The sheer drapes were constantly clawed to shreds by the cat. I recall they had a strange gossamer feel, but weren't soft; like so many things in the age of Miracle Fabrics, they seemed resolutely, defiantly artificial. Same goes for the carpet: rugburn galore.

The table matched the end tables; it would sit there for years, waiting for the moment when my sister tripped over my legs and planted her upper teeth on the wood, leaving an indentation of her upper incisors. I ran to Northport in my slippers to get my mom, because there was BLOOD. But she was okay.