Your house of your dreams, or of?

After years of tough-graft and turning down nights out as every Martiniconsumed into my downpayment, I finally made it and introduced thehouse of my fantasies… or, more accurately, the residence in my budget.

I turned it into every room painted having ajazzy feature walls, furniture all brought from new, something you’d see in a Laura Ashley catalog and the dreamiestcarpeting that rebound under your toes when you walked.

What greater approach to celebrate than to invite my closest and dearest finished to get a small, civilised housewarming party?

Or, truthfully, encourage friends as well as their partners and people onFb who became more appealing since the past time you noticed them(three years past), set the complete booze aisle of Sainsbury’sin to a cart and show every one what a fun-timegal you might be today, with your individual home.

Fast-forward to the morning after. I I can not actuallybring myself to open the draperies out of fear of the sunlight melting my students. Flashbacks of falling downthe stairs last night clarify thelimp I’ve developed over night. That Fb guyfrom 3 years ago along with his “bit of an annoying drunk”friend are sprawled about the kitchen floor covered in towels and I really don’t even need to know what which is in thetoilet.

Walking into the living-room and my Laura home now resembles acrime scene. OH MY GOD, is that vomit on my carpets? The onesthat cost more than my Stamp Duty? Yep. A quickwhiff of the large, slushy patch that iswetverifies that is vomit. Learn more here.


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