and pussycats, of limpets and barnacles, of Johnny Depp waxing piratical. It's as briney blue as carpets come, minus the brine. IT EVEN MATCHES MY SPECTACLES, which is a rare feat in a carpet indeed.
It has one flaw, and one flaw only. It harbours this.
La bête noir! The bane of ankles! The piercer of skins! The monger of plagues! The facilitator of John Donne's amorous adventures!
Yesterday I bought a rather smart vacuum cleaner from the Northcote K-mart-arama, and with it I rampaged the length and breadth of my abode. Against all my inclinations, note, which tend against buying boring things like vacuum cleaners and against doing boring things like vacuuming. What, then, do I reap from this tremendous labour? I wake up with a flea bite ON MY FACE. You can see it, just above my left eyebrow, in the photo above (not to be confused with the incipient pimples, which I blame on a prolonged adolescence and the joys of Haigh's chocolate frogs).
This is a serious matter. This is war. That Pimm's ain't gonna last out the week.