Minimalism

I’m quite a fan of minimalism. I often find it stressful having heaps of belongings (I say heaps even though everything I own fits in seven cardboard boxes). It’s an opinion many would find strange; people who are comfortable owning a TV, a sofa, or even a dining table and chairs (can you imagine such a thing!). I like to be able to think that given an hour, or maybe less, I could stuff everything I own into a knapsack and be on my jolly way. When I first moved down to university in 2007 I could fit all my bits and bobs into one box, and that was bliss. Now it is seven, and it’s hell. Oh, and there’s a bicycle also; I’m such an extravagant fool!
It is this psycheccentric of mine that has always made living in hotel a longed for dream, if I had the moolah. Stay for six months in a hotel in the south of France. Bored now. Pack up, fly to Vancouver and rent a penthouse suite. Tokyo? Live in a capsule? No. Dalmation coast. Pack up and Split. Go anywhere you like, eat in the restaurant, send your laundry to the basement, chat with the maid while she dusts your nick nacks (not a euphemism). For a creative type who has little time for mundanities, like picking out wallpaper or vacuuming, hotel living is ideal.
Nabokov had the right idea when he sojourned for 20 years at the Montreux Palace on lake Geneva. From the photos on the website it certainly looks like a swanky place; with great floes of marmoreal ice, enough to build every greek demigod a marble mausoleum. It can only be calculated by the very finest of dance accountants the grandiosity of shindig that can be held in the ballroom. The exterior evokes a grand duchess, mature but sensualised by the memories glinting behind the eyes, draped in a whimsical lemon dress, ready for the summer. Not sure I fit in. Matalan here holds as much weight as its scrabble score (nein). Need to re-evaluate.
The Travel Tavern limbo of Alan Partridge seems like it would be, while not a dream, a lifestyle upgrade. What would I give to have a lovelorn P.A., a secret drawer, the pity of minimum wage service staff and my own big plate for lunchtime buffet’s. I’ll crack open my minibar and read my ex-wife a review from Autocar magazine deriding her new squeeze’s runaround.
In the meantime I can take extraneous encumberances to the charity shop and get those seven boxes to one or two.

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