@firefly,
Quote:What don't you like about it?
The thought of Thorstein Veblen visiting me in it and wetting his long-johns.
Saddam would have liked it.
It looks a bit like the exterior surface of a large brain polyp.
A house is to stop the papers blowing away. If I inherited it my first visit would be with a surveyor to best prepare it for the hammer of an auctioneer.
I have known two men, driven by their wives of course, build extensive residences on the "ain't I something else" principle and the both of them, within a year, had tacked on an annexe where they spent most of their time thereafter. One told me that he had felt like a church-mouse in the lounge which was a great room for a large party of boogie woogiers.
If I won that $380m jackpot I would buy a country mansion in NW England set in 1,000 acres of rolling meadows and copses, gravel paths, stables & Co, a river natch and a lake, rent the main house to The National Union of Shitbags, and live in one of the gatehouses rendered snug and efficient by experts guided by my farseeing instinct.
My maids would be prostitutes who were yearning to try their hand at washing up, ironing , and cooking in between watching a bling sales channel whilst gossiping about their most amusing clients. Ones a bit gone to fat.
But I do admire your honesty ff. The delineation of your soul is broad brush I know but none the worse for that.
And the lobster platter made me feel queasy.
