Decorations and that

I hated the rug on sight and made no pretence otherwise, but, six months in, I'm growing rather fond of it. Over exposure, maybe. I was lying on my back, head tilted to one side as I played with a remote control car and focused idly on steering it around Stuart, who was sitting on the floor leaning against the sofa, explaining the concept of Sky Plus ("One watches The L Word with the sound turned down you see, babe") and how very necessary it is for him to have technological toys lying about ("I'm a solicitor," he said, "my claim to manhood would be in shreds without all the superfluous baubles"). He waved his hand idly, taking in the room with its gadgets, toys and baubles, and me. My hand slipped on the remote, the red car smacking into the wall, and he smiled at me. Inching his way across the wooden floor, he kissed my neck and waited for me to comment, leaning back on his elbows.
I slid him a sideways look. "So does this make me one of your baubles, then?"
"Why, wouldn't you like to be?" he asked, twirling a strand of my hair.
I leaned back, just enough to pout at him petulantly, just about managing to smother the growing urge to smile at him.
"Surely you don't really think that?" I piled on the accent, heavy and thick as poured cream and gestured at myself with a wide sweeping motion much beloved of Shakespearian characters in full monologian flow. "Look at me, Stuart. I am quite clearly much too useful to be just another ornament."