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"Did you roast the beef yourself?"
"Oh yes, my chef used to but, well, it tastes so much better when you do it yourself."
Liar. How can half-cooked, car-crash meat like this taste better than Di-Lagio's own just because of the hardship she had to endure?
"Wonderful," I remark, "please excuse me a moment."
"Oh of course, thank you." A reply echoes, smiling through gritted teeth. You can almost see this disaster replaying over in eyes as I speak to her. Of course, it's not all about the food. I've had to worm my way through far, far worse.
You see, Wilburn Road has always had this traditional of occupants taking turns hosting large dinner parties for all neighbours to enjoy (although 'enjoy' is a term to be used very loosely). Every week, sometimes fortnight, one household would get their chance to show off their wealth, a sort of short-term ego trip veiled by this mask of upper-class etiquette. Of course if you were to come to any of these houses on a normal day, half of the extravagant furniture will have been returned, and in comparison would look like quite the warzone.
This week it was Darla Kitchsy trying to impress the faceless masses known as friends. I would always make my excuses and get a chance to scout the house and see what had changed since last time. The carpet seems to have grown an extra pattern, as you progress through the house lampshades change from quite familiar to shapes usually only associated with mental institutions or torture devices. To her credit, it does look startling, and I suppose that's what the aim of it all is; to make people remember your name, or at least some oddball piece of furniture in your house.
But now I see the true side of our society; just yesterday I was telling her about some curtains I had got hold of for my upcoming house party (which is next week), and sitting in front of me is the very same model. They are a dark blue, with velvet strips and these sort of entrails draped from the top of the curtain to the floor. Just as I thought, they look wonderful, and despite some odd statuettes trying to catch your eye, they really do stand out.
Luckily I have come equipped, and without a second thought slash into the beautiful material I so wanted to show off myself. It seems a bit of a shame cutting up thousands of pounds worth of trash. I know a way of making them really light the room up.
Tonight it will burn.
"Oh yes, my chef used to but, well, it tastes so much better when you do it yourself."
Liar. How can half-cooked, car-crash meat like this taste better than Di-Lagio's own just because of the hardship she had to endure?
"Wonderful," I remark, "please excuse me a moment."
"Oh of course, thank you." A reply echoes, smiling through gritted teeth. You can almost see this disaster replaying over in eyes as I speak to her. Of course, it's not all about the food. I've had to worm my way through far, far worse.
You see, Wilburn Road has always had this traditional of occupants taking turns hosting large dinner parties for all neighbours to enjoy (although 'enjoy' is a term to be used very loosely). Every week, sometimes fortnight, one household would get their chance to show off their wealth, a sort of short-term ego trip veiled by this mask of upper-class etiquette. Of course if you were to come to any of these houses on a normal day, half of the extravagant furniture will have been returned, and in comparison would look like quite the warzone.
This week it was Darla Kitchsy trying to impress the faceless masses known as friends. I would always make my excuses and get a chance to scout the house and see what had changed since last time. The carpet seems to have grown an extra pattern, as you progress through the house lampshades change from quite familiar to shapes usually only associated with mental institutions or torture devices. To her credit, it does look startling, and I suppose that's what the aim of it all is; to make people remember your name, or at least some oddball piece of furniture in your house.
But now I see the true side of our society; just yesterday I was telling her about some curtains I had got hold of for my upcoming house party (which is next week), and sitting in front of me is the very same model. They are a dark blue, with velvet strips and these sort of entrails draped from the top of the curtain to the floor. Just as I thought, they look wonderful, and despite some odd statuettes trying to catch your eye, they really do stand out.
Luckily I have come equipped, and without a second thought slash into the beautiful material I so wanted to show off myself. It seems a bit of a shame cutting up thousands of pounds worth of trash. I know a way of making them really light the room up.
Tonight it will burn.
:D
It definitely takes 'keeping up with the Jones' to a new level.
It definitely takes 'keeping up with the Jones' to a new level.
Ah snobbish suburbia - you've captured it well. I think you could have taken it further, but I liked the tone of the narrator, very aware of the ridiculousness of it all.
