A house is a terrible thing

I’ve never had a house of my own before, and we’ve lived in this one for almost nine months now. Before this we lived in a tiny flat that wasn’t worth doing anything to, it got mold on the walls in spite of the dehumidifier staying on all the time.

It’s definitely weird, then, and novel too, to have wanted to decorate the house for Halloween.

Why not? Nobody will stop me, but I didn’t have the idea until it was too late. This is a weird neighborhood we live in, the English version of Stepford suburbia, where all houses are purpose-built from a selected plan and nobody puts anything on the outside that isn’t a set of landscaped bushes.

There’s a strong temptation to emulate Clark Griswold and cover the house in twinkle lights for Christmas. It’s my heritage, after all.


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