T and I went house hunting tonight.
The sign on the lawn of the dilapidated bungalow across the street from the mall read: "Any Trades Accepted". T said that was a bad omen. I couldn't help but say: "I'll give you an old Sex Pistols tape". T and the realtor both laughed, and the realtor said: "I'll give you my cat".
We trudged up the steps to the front door, me clinging desperately to J lest the steps give way. (The sagging front steps were actually coming detached from the house.) We walked in, and noted the plywood flooring in the entranceway. The kitchen was done in green 70's lino. But they ran out, and did one section in blue. It only got worse from there.
The only good thing about the house was its gorgeous oversized stainless steel refrigerator. It did not come with the house.