If, by glamour, you mean complete chaos.
It's a funny thing, having a mass of possessions one hasn't seen for 15 or so years dropped suddenly on one's (metaphorical) head. The movers apparently had never heard of such a thing, and if nothing else were extemely and volubly startled by (a) the sheer amount of assorted small Victoriana I went in for in my 30s and (b) the quality and durability of the wrapping paper used by their long-ago counterparts. That really got them. Well, that and the Barbies. Yup, they've survived.
From left to right, Billy Boy Barbie in a trashy combo of fishtail gown, white fur, and bare feet; Black Barbie in a community-theatre production of My Fair Lady; Heart Family Grandma (possibly the only - discreetly - wrinkled Barbie ever made) stylin' in a Golden Girlsische pants ensemble and anklestraps; and an early '90s Midge jaunty in '60s red-velvet swing coat and slacks, oblivious to her missing red pump. A few of the girls have fallen victim to an ailment of the aging Mattel product, the dread Sticky Leg Syndrome (which apparently requires treating with warm water, dish soap, and some follow-up talcum - thanks, Internet!), but that aside all seem quite as ever.
And I bet you thought I was kidding about that silver lustre luncheon set, didn't you? Here it is, in part, in all its Nile-green horror. Why do we hold on to these things? What is their power over us? As far I as I can remember, Great-Aunt Edna got it as a wedding present in the early '20s from her eldest sister, Great-Aunt Lenora (a woman equally remembered in the family for her irascibility and longevity - she made 99, and would have gone on longer had she not gone into that home). Lenora's husband had a department store in Ohio, and her gifts tended to be things that hadn't sold well last season. In this case, one can see why. A couple of decades later, Edna re-gifted it to Mother Muscato (possibly for her wedding - wartime scarcity was probably a wonderful excuse to pass on all sorts of things), and so it came on to me. I don't think any of us have ever used it, and none of us have had the sense to jumble-sale it, and now I guess we're stuck with it in perpetuity.
Still, in the midst of the mayhem, there has proven to be one oasis of calm; Koko has fallen madly in love with my grandfather's tufted armchair, an object that combines comfort and indestructibility, as it possesses a steel frame of such heft that it took two movers to carry it into the apartment. What I'll do for a chair if the dog proves as immovable as the item itself (Mr. Muscato having already commandeered the only other unsprung, unfragile item of seating, a thrift-shop settee that I think we'll have to replace) remains to be seen.
As does exactly how we're going to integrate all this into the several tons of things now making their way here from the Sandlands. I'm thinking we're simply going to have to install floor-to-ceiling shelving in the back bedroom and start charging admission.