This house be mental.
As I appear to be entirely unable to desist from collecting, purchasing, and at times stealing various and sundry items, I have filled the entire space from letter box to down pipe, in an orgy of ridiculous tat and frippery.
Goo Gaws abound and proliferate, painted ceramic birds inherited from an Aunt, (that I like to call “ironic kitsch”) struggling for mantel space with fat buddhas, photos and frames, easels, ornaments, ashtrays, hurricane lamps with orange glass globes, foot stools, cushions, silk throws, plants crawling out of pots and up the window panes for a drop of water, childish scribbles and drawings stuck to every available inch of wall
(*only some of them from actual children*)
And toppling from corners of tables and shelves, cascades of towering books and magazines, which the slightest swing of an Ethiopian toddler’s hip could bring the lot crashing down onto the dusty tiles, and there is so much furniture squashed into each miniscule room, sometimes I just look in and sigh and go sit on the Friary bench.
At least I can breathe over there.
There is literally not enough room to swing a newborn kitten inside.
Walter, the Chihuahua with the extensive wardrobe, and a barrel full of threadbare teddies is the actual same size AS a newborn kitten and as much work as a disconsolate army on the march.
He likes to fetchingly display his clothing, (a tweed fur trimmed coat with satin lining made by my neighbour the tailor, a Superman T-shirt bought at a ploughing match, a fair isle golf jersey from the Chinese pound shop, and baby shoes ripped off the front of a knitting magazine) all over the available floor space of the house, and buries treasure in the form of chicken balls, slices of apple, buttered toast, and snails from the yard on the actual steps of the stairs.
He thinks I can’t see them.
It appears that I view space as a challenge.
Bent up in a bow in the overstuffed armchair at 2 am watching outrageous documentaries commissioned by men called Tarquin on Channel 4, I ponder my existence.
I inherited the armchairs too.
All I can offer is that the previous occupants of this house must have been a gang of humpbacked dwarfs who spent their nights curled up on the floor rubbing Raljex into their aching extremities.
“Name of Goddle Mighty there must be some craythur out there who has a half dacent armchair I won’t be crucified in” I expostulate to the shellshocked Chihuahua ,who has been startled from sleep on the arm of the sofa, which he has claimed.
He is welcome to it.
It’s one of those ones that if you get into it, you’ll never get out of it.
Well, not without a block and tackle anyway.
I tackle the small ads online on sites that maybe have cool stuff for feck all paper folding, or in fact NO money, as although I have eyes like the bastard love child of Bette Davis and Marty Feldman, I am not wall eyed enough to see the actual TV when the armchair faces the actual window.
There is no room to turn it.
There is no room to turn a sweet in your mouth actually.
So I booted up and booted to Freebies.ie and found this.
“3 Piece Suit. Tan. Very comfortable. Moving house so no room. Quite condition. “
My first instinct was to imagine Napoleon Dynamite in his prom suit, and my second was to realise that even a house as small as mine could hold a suit. My third was to wonder what condition the condition was in if it was only quite.
They also had a woman giving away 60 Super-Valu luggage stamps and a card.
Then I thought of offering the chair to the great unwashed ,billed with the title of “World’s Most Uncomfortable Chair” but found I was pipped to the post by a man who described his own kitchen chair as such, describing it in less than glowing terms as -
“too hard, too small, too ridiculous, with no lumbar support and could be used to fend off intruders failing all else”
He wanted $15 for it as it had now come full circle and was actually worth money for being so bad.
By now I had moved to craigslist where I chanced upon this gem.
"I went to your house to pick up the sofa but all I could think about was the smell of your breath! It smelled like someone jizzed into a Frito bag and threw it on a bum. It smelled like someone farted a cheeseburger into a letter box. It smelled like someone lit a homeless person on fire and then smoked a cigarette. It smelled like someone did the Harlem Shake after an extensive cardio workout in a porta -potty. It smelled like someone threw up in your mouth and then cooked some bacon. After you told me the price I just walked away. I wish in the moment I could have looked past your awful breath and just stuck it out.
I had some gum."
Through the unsealed windows the George Raft had been silently creeping in on little fog feet while I surfed and smoked, and feeling my shoulders chilling, I wrapped myself in one of the numerous silk throws at hand and sighed to the miniscule dog -
“I’ll be lighting that fire any day now” and then idly wondered where it was.
The fire, not the dog.
There is a mirror in front of it.
I use the term Mirror loosely.
A travelling troupe of Ack-Tores could use it as the 4th Wall.
You could knock up an extension with it.
It is too big to lift or pull or drag and will not fit in a car or van.
The Jury is out on whether it would fit in an Elephant’s Trailer from Fossetts Circus, and it needs to be corralled and coerced by a team of gangers with a gaffer.
It will have someone’s eye out one of these fine days.
Don’t even ASK where I found it, or how I got it in here, and why if I want to light the fire ever again I will have to sell it for Fitty Pound.
Expect to see it on a notice board near you in the next 5 minutes.
First to see will buy.
“The world is full of fools, and he who would not see it should live alone and smash his mirror.”
― Claude Le Petit
This house be mental.
