Wherever I Lay My Hat…
…Mi casa, su casa!
Well, yes, obviously there had to be some compromises over the interior design features. I mean, curved walls, for one thing. Darling, they’re an absolute bugger to work with. I mean, it’s not like you can just waltz into IKEA and find yourself a nicely modernist shelving unit with ‘curve compliant shaping’ now is it? No, no, no… It had to be all bespoke.
What did I use? Oh, my love I found a simply adorable atelier just outside Nice, of all places. Driftwood, smooth-sanded and bleached like bone; suitably sealed, of course. But the little man — oh, you would have died when you saw his darling moustache! — he had just wall after wall of the most ingenious tools. He was an absolute delight to watch at his work, I have to say. Rapt, I was, darling; absolutely rapt! I could’ve watched him simply forever. Don’t you think that there’s something… Something sensual about watching an artisan’s hands at work? Very meditative! Took me quite out of myself it did.
Of course, it meant that all of that old stuff — the rugs, the cushions, the drapes… Well, that all just had to go. I know, I know: I’ve had them simply forever; since… since Byblos, I think! And yes it felt like ripping out a piece of my soul. But, they all had to go. I was really lucky, though, because I was in Morocco at the time, where they go for genuine Persian rugs like… Well, I don’t know what they’re like. They go for genuine Persian rugs like a souk-full of pig-greedy merchants. That’s what they’re like.
Anyway, that was out with the old décor and in with the new. A complete change of ambience, don’t you think? Less of the ‘Persian Pleasure Palace’ vibe, more of the contemporary modernist- Scandi-style. Nicely restrained oak flooring; a split level lounge. Do you like the library gallery up there? And a couple of LC4 recliners; aren’t they just wonderful? And that’s an LC5 sofa… I know, perhaps I went a little ‘OTT with the LC’, but honestly, when it comes to modernism it really does all come down to that wonderful little man, Le Corbusier. A bit of a ‘petit-Napoleon’ entre-nous, if I’m being honest with you; quite difficult at times. A pipe that smelt like Satan’s armpit, and the worst halitosis, ever! But his style! I was so grateful that a client had pointed me at him for their own project. Darling, I’m sorry if that feels old fashioned now, but that’s just what I wanted. An old-fashioned version of the future, dear heart; and you can’t get much more modernist than that!
Where were we? Oh yes, we were about to have a little chat about the… About the ‘arrangements’ here, weren’t we? Now then, pet, let’s talk about this sensibly, shall we? I mean, sure we can share a duvet once in a while… But sweet-pea, I do like to stretch out in bed and meet the new day on my own terms. And frankly, I’m not at all sure about sharing a bathroom! No, no, no… All those unmentionable little bodily indignities in a shared lavatory. I shudder to think. No thank you. Doesn’t bear thinking about. No, better is if we give you your own suite, isn’t it? Down a couple of levels. You’ll have more room there. Much better.
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When can you go home!? Are you quite serious!?
Lover, there is no ‘going home’… See, this is the problem with you people: you just don’t think things through. I mean, come on; look around you, sweetie-pie… Don’t you see? We’re inside the bottle now: this is where that vile man bound me, nasty little bugger. I mean, Beelzebub’s bollocks come on: the Vizier!? Who knew that a busy sod like the Vizier would have had the time to learn dark magic and binding incantations!?
Anyway, yes: he bound me in here, “For eternity!” he said. Just to be let out every few hundred years when some lucky little poppet like you finds the bottle and gives it a rub. Then, before you know it, out pops the cork and up bubbles little old me. Ready to give you the whole, “Behold, summoner, I am the djinn of the bottle!” I’m out and about long enough to grant three wishes; that’s it, that’s my periodic ‘freedom’: three wishes. And the wishes — heavens my darling, the wishes — are so, so petty! If it’s not gold then it’s diamonds; if it’s not women then it’s men; if it’s not conquest on the battlefield then it’s in the bedroom… Yawns! I mean, totally petty.
And then, along comes you, my little buttercup, with your delicate little fingers and your darling dimples and your sparkly blue eyes. Two mundane, ‘lots of money’ and ‘eternal youth’-wishes later and then what do you go and wish for? ‘To see where I live.’
To see. Where. I live!?
I don’t even know what to say… How sweet but so, so bloody stupid. I mean, I’m locked in the bottle! What did you think would happen if you came in here with me? I can’t open the thing from in here can I? I mean, if I could then I’d hardly hang around, would I? I’d be off like a… Well, I don’t know. Off like a djinn who’s been stuck in a bottle for thirty centuries, I guess. And no, you can’t make a wish in here. For one thing, you’ve had all three — and again, if you could make a wish then that would mean that I could do the whole ‘abra-shazaam’-thing, and then (again!) I’d be off already, wouldn’t I!?
So… Here we are, just waiting on some other lucky mortal to trip up over us and decide to give the bottle a bit of a polish. Until then, my darling, you’re stuck with me, in here… So smile, for Ba’al’s sake; don’t look so miserable! I’ll let you choose the décor next time we see the light of day.
Until then, make yourself at home, my sweet. Mi casa, su casa!
