The home of your dreams, or of?

After years of tough-graft and turning down nights away as every Martiniate into my downpayment, I finally created it and introduced thehouse of my dreams… or, more precisely, the home within my budget.

It turned in to some thing you’d find in a Laura Ashley catalog,furniture all brought from brand new, every chamber painted using a jazzycharacteristic wall and the dreamiest carpets thatbounced under your feet when you went.

What greater approach to celebrate than to invite my nearest and dearest through to get a small, civilised housewarming celebration?

Or, truthfully, invite friends and their partners and folks onFb who became more attractive since the last time you saw them(three years past), set the complete alcohol aisle of Sainsbury’sin to a trolley and show every one what a great-timewoman you are now, with your individual residence.

Fast-forward to the morning-after. I I can not evenbring myself to open the curtains out of concern with the sun melting my pupils. Of dropping down the stairs, flashbacks last night explain thelimp I’ve developed over night. That Facebook manfrom three years ago along with his « bit of an annoying drunk »friend are sprawled about the kitchen floor wrapped in towels and I do not also need to understand what that is in thetoilet.

Strolling to the living room and my Laura Ashley home now looks like acrime-scene. OH MY GOD, is the fact that vomit on my carpeting? The onesthat are more expensive than my Stamp Duty? Yep. A speedywhiff of the large, slushy bandage that iswetconfirms that’s vomit. Learn more here.

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