As I appear to be entirely unable to desist from collecting, purchasing, and at times stealing various and sundry items, I have filled the entire space from letter box to down pipe, in an orgy of ridiculous tat and frippery.
Goo Gaws abound and proliferate, painted ceramic birds inherited from an Aunt, (that I like to call “ironic kitsch”) struggling for mantel space with fat buddhas, photos and frames, easels, ornaments, ashtrays, hurricane lamps with orange glass globes, foot stools, cushions, silk throws, plants crawling out of pots and up the window panes for a drop of water, childish scribbles and drawings stuck to every available inch of wall
(*only some of them from actual children*)
And toppling from corners of tables and shelves, cascades of towering books and magazines, which the slightest swing of an Ethiopian toddler’s hip could bring the lot crashing down onto the dusty tiles, and there is so much furniture squashed into each miniscule room, sometimes I just look in and sigh and go sit on the Friary bench.
At least I can breathe over there.
There is literally not enough room to swing a newborn kitten inside.
Walter, the Chihuahua with the extensive wardrobe, and a barrel full of threadbare teddies is the actual same size AS a newborn kitten and as much work as a disconsolate army on the march.
He likes to fetchingly display his clothing, (a tweed fur trimmed coat with satin lining made by my neighbour the tailor, a Superman T-shirt bought at a ploughing match, a fair isle golf jersey from the Chinese pound shop, and baby shoes ripped off the front of a knitting magazine) all over the available floor space of the house, and buries treasure in the form of chicken balls, slices of apple, buttered toast, and snails from the yard on the actual steps of the stairs.
He thinks I can’t see them.
It appears that I view space as a challenge.
Bent up in a bow in the overstuffed armchair at 2 am watching outrageous documentaries commissioned by men called Tarquin on Channel 4, I ponder my existence.
I inherited the armchairs too.
All I can offer is that the previous occupants of this house must have been a gang of humpbacked dwarfs who spent their nights curled up on the floor rubbing Raljex into their aching extremities.
“Name of Goddle Mighty there must be some craythur out there who has a half dacent armchair I won’t be crucified in” I expostulate to the shellshocked Chihuahua ,who has been startled from sleep on the arm of the sofa, which he has claimed.
He is welcome to it.
It’s one of those ones that if you get into it, you’ll never get out of it.
Well, not without a block and tackle anyway.
I tackle the small ads online on sites that maybe have cool stuff for feck all paper folding, or in fact NO money, as although I have eyes like the bastard love child of Bette Davis and Marty Feldman, I am not wall eyed enough to see the actual TV when the armchair faces the actual window.
There is no room to turn it.
There is no room to turn a sweet in your mouth actually.
So I booted up and booted to Freebies.ie and found this.
“3 Piece Suit. Tan. Very comfortable. Moving house so no room. Quite condition. “
My first instinct was to imagine Napoleon Dynamite in his prom suit, and my second was to realise that even a house as small as mine could hold a suit. My third was to wonder what condition the condition was in if it was only quite.
They also had a woman giving away 60 Super-Valu luggage stamps and a card.
Then I thought of offering the chair to the great unwashed ,billed with the title of “World’s Most Uncomfortable Chair” but found I was pipped to the post by a man who described his own kitchen chair as such, describing it in less than glowing terms as -
“too hard, too small, too ridiculous, with no lumbar support and could be used to fend off intruders failing all else”
He wanted $15 for it as it had now come full circle and was actually worth money for being so bad.
By now I had moved to craigslist where I chanced upon this gem.
"I went to your house to pick up the sofa but all I could think about was the smell of your breath! It smelled like someone jizzed into a Frito bag and threw it on a bum. It smelled like someone farted a cheeseburger into a letter box. It smelled like someone lit a homeless person on fire and then smoked a cigarette. It smelled like someone did the Harlem Shake after an extensive cardio workout in a porta -potty. It smelled like someone threw up in your mouth and then cooked some bacon. After you told me the price I just walked away. I wish in the moment I could have looked past your awful breath and just stuck it out.
I had some gum."
Through the unsealed windows the George Raft had been silently creeping in on little fog feet while I surfed and smoked, and feeling my shoulders chilling, I wrapped myself in one of the numerous silk throws at hand and sighed to the miniscule dog -
“I’ll be lighting that fire any day now” and then idly wondered where it was.
The fire, not the dog.
There is a mirror in front of it.
I use the term Mirror loosely.
A travelling troupe of Ack-Tores could use it as the 4th Wall.
You could knock up an extension with it.
It is too big to lift or pull or drag and will not fit in a car or van.
The Jury is out on whether it would fit in an Elephant’s Trailer from Fossetts Circus, and it needs to be corralled and coerced by a team of gangers with a gaffer.
It will have someone’s eye out one of these fine days.
Don’t even ASK where I found it, or how I got it in here, and why if I want to light the fire ever again I will have to sell it for Fitty Pound.
Expect to see it on a notice board near you in the next 5 minutes.
First to see will buy.
“The world is full of fools, and he who would not see it should live alone and smash his mirror.”
― Claude Le Petit
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