Almost two years ago, my husband and I bought this house. It’s a great house. (Better than we would have imagined since it was the typical disgusting foreclosure and didn’t even have curtains or a light fixture or a decent shower head to its name the night we moved in.) It’s more than big enough for our future family. Perfect for entertaining thanks to an open floor plan. It even had a place for a formal living room.
However, being quirky twenty-somethings, we didn’t want a formal living room. Who truly uses them frequently enough that they deserve the time and energy to keep them clean?
Instead, I begged for a library. Not a den or an office that would be cramped with monstrous computer desk and receipts and bills, but a library with a quaint British feel where I could store and savor my books.
And my request was granted. Not that the room has looked like much of one. Until now.
Enter my library cabinet! The perfect way to store my beloved books and protect them from dust. (Thank God for not having to dust books!) It looks old, but it’s brand new. And it’s the crown jewel of my library.
Next addition (after we replace the well-worn couches and nicked kitchen table and drab gray exterior paint): twin writing desks reminiscent of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert’s.