Daughter is hosting us in her basement which in the main remains unclaimed to civilisation.
We sleep surprisingly comfortably [and appropriately for a textile artist] in this tiny room, festooned with a multitude of fabrics to disguise the basic bare walls.
Outside our padded cell is the rest of the cavern stretching away the full size of the house.
Just the other side of our wall resides this apparatus, the heating monster, which periodically lurches into a long and heartfelt burble on it's troubles 24 hours a day. I am very intolerant of noise when I have aspirations to sleep and assumed we would have to de-camp to the frowzy embrace of a sound proof casino room after one night. However it possibly has hidden charms as we have slept well every night.
Daughter marches away her frustrations on this treadmill in another part of the gloom, watching a big TV usually waiting for the snow to melt. However since we arrived the snow has fled and reappeared in Suffolk, which seems odd. Mother is getting extremely ratty that she can't get out of her bungalow to supervise village doings.
Have, as yet, not stitched a stitch, tho I have read the new Lee Childs on my K*ndle [thought it was a disappointment and gratuitously detailed in it's violence]as part of a Great Download Frenzy as all copyright problems are defunct now me and K* are in the States together.
NB I see from various blogs that snow dyeing is now a craze, not here it ain't.
1 comment:
Your bed-room sounds medieval, like in a castle with hanging tapestries, or tent-like on a foreign campaign.
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