One house, eighteen rooms, and a page written in the future tense because I have not been.
Written as a plan. Nothing above has happened yet.
I have not walked this city. So I will not tell you how the light falls in those rooms, or how long the house takes, or which end of the verandah to stand on — those are things one invents when one has not been, and the directory does not invent.
What is on the record is why the entry is kept: eighteen rooms raised by one family who would not be told the house was too large, and a verandah that carries the whole argument. That is a house museum in the proper sense — the family is the collection.
The entry says January and cake, and when I go it will be January, midweek, at opening, with the afternoon left deliberately empty. Until then this is an intention with a plate number, and the mark beside it stays hollow on purpose.