When William suggested a walk tonight, it took us a while to get lined up and out the door. So, instead of strolling down our dark street, we opted to explore a mall. A mall with wide sidewalks, a koi pond, piped in music, cheery lighting, and shops. It was nice... nice to be out, moving, nice to see pretty windows, with pretty displays. And finally, I couldn't resist the one shop that always manages to lure me in, both tempting me and vexing me. And I am not even going to say their name, though I am linking, here, and you may want to guess, just for your own amusement, which store in the whole wide world is my consumer frenemy, the purveyor of things I am loath to lust for. They have ceramic bowls, with chickens. Bowls. Chickens. I'm done for. It's frustrating when, at last, you find the material things you dream of, desire, which had always been odd and obscure, worn, shabby, rustic, thrifted, but which have suddenly become chic, hip, and not remotely thrifty. Alas. Alas, what folly to be burdened with good taste. Maybe what I really need is a designer to curate and display my own vast collection of worn, shabby, rustic and thrifty treasures, to their best appeal. It is, indeed, nice to walk, late on a week night, to see pretty things, smell lemon poppyseed candles, imagine where old wooden boxes and crates came from, how they would look in our Bird House, or might be artfully reproduced. So very nice, so very perilous.