This place is busting with aretefacts and detritus gathered from a life lived in full. Nothing here is arranged or designed to look like anything in particular, it has just evolved. Which must surely be the secret to a truly interesting and rich interior.
But by day three, something starts to shift. And then all of the sudden I feel overwhelmed with a compulsion to get a large proverbial broom and give it all a good a good clear out. I'm itching to get stuck in and apply a thorough flossing. For this is a house where 'putting things away', the household chore that seems to dominate my daily duties, just does not happen. Being here is a like living in the home of the alter ego me that would really rather put my feet up with a book rather scuttle around picking up everybody's elses crap until 11pm every night. Why bother? Just go to bed! If only I could. Sadly the need to get up and give those surfaces a good clear and scrub would probably keep me awake at night.
