Show us a picture of where you'd like to live and tell us why you want to live there.
Submitted by Warhead.
It was always my dream to live in a palace created from the mind of an overweight Prince who understood the Lush Life:
Why would I want to live there? First, location, location, location. The Royal Pavilion is in Brighton, East Sussex, England. It's near the coast – you can smell the sea air, that salty spark that enlivens creativity and madness. It's no wonder that this extravagant expanse of whimsy was built here.
In addition, each room is an example of unbridled decoration. I want to live in a building where a silver dragon will stare at me as I eat, from its perch on the dining room chandelier. I want my home to feature carved palmtrees and bamboo staircases. I want to sleep in the Yellow Bow bedroom, the walls a screaming cadmium yellow and the bed a gilded four-poster looped over with royal blue curtains. I know that Queen Victoria didn't like this, my future home:
"The Pavilion is a strange, odd, Chinese looking place, both outside and inside. Most of the rooms are low, and I can only see a morsel of the sea, from one of my sitting room windows".
Still. There is such scope in such a place! Should Aubrey feel meditative, she could stroll down the Long Gallery lit by painted Chinese lanterns, bordered with peach-colored walls, painted in blue with only the flora and fauna fit for the royal eye.
Should Aubrey desire entertainment, she could repair to the Music Room, dominated by a huge chandelier which glows like an illuminated rose hanging from the ceiling, edged in gold and red:
The Royal Pavilion was the fever dream of George IV; construction was built in 1815. This King was not particularly likeable: he drank too much – according to his wife, Princess Caroline of Brunswick, he spent his wedding night "under the grate where he fell and where I left him". He ate too much – his manly curves provided ample food for the satirists of the Regency Period. He womanized – when 'Prinny' married Caroline, he was already secretly (and illegally) married to a Catholic commoner, Maria Fitzherbert.
He wasn't perfect. But he understood comfort. He understood fashion (Caroline again: "I ought to have been the man and he the woman to wear petticoats … he understands how a shoe should be made or a coat cut, … and would make an excellent tailor, or shoemaker or hairdresser, but nothing else"). He understood luxury.
And he built a lovely home just for me.