Very good as it is ... you could have gone a bit further with it though, methinks, for a better story.
Posh suburban envy out of control. Strange one. I can't say I liked it that much, but it's an interesting slant on the theme.
"Did you roast the beef yourself?"
"Oh yes, my chef used to but, well, it tastes so much better when you do it yourself."
Liar. How can half-cooked, car-crash meat like this taste better than Di-Lagio's own just because of the hardship she had to endure?
"Wonderful," I remark, "please excuse me a moment."
"Oh of course, thank you." A reply echoes, smiling through gritted teeth. You can almost see this disaster replaying over in eyes as I speak to her. Of course, it's not all about the food. I've had to worm my way through far, far worse.
You see, Wilburn Road has always had this traditional of occupants taking turns hosting large dinner parties for all neighbours to enjoy (although 'enjoy' is a term to be used very loosely). Every week, sometimes fortnight, one household would get their chance to show off their wealth, a sort of short-term ego trip veiled by this mask of upper-class etiquette. Of course if you were to come to any of these houses on a normal day, half of the extravagant furniture will have been returned, and in comparison would look like quite the warzone.
This week it was Darla Kitchsy trying to impress the faceless masses known as friends. I would always make my excuses and get a chance to scout the house and see what had changed since last time. The carpet seems to have grown an extra pattern, as you progress through the house lampshades change from quite familiar to shapes usually only associated with mental institutions or torture devices. To her credit, it does look startling, and I suppose that's what the aim of it all is; to make people remember your name, or at least some oddball piece of furniture in your house.
But now I see the true side of our society; just yesterday I was telling her about some curtains I had got hold of for my upcoming house party (which is next week), and sitting in front of me is the very same model. They are a dark blue, with velvet strips and these sort of entrails draped from the top of the curtain to the floor. Just as I thought, they look wonderful, and despite some odd statuettes trying to catch your eye, they really do stand out.
Luckily I have come equipped, and without a second thought slash into the beautiful material I so wanted to show off myself. It seems a bit of a shame cutting up thousands of pounds worth of trash. I know a way of making them really light the room up.
Tonight it will burn.
"Oh yes, my chef used to but, well, it tastes so much better when you do it yourself."
Liar. How can half-cooked, car-crash meat like this taste better than Di-Lagio's own just because of the hardship she had to endure?
"Wonderful," I remark, "please excuse me a moment."
"Oh of course, thank you." A reply echoes, smiling through gritted teeth. You can almost see this disaster replaying over in eyes as I speak to her. Of course, it's not all about the food. I've had to worm my way through far, far worse.
You see, Wilburn Road has always had this traditional of occupants taking turns hosting large dinner parties for all neighbours to enjoy (although 'enjoy' is a term to be used very loosely). Every week, sometimes fortnight, one household would get their chance to show off their wealth, a sort of short-term ego trip veiled by this mask of upper-class etiquette. Of course if you were to come to any of these houses on a normal day, half of the extravagant furniture will have been returned, and in comparison would look like quite the warzone.
This week it was Darla Kitchsy trying to impress the faceless masses known as friends. I would always make my excuses and get a chance to scout the house and see what had changed since last time. The carpet seems to have grown an extra pattern, as you progress through the house lampshades change from quite familiar to shapes usually only associated with mental institutions or torture devices. To her credit, it does look startling, and I suppose that's what the aim of it all is; to make people remember your name, or at least some oddball piece of furniture in your house.
But now I see the true side of our society; just yesterday I was telling her about some curtains I had got hold of for my upcoming house party (which is next week), and sitting in front of me is the very same model. They are a dark blue, with velvet strips and these sort of entrails draped from the top of the curtain to the floor. Just as I thought, they look wonderful, and despite some odd statuettes trying to catch your eye, they really do stand out.
Luckily I have come equipped, and without a second thought slash into the beautiful material I so wanted to show off myself. It seems a bit of a shame cutting up thousands of pounds worth of trash. I know a way of making them really light the room up.
Tonight it will burn.