This made me think about Cardigan Towers, the mansion in which I rattle around and feel increasingly irrelevant. As old age encroaches (108, next birthday. Best send flowers, they'll be good either way) I am given to bouts of incontinent reminiscence. I never capitalised on my hobby the way Hefner did, nor did I have as much well publicised fun. I do however take comfort from the notion that my life was not completely wasted, just mostly wasted.
I have toyed with the idea of putting Cardigan Towers on the market and if there's a prospect of staying here as well, then the idea quite appeals. For those of you who might be in the market, I'm prepared to release a few advance details.
It's a big house with many dedicated cardigan features, no jacuzzis or swimming pools, they play havoc with lambswool.
As you can see, it has a number of cardigan rooms. Sorry, that'll be well appointed cardigan rooms. As with Hefner, the curse is I'll be staying here. I'll be doing that for two reasons. One is that I like the place, the other is that this bloke comes round every week to do the gardens.
And since this is the first post of 2016, happy new year.
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