Give me more rooms, floor space, floors, dropped ceilings, cornices, extra
bathroom, a toilet big enough for a jacuzzi.
I want a kitchen I can fit an island in, stainless steel German cooker
hoods, state-of-the-art induction-heated hobs even if I never use them.
Give me wall-to-wall parquet tiles, roman blinds, more curtains than
I’ll ever open, so many square feet I won't have to knock down a wall to
make the place seem bigger. It IS bigger.
I want a bedroom so capacious I can park a Jaguar in it.
Two Jaguars. I want it large enough to be a local oddity, a tourist
attraction, the subject of awe and envy, a heritage site.
So huge, developers will knock on my heavy door, asking to turn my land
into condos for profit, and I will gleefully refuse.
I want it so generous friends would drive by and ask to drop off their
dogs for exercise runs.
I want a pad so massive I can go jogging in it and not get bored with
the view, so vast I can't see my neighbours without binoculars, so tall
I scan continents with my naked eye.
Of course a swimming pool. Make it Olympic-sized, lake-sized, a body
of clean water visible from space, one my father can go fishing in any
time he likes, a private indoor beach, like the one in Miyazaki with man-made
waves, 2.5 metres high all year round.
Give me an estate so huge it'll be its own GRC. Heck, it'll have its
own Parliament, a standing army, a separate time zone, the clocks always
set to 6pm on Sunday, the skies forever on the brink of twilight.
While we're at it, give me property with its own climate, the air tuned
to a cool 23 degrees C, the clouds broadcasting jazz instead of rain.
And how about a mountain or two in the living room, each topped with
ancient pines like overgrown bonsai. My own moon, that I can switch on
or off with a flick of the wrist. A sun with a built-in dimmer. Stars to
deck my Christmas forest with.
None of us will survive this anyway, says the flower, says the ant,
whose abode is larger than any of ours.
Already, in my modest habitat, I hear my body's ceaseless retrofitting,
a lifetime of work before Death moves in.
So when I go to sleep, I'd like a bed of snow, warmed to the temperature
I'd like a blanket of earth drawn over my aching shoulders, the sound
of the sea nudging at my window, but otherwise, perfect quiet across the
acres and acres.