'What are we, The House of Lights?' My Mother would come in and exclaim in consternation. We have the place lit up like christmas. Squandering electricity because we think it grows on trees. Notions of a fantastic cathedral to illumination at the end of the Silk Road evaporate inside a late night lighting emporium outside Belfast. The purchase of a gigantic lampshade is weighed up over a debate which could only be measured in Kids Years whilst we do not run do not move and do not touch anything. Scarfed in miles of shiny plastic the bloody beast squats smugly taking up half the back seat all the way home. We don't go near it for fear it will spontaneously develop an accusatory kink or tell-tale thumb-print. Repercussions immeasurable.
Passed a 'Hous Of Lights' the other day, which made me think of it. A rusty footprint remains in lieu of e. From the Silk Road to the Upper Newtownards Road.
My chandelier is from the Taj Mahal hotel in Mumbai. Since ravaged by the 2008 bombs. We had $30 cock-a-tails for Tiffin then a $1 curry from a shack on the beach for tea.
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