Funt Solo resides within the winter dreams of dessicated pangolins - the custard pink shoelace landscape stretching to the scratch 'n' sniff horizon. It is there, upon an upturned skeletal blobfish, that you will find his gangly abode - a palace fit for an ostracized spatula. It is constructed entirely of wallpaper, (save for the the wallpaper which is made of brick), and is the very image of the delectable Lillie Langtry, (had Ms. Langtree been a broken spanner sellotaped to a walrus). The rooms are inverted, being on the outside of the building, and it is in the largest and simultaneously smallest of these in which Mr. Solo indulges in his hobby of knitting haddock out of buttered scones, the sound of which causes zebras to scream at melting traffic lights.
