The mottled mosaic floor with the tiny crater at the junction of the third and fourth slab to the right of the living room door has gone. My feet touch terracotta coloured tiles now.
The white formica cabinet doors are gone. The milk cooker whistles in a Tuscany coloured kitchen.
My bed with its white plastic headboard decorated with a lone hologram sticker of Hanuman (after my sister told me the story of Pet Cemetary) is gone. Antique rosewood beds are what I now sleep on.
Sophisticated slate grey has hidden the clowns that once decorated my bathroom walls.
In the soap dish a large sickly green bar of Cinthol reassures me that all has not changed.