Insult to injury, anyone? I sprained my ankle.
It was 10pm I was walking my dog. I was also on the phone, and certainly not paying attention to large bumps on the road that had the audacity to be in my way. It’s going to take me a long, long time to forget that crunching sound.
I’m thinking this whole ankle thing was a sign to force me to sit still and look at the design magazines that paper my bedroom floor. I have to face reality, after all, because there’s a job to be done.
I own a loft. Better put, I own a two-floor 962 square foot box that the developers called “Loft” because they knew it would make me drool and want one. Three years and several delays later, I closed on my itty bitty “loft concept” space, several features left incomplete by said idiot contractors.
I have decided to find it charming.
The job in question is to work with what I have, and make it magnificent. I have limited space, a budget, and if I may so, spectacular taste. I also have a tenant until spring, but she’s a good friend and is all for improvement.
So now I get to bury myself in House & Home, Living and Elle Maison, rip out all kinds of pictures, get a gray hair or two (or 58), and secretly hate every designer in these magazines because I know they can do it much better than I can.
Projects, colours, creative chaos, I love it all! Or at least until tomorrow.
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