Table Talk

Our house has accurately been described as "densely furnished." It really is. While we have a fair sized abode, we have packed it to the gills with a piano, bookshelves, chairs, tables, and other sundry bits of furniture that we've acquired from IKEA, elderly relatives, and junk stores.

Yesterday, we took possession of an absurdly large table. I am uncertain of its dimensions, but it certainly... dominates the room. It seats six by default and accommodates eight comfortably. The chairs are solid and magisterial, fairly reeking of bourgeoisie middle-class. The table is about six inches higher than our previous table, meaning that I can finally host dinners and game nights without having everyone hunched over like some no-good punk kids on the Barton bus.

I can sit down at the head of this table, and overlook that vast expanse of polished wood, and imagine myself as "High Priest in the Temple of Jollity," raising toasts at friendly dinners, or slinging dice on game nights. I look forward to baptizing it by fire, with a game session or friendly potluck, at the soonest opportunity.


_{"Well, hello, friend! You've just caught me in the middle of my nightly debauch. Yes, ha ha! A hot mug of tea, and an improving book! Oh, but I am full of le whimsy, am I not?"}