Plastic Trunking

It's clear we are building the Villa D'Este, Hadrian's Villa, whatever. Certainly, and forgive the time travelling, Scott thinks he's fucking Michelangelo, and when I got home today to find him proud in front of a door frame, a bloody lovely door frame admittedly, a door frame worthy of the Barbican, or Jesus College, or any fucking thing of times gone by quality. I could only love it, but as soon had he'd gone, left, fucked off, go mad with fury because that's a whole days progress! It must be paid for. Maybe Philip Johnson was right, you need despots to 'build'. My god 'we need our life back' and 'we're broke' is not a cry Scott wants to hear, and for all the right reasons probably.
Hadrian, my old tutor James Madge told me, in all his sageness and mischief, pipe sucking and red wine quaffing, had his island for sulking. I'm having one I tell you, as shit heads even presume to knock on the door to track plastic trunking for the new entry phone system for the block, I go purple. 'YOU ARE NOT FUCKING STICKING THAT PLASTIC TRUNKING ANYWHERE EXCEPT UP YOUR ARSE!!' I say. The island for sulking, after all this effort, will be a repro Mies day bed, the only modern piece of furniture that in the end works out easy to make cheap, and so now is, and I will enjoy it for conceptual reasons, as cheap Mies, and stare happily at Scott's expensive ceiling, listening, even if the fucking thing  is uncomfortable, to Van Halen in the afternoon.