In the middle of the room an iron staircase winds its way towards the neat circular hole in the smooth ceiling high above. The ceiling is white, but it is hard to tell at this distance. It could be the palest green. Or possibly blue. The staircase is painted green. A rather virulant shade of lime green, in fact. The floor, on the other hand is an expanse of stone cold flagstones which are, perhaps surprisingly, grey. It must be confessed, however, that they do have a rather blue tinge to them.
To your left two huge patio doors, at least twice as tall as you are, are flanked by heavy curtains sweeping the floor. The right-hand curtain is bottle green and the left a dark midnight blue. As you look out into the open air beyond you are perhaps surprised to see that under lowering sky it is drizzling, the day oozing forth a damp foggy haze. An avenue of trees in full autumnal dress flame off into the distance. The grass beneath them is green. A grassy green which seems bright against the iron grey sky.
Shivering, you turn towards the medieval stone fireplace occupied by a blazing fire trying, but always failing to devour what appears to be half of a tree. In defience of the prevailing colourscheme the fire flickers red and orange. Solnushka is working on it though. At a sensible non-flammable distance two sofas, one royal blue, the other deep forest green, stare at each other accross a pale coffee table. It almost certainly comes from IKEA. You are sure you saw it there last week, when you were searching the store for that perfect lampshade. Squatting on a tray in the middle of the table, surrounded by assorted green and blue mugs, along with other tea-making whatsits, is a rotund brass samovar, topped with a cheerful blue teapot. Instructions for use are taped below.
On either side of the fireplace is an expanse of painted wall. The left is a pale greenish white, stamped with the distinctive shield of the h2g2 Muscicians Guild. The right, a pale whitish blue, would be sporting the coat of arms of the h2g2 Royal Procrastinators' Society, if Solnushka had got around to nailing it up. Above the mantlepiece a huge oil painting holds your attention with its swirl of black brush strokes. A cacophany of black. Every shade of black it is possible to imagine. And in the corner, written in black, are the dates 1952-2001.