South Park Self

a hand-me-down dress from who knows where

Home update: still happy, drifting vaguely around the house chatting to the cat and luxuriating in my very own space. It's slowly filling up with furniture to a rather pleasing extent. The nature of my impecunious grad-student existence for the first six or seven years of my residence Chez Evil Landlord meant that almost all of the large furniture purchases were his. Fortunately I have lovely friends with extraneous furniture, an amazing mother, and had managed to save a bit. I still only have one sofa in the living room, rendering it a little difficult to entertain anything other than one other person sitting side by side and staring straight ahead, but my nice new armchairs arrive tomorrow. I also scored a Welsh dresser, at least in principle and potentia, courtesy of said amazing mother, who stood me the price of it as a birthday present. I have acquired a rather friendly little specimen of same, filling the slightly limited space very neatly and just containing my cookbook collection. Viz.:

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Also visible in the right-hand picture: dining room table, courtesy Claire; chairs courtesy jo&stv and reupholstered by mother; living room carpet courtesy Viola. (Tapestry also done by mother lo these many years ago, a favourite thing of mine). Visible in distance: front door, designated as "friendly" by someone visiting, I forget who. I concur. Still to arrive: armchairs, see above; tv stand, jo is making me one; bookcase for study (because several acres of bookcase are clearly insufficient); side tables for living room (we're going flea marketing this weekend). Bedroom curtain in process of construction. Comfort levels definitely in excess of acceptable.

I include for posterity and because of the Law of the Internet, a random Hobbit picture in a fetching pose. I like the crossed feet. Earthbound entrechat. Appropriately enough.

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Life generally good, except that I'm being driven slowly demented by the latest post-viral afflication, which appears to be hallucinatory cigarette smoke. I can smell smoke. Almost continually. Regardless of where I am, but including closed rooms with no actual smoke in them, and spaces in which no other person can smell a thing. Apparently it's a fairly recognised post-viral symptom and is also associated with damaged sinuses, both of which apply rather too aptly, but it's surprisingly annoying.

I should also report that my copy of Parade's End arrived, and I'm several chapters in and to my barely-concealed horror am enjoying it really rather a lot, Modernism notwithstanding. I am confident that the aliens who have abducted me and replaced me with a slightly malfunctioning replica will restore the original any day now. I hope she likes her furniture. The cat won't notice.

(Subject line is Velvet Underground, "All Tomorrow's Parties", doubly relevant because now that I nearly have furniture I absolutely have to organise an actual housewarming.)
I was about to ask what area you had alighted in, then I saw The Mountain (and buildings) through the window behind the Hobbit and the old Capetonian reflexes kicked in.

Anyway, see you in December?
We used to have a friendly front door like yours. Being wood and being in the UK it used to shrink slightly in the rare hot, dry spells then swell when it rained. Consequently it would stick and, even with repeated attacks with the plane to remove swollen excess, could be quite difficult to open from the inside. Once I had to climb out through a window and put my shoulder to it to get the wretched thing open!

We saved up and had it replaced with a double glazed variety which fits the hole all the time - and whistles in the wind if we forget to push the handle up!