When I bought my place, I promised myself that I would not become one of those unacceptably tedious people who talk about sub-prime mortgages, obsess endlessly about home improvements, and make decisions about decor on the basis of the selling value. BUT. Today, I visited Lassco, a convenient two minute skip from my house, and where I spent a good hour and a half breaking my own promise.God, that place is like a treasure trove. It barely feels like a shop: more, like an old house you've stumbled across, where you're the trespasser who has clambered over brambles and 'NO ENTRY' notices to find another world. It's full of things you'd only ever be able to buy if you (a) owned a hugmungous (sp???) pile in the English countryside and (b) you had more money than the public sector is ever going to give me. Oversized fireplaces, copper baths, the world's biggest dining tables. Not exactly suitable for my flat, but man, I fantasised. I'm not going to say 'one day' now, but it's entirely possible I did whilst there...
Either way, it's made me look forward to my weekend in a couple of weeks where I'll be vacating London, and visiting Oxfordshire's antique showrooms with T. Should be fun. But please someone remind me that I live in a London highrise, not a castle.
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