1973 was a very brown year, if our house is anything to go by. I didn’t give it much thought over the summer, but now it gets dark early and we’re inside more often, so we can no longer deny there’s a lot of brown about. It hasn’t helped that we also accumulated a fair bit of brown furniture from previous residences.
Gareth is particularly bothered by the brownness and often wanders about singing a mournful version of California Dreamin’ that doesn’t get past the first two lines:
All the leaves are brown
And the walls are brown* (and the doors are brown)
And the bathroom’s brown (and the carpet’s brown)**
And the couch is brown (and the chairs are brown)
And the Malm is brown (and the wardrobe’s brown)
And the stairs are brown (and the window frames are brown)
And the driveway’s brown (and the shed is brown)
And the table’s brown (and the speakers are brown)***
* “The walls are NOT brown,” I protested, “The colour is called Sandstone!”
“Close enough. It’s like living inside a biscuit!”
** “The carpet is not brown! It’s a sort of beigey-cream.”
“Beige is a breed of brown!” said Dr G.
*** Gareth CHOSE to buy gigantic old brown 1980s speakers from Green Hi-Fi so he’s got no one to blame but himself for that one.
Recently we tried to jazz things up a little by painting the dining room a sexy shade of teal. Except it turned out a wee bit darker than hoped, so it is a bit like, to quote guess who, “Like living inside the blue Tellytubby”. To which I replied that there is no blue Tellytubby.
But if there was a blue Tellytubby it would be the same sort primary blue that the dining room appears to be at certain times of day. But neither of us can face painting it again, so we will put up with the blue and brown for now. Like living inside a bruise!
All that said, I love living at Crooked House. We’ve almost clocked up a year. This has been the changing view from the brown-now-blue dining room:
And now autumn. All the fields are ploughed… now the fields are BROWN.