Monday, 11 November 2013


Soft home furnishings have never been something that I have considered to be high on my priorities list. There are many theories that have been posited as to why this it - my mother was killed when I was just a girl, I never had a soft feminine influence in my life, my father was a private investigator, I never had nice things that I wanted to keep nice, that I am psychotic, I was never handed a Dunelm or John Lewis catalogue to leaf through...

Personally I don't think me being psychotic has anything to do with my lack of interest in interior design.

However my lack of caring about this turned out to not be a lack of caring, but liking my place just as it was. After the invasion of Harry and Fred and the subsequent the death threats and the throwing of several items they may have bought for my place out of the windows, I was left with a very odd situation.

There were stacks of paint charts, furnishing catalogues and wallpaper samples that had been left behind, taking up vital space in my office. There was new furniture that didn't creak and threaten to give way the moment it was used. The smell of rising damp seemed to have been replaced by a floral smell that emanated from a pile of colourful dried petals and scraps of fruit that had been purposefully made into the state - not just left in the corner of the room and forgotten about.

In short my wonderful, comfortable, grotty, damaged and dingy apartment had been turned into somewhere that approached being habitable.

What was the strangest thing of all was that there seemed to be things that looked an awful lot like overstuffed pillows now sitting on the sofa. Fred had called them cushions and I had called them a waste of time, well until I threw them at him and then I discovered they were really quite useful.

The very disturbing part about all of this is I actually quite like what they have done with the place, it is nice to not smell rotting mice corpses when I open the door to my home. It is really comfortable to snuggle up on the sofa surrounded by the overstuffed cushions. It's reassuring that not all furniture threatens to break when a feather is laid on top of it.

I'd never tell either Harry or Fred any of this. They don't need to know I am grateful for their interference in the design and decoration of my home, but I may just start carrying one or two cushions around - never know when I'll need to hit one or both of them round the head.

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