There is an answer to your questions, and it is twofold.
Fold, the first: when I first moved into my spinster pad, high density housing suited me right down to my faux floorboards. Fifty square metres? Felt more like fifty acres. I could have installed a couple of ponies in the bathroom-cum-laundry. Nosebags in the wardrobe? No problem. But then, instead of ponies, these young people moved in:
They were happy living in the drawer for a while, but soon Harriet took possession of the one comfy chair.
And Beatrice was forced to establish herself in the bathtub.
And then I plighted my trough to this character
who immediately started making biscuits
and before we knew it we were having to stack excess biscuits in the bathtub-cum-storage-trough in the bathroom-cum-storage-space and Beatrice was forced to live behind the kettle. This was untenable.Fold the second is this rather astonishing letter-box and newspaper receptacle log, made out of genuine concrete eucalyptus stump. I'd say it added a good $15000 to the purchase price of the Lalor quarter-acreage, and worth every penny.
7 comments:
cats ... and cookies ... and concrete containers for mail.
The Right To Own Property is no small thing. rejoice.
Wow, almost word for word why I am up-stumps and moving to my own 1965 double bricolage. Just substitute 'bathtub' for 'my bed' and 'biscuits' for 'jam', and we are there, right down to the Westpac serfdom.
Congratulations, I guess you've moved up from Baroness to some higher position?
Oh, and also the beard. Beards need growing space.
I once tried living behind the kettle and the steam ruined my hairstyles. A wise decision to up and reconfigure abodenage: especially to make room for a purple, retro retractable lounge. Bless!
It all comes down to hair, doesn't it. You're right, Duck, beards need space, and you're right too, Burgeress, whiskers need to avoid humidity.
Thanks for the rejoicings Ann O'D. At least in theory, I've always thought the right to own property once of the least of rights, but this ain't a good town to be renting in, if you can manage not to. What is a fat gorgeous pleasure is being able to plant things, in proper earth, not just pots, and know that I can watch them grow for - Godwilling - as long as I choose.
Duck again, that is an excellent question about my title. I will have to consult the board. Perhaps as this is a joint affair with a compost heap and everything, I should become Comrade Harlot.
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