My Imaginary Apartment

I'm so tired! If I was any more tired, I'd be asleep. Now is a good time for dreams. In this particular dream, I have been unceremoniously booted from my current apartment. It's not so bad, though--I've found myself a better one by far.

In my imaginary apartment, which is a little larger than this one (but not so much larger I'd knock around), the floors aren't white. Nothing's white, in fact, or ivory, or beige, or any shade that holds a stain easily. The kitchen's finished in granite, standard grey, and the walls are a cheerful shade of terracotta. There are orange lanterns hanging from the ceiling. They gleam mellowly on the walls, and they use standard lightbulbs--none of these wanky halogen ones that burn out the instant you switch them on, if you happened to contaminate them with even the tiniest smudge of finger grease.

The living room is carpeted. The carpet is a nice, warm burgundy shag. It goes perfectly with the walls, which are painted the precise colour of brown eggs. My red couch clashes slightly, but I can't imagine sleeping on anything else, so it gets to stay. My bookcase, however, has been replaced with a larger model, in spider-repelling mahogany, and the computer desk has been switched out to match. My television set, which has hitherto decorated the floor, has its own wee stand, with a shelf for a VCR. (Since this is an imaginary flat, there is, in fact, a VCR on that shelf, rather than a big empty space--maybe even a DVD player.)

The best thing about my imaginary apartment is the lighting. There are lights everywhere, nice bright ones. There are striplights behind the furniture, cheesy-arsed bubbletower lights in the corners, neat rows of swivel lamps on the ceilings, and desk lamps on every available surface. Even the bathroom is brilliantly lit. It's all very cheerful and summery, no matter what the season outdoors.

I don't know what's in the bedroom. I don't go in there much. There's a bed of some sort, I suppose, and a chest of drawers for my clothes. Oh, and a closet. A great big closet, full of hooded sweaters on paddy coathangers. (Coathangers are good, because they keep the wrinkles out.) Along with the sweaters, there are dozens of pairs of black and grey trousers, each with a pair of crisp pleats down the fronts of its legs. There's a little shoe rack in the corner, where my white sneakers are snuggled up with two pairs of black boots, one pair of tap-dancing shoes, and...and...that's all, in fact. (I can't think of any footwear I want and haven't already got.)

There's a hall closet as well, a big one. My wheelchair's stuffed way in the back, hidden by a luxurious curtain of coats. I love coats. One can never have too many coats. In addition to my current collection, there's an extremely convincing false mink, black, ankle-length, and a red jacket trimmed in white feathers (for Christmas wear, of course). Perched on a shelf above, there's a disorderly pile of scarves and hats and mittens, and maybe, just maybe, some great furry earmuffs.

Instead of a little solarium, there's a big ol' conservatory-type place, all lovely and warm and dry, and that's where Stella lives. She's got her nest under a horrible old dried-up tree stump I got from somewhere. The roots have been torn out in such a way as to form a cool, dark cave, and she lurks in there all day, brooding away in beady-eyed contentment. A miniature forest of overgrown bonsai plants tangles its way ceilingwards, clotting the windows with leaves. Little blots and dapples of light sneak through at odd intervals. It looks just like the Room of Roots from Gormenghast, only green. Alive. Giant rat heaven.

Appliances--well, there's a fridge, of course, a modest-sized one, suitable for the dietary needs of one budget-sized person. There's a dishwashing machine, too, and one of those conjoined washer/dryer things you get in closets. Oh, and a microwave oven. Same stuff I've got now, that is. There's also a toaster, and an electric kettle. I like having an electric kettle around. What else? A blender, maybe. If I had a blender, I might have the occasional milkshake. Raspberries, yogurt, ice cream, and milk, two minutes on puree--delicious.

There have to be some decorations, too--let's say there's a little shelf nailed to the wall, just big enough for Snarling and Scratch. There's a wee lamp right above it, with its own tiny lampshade. When lit, it illuminates the rats from above and slightly behind, casting them in creepy silhouette. They look ever so realistic! Folks always see them and go "Eek!" I've framed those prints James Browne sent me, too, and they're hanging above the...above the fireplace. Yeah, there's a fireplace, one of those little gas ones that you turn on with a switch. I've got the rest of my rat stuff sitting on the mantelpiece (mummified rats, rat skeletons, tiny silver rat opium weights, big poofy stuffed rats, and so forth).

Assuming fabulous wealth for a moment, I've got one other thing in my apartment, in its very own special display case: a mechanical giant pouched rat, just like the ones they used in Willard. Every day after work, I take it out and play with it for a while. I make it stand up and wave its nose around, then run around and around in circles. Whenever someone new came over to visit, I pose it in a most lifelike way in the middle of the floor, in hopes of giving them a fright. Then, when that little scare's worn off, I' invite them into the conservatory to see the real thing.

In a corner, nose poked out a window, there's a moderately powerful telescope, whose primary function is examining the contents of people's shopping bags as they walk by on the street below. It is not be used for perverted purposes, such as watching people masturbate.

And that's it--my ideal dwelling. Try as I might, I can't think of anything else I'd like to have. A better scanner, maybe, or a couple of extra chairs. Possibly even a coffee-table. Then again, who drinks coffee in here? Having a coffee table would be extending an invitation for barked shins. No--the floor would be free of stuff one could trip over. No clutter or rubbish or rugs. Just a modest-sized place, bright as an August afternoon, with comfortable furniture to sit on, and rat figurines all around. Perfect.