That inspiring periodical "Elle Decoration" has sent me a communication which suggests that I might like to start giving a damn about interior design. They coo seductively about "the handmade home", and "embracing imperfection", and then fanny on about brocade and dried twigs for a bit.I don't want to upset them because I am sure they are all very sweet;but if they realised the degree to which I have already embraced imperfection they might well faint in coils.And my hands are not really suited to "handmaking" anything. They are exactly the right shape, size, and condition for using as a cocktail holder, and can manipulate a cigarette . Other than that; useless. I have a friend who was a Hand Model. Her hands were exquisite, slender, modelled by Praxiteles on a very good day. She was brought in when the extremeties of the model-in-chief bore distressing signs of humanity, like bitten fingernails and bumpy raw knuckles. Very thin,very tall models quite often have huge,skeletal hands,So my tiny zaftig pal would pop along with her perfect mitts to show off rings, bracelets, nail varnish and hand lotions. Her hands got above themselves, in the end, and wouldn't get out of their gloves for less than £3000 a day. The left one became such a diva that it stopped speaking to the right one completely, and consequently didn't know what it was doing. This affected bookings because really they were only sought after as a pair. The right one left the business, and the left one went into the Priory.
So having moved house, I am presented with a blank canvas upon which to stamp my regrettable personality.Unfortunately I do not have the blank cheque that ideally would accompany such a venture.I also have the contents of a very large flat now stacked up in two rooms, plus Giant Boy and his baffling collection of electronic equipment . I was moved by two divinely cheerful chaps, one of whom was an ex-Paratrooper, the ideal background from which to deal with both my wardrobe and my soon-to-be-ex landlords. The other bloke made up for in children what he did not possess in teeth, having ten in each case. So potent was he that I advised my female friends not to brush up against him in the corridor,if they didn't want twins. Due to an unpleasantness, I was obliged to move two weeks in advance of my intended date, and so the whole thing took a nightmare-ish turn. The Giant Boy came into his own; doughtily carrying things and dragging suitcases down from places I had forgotten I had. We were assisted by my friend Angela, a woman who combines the looks of Ava Gardner with an admirably ruthless efficiency in the kitchen. The lady-next-door came in with cake and saved our lives by providing the only solid to pass my lips that day. Everyone's house moves are frightful, and nothing ever goes according to plan, budget, or schedule.However, not everyone's culminates with a noisy midnight row between an irate red-haired ex-Para and a hysterically gesticulating young man in monkey-print jim-jams, threatening to "call the Old Bill", an expression unsuited to his tender years; and unused, to my knowledge, since "Dixon Of Dock Green" ended.
You see, the thing is I just want to live in an hotel. I have no desire to build a nest, and was perfectly prepared to raise my baby in a drawer of a cocktail cabinet. I couldn't tell you at gunpoint what colour my walls are, and I have only ever bought one sofa in a long and eventful life. This despite the insistent advertising on the television, which would lead one to suppose that the purchase of a settee is life's most joyous and crowning event.Everyone in the UK must have at least three by now.People have even started putting them outside pubs, in the hope that drunken punters will carry them away.
I want to wake up somewhere bland and comfortable, with new bath unguents and fresh towels provided. I would road-test every half-way decent hotel in Liverpool, in a rotating progress, in return for sitting in their their breakfast room, rubbing my tummy and loudly exclaiming "Yum! Yum! Now that's what I CALL a tasty top-value breakfast!" in seventeen languages. I would do my ironing in the trouser press, and wash my scanties in the power-shower.
So, "Elle Decoration", thanks for the thought sweetie, but you are barking up the wrong woman. However, do pass my details on to any hotels in Liverpool with whom you may be on pally terms.I'm sure we can work something out.
So having moved house, I am presented with a blank canvas upon which to stamp my regrettable personality.Unfortunately I do not have the blank cheque that ideally would accompany such a venture.I also have the contents of a very large flat now stacked up in two rooms, plus Giant Boy and his baffling collection of electronic equipment . I was moved by two divinely cheerful chaps, one of whom was an ex-Paratrooper, the ideal background from which to deal with both my wardrobe and my soon-to-be-ex landlords. The other bloke made up for in children what he did not possess in teeth, having ten in each case. So potent was he that I advised my female friends not to brush up against him in the corridor,if they didn't want twins. Due to an unpleasantness, I was obliged to move two weeks in advance of my intended date, and so the whole thing took a nightmare-ish turn. The Giant Boy came into his own; doughtily carrying things and dragging suitcases down from places I had forgotten I had. We were assisted by my friend Angela, a woman who combines the looks of Ava Gardner with an admirably ruthless efficiency in the kitchen. The lady-next-door came in with cake and saved our lives by providing the only solid to pass my lips that day. Everyone's house moves are frightful, and nothing ever goes according to plan, budget, or schedule.However, not everyone's culminates with a noisy midnight row between an irate red-haired ex-Para and a hysterically gesticulating young man in monkey-print jim-jams, threatening to "call the Old Bill", an expression unsuited to his tender years; and unused, to my knowledge, since "Dixon Of Dock Green" ended.
You see, the thing is I just want to live in an hotel. I have no desire to build a nest, and was perfectly prepared to raise my baby in a drawer of a cocktail cabinet. I couldn't tell you at gunpoint what colour my walls are, and I have only ever bought one sofa in a long and eventful life. This despite the insistent advertising on the television, which would lead one to suppose that the purchase of a settee is life's most joyous and crowning event.Everyone in the UK must have at least three by now.People have even started putting them outside pubs, in the hope that drunken punters will carry them away.
I want to wake up somewhere bland and comfortable, with new bath unguents and fresh towels provided. I would road-test every half-way decent hotel in Liverpool, in a rotating progress, in return for sitting in their their breakfast room, rubbing my tummy and loudly exclaiming "Yum! Yum! Now that's what I CALL a tasty top-value breakfast!" in seventeen languages. I would do my ironing in the trouser press, and wash my scanties in the power-shower.
So, "Elle Decoration", thanks for the thought sweetie, but you are barking up the wrong woman. However, do pass my details on to any hotels in Liverpool with whom you may be on pally terms.I'm sure we can work something out.
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