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Shorts
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| Mansion Makeover | |
| By Turquoise-Tangerine | ||||||||||||
| 05 June 2008 | ||||||||||||
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Let me know what you think.
Gliding serenely into the gloomy opulence of the library room, Morticia was distressed to discover her young daughter cowering in a corner by the window. Partially hidden behind a black velvet drape - with anguish etched upon her ashen features - Wednesday was trembling and close to tears.
“My darling, whatever is wrong?” “Mummy, he’s scaring me,” declared Wednesday, pointing an accusatory finger. With his raven hair a billowing mane, Laurence stepped forward shaking his head. He made an overexaggerated expansive gesture that caused the ruffled cuffs of his starched lilac shirt to spill from the sleeves of his fuchsia greatcoat. “Really, sweet child, I am mortified! I did no more than to mention Rococo.” “He’s doing it again, mummy. Make him stop,” squealed Wednesday. Morticia gave a caustic glare. “Mister Llewelyn-Bowen, please! Wednesday is no more than a child. Think carefully about your choice of language.” She turned to her daughter and smiled sweetly. “Wednesday, dear, please go to your room. I shall have words with this dandified interior designer.” Keeping her back pressed firmly to the wall, Wednesday made her way to the door and out of the room. Morticia narrowed her eyes. “Mr Llewelyn-Bowen, an explanation if you please.” “My dear Mrs Addams, I am on a mission to make suburbia sexy. I shall bring exuberance, decadence and colour to your dreary abode. Together, we shall embrace hand-painted murals, neat rattan seating and… Anaglypta.” Morticia Addams placed a hand to her brow. “Anaglypta! The most heinous sin imaginable! Have you no heart, sir?” Laurence moved towards the fireplace, his leather trousers creaking. “I can assure you, Mrs Addams, that I have never been one to embrace minimalism in home dècor, or apparel. With a dash of Passionate Pink the Anaglypta will breath vitality into your stark surroundings. Even, dare I say, a pinch of posh!” He cast a critical gaze over the room while running analytical fingers through the thick layers of dust that sat atop the mantelpiece. “I’m all in favour of repro and retro, Mrs Addams. However, I want Palladianism… not 16th century cobwebs!” “How dare you, sir! Some of the black widows have been in my family for centuries. I wouldn’t dream of parting with them. Little Pugsley adores them.” “I feel that it is only fair of me to admit that I am in awe of your mansions décor,” said Laurence sardonically. Retrieving a small wooden box from a niche above the fireplace, he opened the lid and peered inside. “Ah! A severed hand. How passé! Tell me, madam, what else might I find secreted in your darkest corners? A rack in the basement? An iron maiden in the attic?” “Well of course not, mister Llewellyn-Bowen. You’ll find them in their usual place, the master bedroom. They were, after all, a gift from my darling Gomez on the occasion of our tenth wedding anniversary. He can be so romantic at times.”
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