Blargh. It was too easy to wake up this morning--I was having this wonderful dream that I was moving into this incredibly cool house. The first floor was a kind of compact English-cottage sort of space, the second floor was a fairly open floor plan set of bedrooms, with one massive bathroom with a huge shower and vast expanse of tile floor. "It's great, but I can't live here," I was telling my mother, "there's no place for my studio!" "You could try the third floor," she said, and I found a narrow set of stairs that led to a heretofore unsuspected third floor. It was gigantic, a huge open hunting-lodge sort of space, built around a glass case containing a lightning blasted tree. There were massive fireplaces at either end, heavy log furniture, skylights, and wraparound balconies. There was a bathroom with cast-iron tub. It was a really epic space. (It was also located at 31 Othello St, in a town called Boyal. These were unusually precise directions for my brain to provide for dream architecture. )
Eventually, Angus walking on my head woke me up, and I realized that there was no such building. Bummer. Normally I'd console myself that if I'm ever filthy rich, I will BUILD my dream home (granted it hasn't literally appeared in dreams before...) but in this case, the laws of physics don't seem to support it, given that the top floor was three times the size of the lower ones, and there was that peculiar load-bearing tree.
Probably means that the bit about President Obama reading Digger wasn't real, either.