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It means a lot to me, new windows in an old house. Not sure how. It has meaning, accumulated through days and years of watching net curtains shiver in the up-heat from radiators beneath. Stretched spines. Each house is sandwiched together with wires and pipes, contains a veining of enabling material, buried in walls, floors and ceilings. I know this network only as a hot point on the floor, a plug point.
The new windows are plastic, blunt and ugly. The old house is wooden, gracious, harmonious. Yet never rich enough to be protected.