[Isn't it interesting how my T9 dictionary will allow me to type 'ing': basically approving the customisation of the English language. You can '-ing' up anything you like. I love that about English].
My fantasy is to one day live in a place that is comfortable, cosy, and clean. A lavish fantasy, I know, but a girl's gotta dream. Having spent the past few years living in places ranging from rapey 'foyer' rooms, to dingy student flats, I think I'm ready for it. I don't want a kitchen table that wobbles. Or to sit cross-legged on an over-sized cushion because I can't afford a couch. I don't want to watch television on my computer, or have people over and resort to binge drinking on my bed because the minute living room is taken up by my Italian flatmates and their pasta orgies. I don't want to handwash my shirts, because the nearest laundry place is a half hour walk away. I don't want to use a tray as a coffee table. So many student rooms, so many little comforts. I want a big massive plaid throw on top of a big massive soft couch. Carpets my feet sink into. Heavy linen curtains. A huge Arabic coffee table made out of an old mosque door. A giant bed with a duvet the thickness of a bouncy castle, and pillows stuffed with the biggest and most luxurious feathers known to man. Crisp white sheets, and thousands of cushions strewn across the vast expanse of the bed. A massive armchair I would sink into as I sipped on my fine Italian espresso, produced by my hand-assembled swanky hotel-style coffee machine, whilst sitting in my opulent living room. Oak bookcases, crammed full of literary staples such as the latest Douglas Kennedy and Jodi Picoult. A washing machine. A dishwasher. A balcony, with ivy framing it's beautiful stone carvings, a (non-tacky) swing chair nestled between two wide pots of lavander, in which I would sit on summer evenings, my Siamese kitten purring in my lap as I gently smoked a cigarette and took in the balmy summer breeze.
Unfortunately, that doesn't look very likely in the forseeable future, so I'm going to have to make do with the sort of transient, peasant treats that companies like 'Yankee Candles' create in order to make all of us plebs feel that little bit more luxurious. Yes, I've been trawling the web, gorging on glossy photos of beautiful candles:
I just want them. I want my bedroom to smell like a garden sweet pea, and if I have to pay €22.90 and €5 shipping to make that happen, then bring it on.