This week I was doing my normal procrastination thing by reading metafilter, and I ended up spending the next two days reading all of Victoria Elizabeth Barnes‘ website and stifling giggles like an idiot the entire time.
I am a woman of dramatic tastes. Sometimes I blame this on my eyesight, but as my prescription is pathetically weak I can’t even really do that. I just like big things, bright things, gilded things, unusual things.
Anyway, high on two full days of VEB’s tales of giant fancy things I went on ebay and typed in the fateful words: antique rug -oriental -persian. And there it was, no bids, 2 hours to go, some marks, but the rug of dreams. The Aubusson style, French, vaguely rococo, Chinese woven rug of dreams. In my colour scheme. In my budget.
Look at it. Its so beautiful I want to scream. Yes, there are rust spots on it, it desperately needs a clean, but oh god. Aubusson rugs. Aubusson ruuuuuug. (!!!!!!)
My parents are rug obsessives. I have many vivid memories of being a bored child sitting in Singaporean rug showrooms as my parents decided which incredibly expensive rug to buy. The best part of rug shopping was always trying to get away with sitting on top of the highest pile of rugs without getting told off.
My personal favourite rugs were the delicate silk Aubusson style rugs that my parents were never going to buy in a million years. They liked enormous traditional wool beauties hand dyed with beetroot and other natural dyes and made from handspun wool, representative of a full year of hard work and toil. And those are great rugs. I am excited for when I eventually inherit them. But they are not what my inner child wants. My inner child wants the fanciest of things. This is the inner child who became entranced with lolita fashion, with gilded crap, all the way up to last summer’s obsession with the Brighton Pavillion.
Anyway I bought the rug. It was £150, which is officially a steal, but I also did not pay attention to the size of it – 4 meters x 3 meters. This is the size of my living room. Oops?
Getting it home was a trial. The rug was in Wood Green, North London. So I booked a cab. It was expensive, but I figured an Uber would end up extortionate when I inevitably got caught in traffic transitioning from North to South London. However, when the cab arrived, the cabbie refused to drive me and my rug unless I gave him an extra £15 cash. Seems he had accepted a fare meant for a normal size car, despite driving a seven seater people carrier, and he felt very strongly I should be paying for a 7 seater. I maintained that I was an idiot who genuinely thought a 4 meter rug would fit into a standard saloon car and that I had not asked for a 7 seater car and therefore I would pay the money because I wanted to go home, but I was not happy about it. He and I managed to argue about this for the best part of half an hour before we gave up and stopped talking to one another as we hit traffic on the Blackwall tunnel. I paid him the £15, and he offered to help me carry the rug up to my first floor flat, but after a few minutes I basically got frustrated and said I’d drag it up the stairs myself.
I had unfortunately been waylaid by a virus that day. I’d managed to do a lot of light DIY – putting up pictures crookedly, nailing backboards to my bookcases, watching a lot of say yes to the dress, and for some reason I thought I could drag 12 square meters of incredibly dense carpeting up the narrow stairs into my corner apartment. This essentially ended up taking the form of approximately 100 50kg deadlifts. At my fittest I could deadlift 80kg – once. I managed to get it into the apartment, but I did throw up from severe unfitness and probably the virus hiding in my blood stream and went straight to sleep the moment I got the door shut.
It doesn’t fit where I wanted it to fit, but half of it does. And it does look nice.
Its now rolled up in my living room because I keep tripping over it, and I’m plotting which of my friends I can blackmail into helping me lay it down, and whether it will clash badly with my very green, very floral sofa. And whether I really care all that much. Giant fancy things – not even once.