We are moving and it's weird. Weird because we are an average couple. A guy who is a glorified cook married to a lady turned
decorator. We happened to stumble upon a semi-rural faux english farm.
Lacking the trust fund, legacy or crown to accompany it all, she,
with her faux prince, emptied their pockets and purchased it.
And now, the only thing that I can do to make this farm a home is to swear to the following:
Occasionally, smoke a fag in the barn for faux Englishman's sake. What a chore.
Drunkenly, mow the lawn in the inherited mower...without risk of arrest.
Pretend to have chickens.
Install English wallpaper in the girls' rooms.
Pretend to can.
Mow. Again. And drink. And mow.
Rest. And hydrate. (Mowing and pretending is incredibly draining).
And paint. Palest pink. The color of an English mouse's belly. Pink. Aliscious.