👉 Okay, let’s tackle the frankly rather magnificent beast of the word, "
broughse
.". (Okay, okay, I just messed up that spelling, too. Let's stick with, you guessed it:
bighouse.
).
Now, a “broughse," technically, is an antiquated and wonderfully overwrought way to describe what we now simply call a large house – a rambling Victorian monstrosity of draughts, echoing footsteps, and probably a very judgmental portrait somewhere. But here’s the really good stuff... it carries this weight . It implies not just size, but also layers upon layers of accumulated bad luck, forgotten relatives, and maybe even a lingering sense that a disgruntled butler still polishes the silver at 3 a.m. Historically, a bighouse was often one that had been in a family for generations – and therefore absorbed everyone from the good to the incredibly… difficult. It housed your great-great-aunt Mildred who never quite forgave you for stealing her prize marrow during the Great War, it contained the drafty portrait of a miser uncle who choked on his winnings, and let's just say there was always a little bit more cobweb in the corners than would be considered socially acceptable. Basically, they were the kind of houses that held grudges. They had a past, and it wasn’t exactly a pleasant one. They smelled faintly of mothballs, regret, and possibly overripe goose
