I blame my happy childhood. I had (still have, truth be told) a major thing for Anne Shirley, Laura Ingalls, Frances Hodgson Burnett's Little Princess, Noel Streatfield's Ballet Shoes and Thursday's Child, anything by Edith Nesbit, I think you get the picture. Heroines who led lifes more challenged and dramatic and somehow way more romantic than mine. Well, they shaped me, like good books do. And now when I find myself totally swept off my feet by a house, I blame them.
You see, there were almost always a pretty house somewhere, lurking in the background. If it wasn't a homestead on the prairie or a townhouse in Kensington, it was the recurrent nightmare of a palace in India going up in flames or the dream of something better than the hardship life at the orphanage. I was branded for life. The perfectly nice 1975 brick-with-Swiss-Alp-balcony that I grew up in, didn't quite match the House of Dreams. So forgive me now, if my posts have been less frequent and only mildly interesting. I'm in love. I think it's gonna last forever.
Leo would be too.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment