Feeling beige

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I have just visited a house where I was almost too scared to sit down. No, there was no vicious dog and as far as I am aware I do not have a case of raging hemorrhoids. In short I had found myself in a beige palace, a sanitised box where the fringes on the rug had been brushed at precisely the correct angle and the towels in the bathroom were folded like origami napkins in a posh restaurant (and she didn't even know I was coming!). The house was an altar to Homes and Gardens but I was strangely disturbed as I returned home, only just missing the newly laid catsick on the kitchen floor.

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'You're weird.' Demanda said, arriving as if by magick as the kettle came to the boil. 'You wouldn't want a house like that, so why are you moaning?'
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Demanda is a fully paid-up member of the Gin Co-op, she has known me and my house for years. I looked around as she kicked off her shoes and flopped down, spilling coffee down the side of my saggy leather sofa. She swished her foot about a bit to mop it up.
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'Nothing matches,' I grumped 'and my towels would think I had gone mad if I asked them to do that origami restaurant thing, but why can't I be bit more, well, together.'
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'Your house is you.' Demanda said, as she missed the ashtray by a good five inches 'I wouldn't come here if I thought you wanted me to be uncomfortable.'
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I looked at my eclectic room with its eclectic adornments. I suppose she's right, they don't come to see my messy towels and my unmatched rooms and they would all be horrified if I ever did beige. Come to that, so would I.

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