A statement of position
Sep. 3rd, 2012 05:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceI have absolutely no interest in being told why anyone would want to buy Margaret Thatcher's old clothes, regardless of cost - I'm just rather baffled as to why in the world she might be selling them? This wasn't a charity auction, as far as I can see - and it's not like she needs the money, so what gives? If she needs space she could donate, she could give away; she could raise tens of thousands of pounds for worthy causes. But no! *is a little baffled by rich mad bad people*
In other news, my study wherein I sit and speak to you, O internets, used to be the garage of this house: which means it opens into what I want to call the scullery but should probably call the utility room. Or the mud room: I quite like having a mud room. (I knew some rich sane good people once whose first room in from the back of the house was the dog room. Actually ours could be the cat room, except that they'd never hold still for it. When we shut them out here, it's known as Durance Vile.)
Anyway: space with lots of machinery in it, boiler and laundry and so forth. And kitchen devices too: we have a shelf where they can sit, conveniently just below a power socket. Inter alia, that's where the slow cooker is. I have to pass it every time I come and go in or out of the house proper. Every time, I pause to taste the stew. This has absolutely nothing to do with assessing, adjusting, cooking the damn thing. It's sheer greed: like snatching a spoonful of soup every time you pass the cauldron.
Now I must go and look at my bread. 'Scuse me...
In other news, my study wherein I sit and speak to you, O internets, used to be the garage of this house: which means it opens into what I want to call the scullery but should probably call the utility room. Or the mud room: I quite like having a mud room. (I knew some rich sane good people once whose first room in from the back of the house was the dog room. Actually ours could be the cat room, except that they'd never hold still for it. When we shut them out here, it's known as Durance Vile.)
Anyway: space with lots of machinery in it, boiler and laundry and so forth. And kitchen devices too: we have a shelf where they can sit, conveniently just below a power socket. Inter alia, that's where the slow cooker is. I have to pass it every time I come and go in or out of the house proper. Every time, I pause to taste the stew. This has absolutely nothing to do with assessing, adjusting, cooking the damn thing. It's sheer greed: like snatching a spoonful of soup every time you pass the cauldron.
Now I must go and look at my bread. 'Scuse me...