My bedroom at my parents house has pink fluffy and white clouds, a hand picked wrought iron bedhead and an aqua marine themed bedspread complete with starfish and dolphins. My mum has a bedazzling indian rug thrown over the bedspread in an attempt to make things look better. Alas, it actually looked worse. An ex boyfriend visiting my house told me, as we lay amongst splashing dolphins and hot fuchsia and mustard indian beading, that it was like lying in a fish curry.
In terms of interior decoration I had somewhat appalling taste. The finished product is mortifying. I painted a beautiful off white chest of draws a hideous shade of teal, ruining it forever and there are fairy figurines and crystals that litter my window sill. Back issues of Dolly and Girlfriend stack my shelves alongside cassettes of the Commitments, Spin Doctors and Mariah Carey. Despite all my horrific shortcomings I have left my bedroom stuck in a time warp because I love returning home and staring at pictures of Jonathan Taylor Thomas, lying on my fish curry bed and rereading diary entries of torment, self doubt, awe and wonder.
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