tablecloth

There's a very substantial part of me that isn't at all sure that I can face going through with trying to sell a house again - let alone buy one - and then, I hear what sounds to be a late-night soccer practice and a lot of screaming taking place in the street, and I think that perhaps I can ... all the same, it'll be hard to say goodbye to this place.  But it is small - the last few days, with Alice in Ann Arbor, it hasn't seemed so, of course - but it would be very good to have an office that's more than a desk wide.  And to have a yard - not just bits of terrace and deck.  The fictionalization of space has already started - our (probable) realtor suggested moving the table from outside the front door to a space where I can't imagine us ever using it - but it gives a rustic air (that same table, I recollect, performed an identical hypothetical function back in Graham Street).  The realtor brought a posse of colleagues over this afternoon (one fell instantly in love with Walter Gomez, and carried him around).  Ah, said the cat-lover, on seeing the terrace, and the outside of the house, "it's just like Tuscany."  "But that's a French table-cloth," said another.  "I know; I collect tablecloths."  Seemingly, the realtors of Los Angeles are a very different breed from those of Highland Park.