You have this pounding headache, the kind that pills won’t cure, and you take a quick break from your writing of a tv show proposal by having a look at a couple of links on your blogroll (yeah, you still don’t use an RSS feed reader, you’re lazy and old-fashioned in that way). You read the comments on a post about modern designs, you decide to check out what this DWR catalog is all about (how could you have missed it? It’s based in San Francisco), and then you realize (though you kind of knew it could only be) that the very inexpensive reading chair and ottoman you recently purchased is a rip-off of the City Armchair. You read more about the fauteuil and then find this: … the City Armchair and Ottoman capture classic drawing room elegance with rich leather upholstery and exceptional craftsmanship.
You think: ah, the famous drawing room. You had noticed that the term « drawing room » came up often in non-contemporary novels you read, and that you had developed a specific fascination for the drawing room in Rebecca (which you were recently surprised to see in a best-seller section at Indigo, or maybe the Big Read top 21 section). And then you wonder: what the hell is a drawing room exactly? You have vague ideas of a personal space, sort of the feminine equivalent of the « study » for a man, and you know that the term makes you dream, that the idea of a house with a drawing room is something of a myth, unreachable. And yet now you’ve got this cool reading chair and a decent house (you had always wanted a reading chair), and that headache is making you dizzy, kind of like the Web does sometimes, and boy are you ever going to get rid of that headache ’cause you can’t seem to quiet down that mind of yours, clicking and clicking and pounding one more thought, one more link, too many interesting things to do and learn about in a lifetime and you’ve got a bad case of the Web brain.
You better get back to writing or else who’s going to pay for that drawing room you want? And what’s a drawing room anyway?
