We now know why the previous owners of this house chose to carpet this room ten years ago. The 55-year-old floor is badly scratched and has some water damage, so instead of a light sanding and a quick coat or two of whatever it is that they put on wood floors (I leave such things to my husband, the architect), we are looking at Major Work.
What was I thinking?
All of the stuff that makes this room so cozy--my glass-front bookcase and my slipcovered wing-back chair and my little table that holds books and a couple of favorite china dishes and an African violet--has been moved to the living room and my husband won't let me have any of it back because he'd just have to move everything again when the floor guys come. So I'm making do, sort of, with a rug and my writing desk and chair. In this photo, you can see my printer sitting on the floor.
It's not easy to work in here now. I can't even mutter to myself without making ugly echoes in this bare room.
Since I was already feeling sorry for myself this morning, I figured I had nothing to lose by sampling some Vogon poetry, which is said to be the third worst in the galaxy. I just cruised over to the BBC's Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy site, answered about a dozen questions, and scored this personalized Vogon poem:
See, see the snirly sky.
Marvel at its big baby-mess yellow depths.
Tell me, Brenda Coulter, do you
Wonder why the dead aardvark ignores you?
Why its foobly stare
makes you feel bleary?
I can tell you, it is
Worried by your bulliferous facial growth
That looks like
A sick rat.
What's more, it knows
Your fark potting shed
Smells of lima beans.
Everything under the big snirly sky
Asks why, why do you even bother?
You only charm incontinent elephants.
That's pretty bad, but not excruciatingly awful, I don't think. It's nowhere near as ugly as my floor.
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