ABSTRACT
Dwelling is full – it is cluttered up – with language. There is nothing apparently we enjoy talking about more than our house, particularly what it cost compared to what it is now worth, what we have done with it, and what we intend to do with it. Our housing, we are told, is the new symbol of the self: the badge of middle class membership, worn and polished with pride. Housing, it is said, is what makes the chattering classes chatter. And when we chatter we say so much about ourselves.
