The fun bit

Paul has finished painting the bedroom, 

so now I can turn my attention to furnishing it.

I need look no further than my 1940 copy

of Housewife magazine for inspiration.

Gay colours in chintz bedspread and curtains glow against the

neutral coloured background created by plain waxed furniture,

fawn carpet and cream walls.

The curtains are made from a novel, tufted fabric 

called Rathkelle (from Old Bleach), consisting of 

charming blue tufts like little bows on linen-coloured ground.

The bedspread has a broad panel of gaily-coloured washable

glazed chintz from Sandersons, mostly in pinks and blues

and the chintz motif is repeated 

in the lampshades each side of the bed. 

The pale blue of the curtains is echoed in 
the pale linen cover of the easy chair 
and the rugs either side of the bed are a soft pink.

(Amanpuri in original chintz from Sanderson) 

I haven't found the tufted fabric yet except for 

somewhere in the deep recesses of my memory.

The tiresome touches of time

All is not lost.

I bring you this double chin remedy from 

The Family Weekend Book by Beryl Irving 1941.

Take a deep breath and incline the neck forwards.

Exhale, relax neck muscles,

and drop head on chest.

Take a deep breath, lift head,

stiffening neck muscles,

and drop head backwards.

Take a deep breath, stiffen neck muscles

and incline head sideways to the left.

Breathe out, lift head,

and repeat to the right.

These exercises, taken in conjunction with 

the use of a good reducing cream, patted in,

followed by an astringent lotion, and,

if you really mean to go at it wholeheartedly,

a chinstrap worn at night,

should work wonders. 

I don't believe Audrey Hepburn

ever needed a chin strap

but she appears to be wearing one anyway.

I feel bad about my neck*

I'll let Nora Ephron explain.

I feel bad about my neck. Truly I do. If you saw my neck, 

you might feel bad about it too,

but you'd probably be too polite to let on.

If I said something to you on the subject -

something like 'I absolutely cannot stand my neck' -

you'd undoubtedly respond by saying something nice like,

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

You'd be lying of course, but I forgive you...

My experience is that 'I don't know what you're talking about'

is code for 'I see what you mean, but if you think

you're going to trap me into engaging on the subject,

you're crazy.'

Sometimes I go out to lunch with my girlfriends ... 

and I look around the table

and realize we're all wearing turtleneck sweaters.

Sometimes, instead, we're all wearing scarves,

like Katherine Hepburn in 'On Golden Pond'...

It's sort of funny and it's sort of sad,

because we're not neurotic about our age -

none of us lies about how old she is, for instance,

and none of us dresses in a way that's inappropriate for our years.

We all look good for our age.

Except for our necks.

Oh, the necks.

There are chicken necks. 

There are turkey gobbler necks.

There are elephant necks. 

There are necks with wattles

and necks with creases that are on the verge of becoming wattles.

There are scrawny necks and fat necks,

loose necks, crepey necks, banded necks,

wrinkled necks, stringy necks, saggy necks,

flabby necks, mottled necks.

There are necks that are an amazing combination 

of all of the above.

According to my dermatologist, 

the neck starts to go at forty-three

and that's that.

I often do what so many women of my age do

when stuck in front of a mirror:

I gently pull the skin of my neck back

and stare wistfully at a younger version of myself...

One of my biggest regrets...

is that I didn't spend my youth staring lovingly at my neck.

It never crossed my mind to be grateful for it.

*I Feel Bad about my Neck 

and other thoughts on being a woman

by Nora Ephron.

With thanks to Belinda

who introduced me to this book.

Another stray coin

The best of England, thought Mrs Miniver,

as opposed to countries with reasonable climates,

is that it is not only once a year that you can say,

"This is the first day of spring."

Today was one of those days

when the sun shone a little more warmly,

the birds sang a little more sweetly

and even the garden of doom 

had snowdrops and crocuses

to show off.

While it lasted that day had been part of 

the authentic currency of spring -

a stray coin tossed down carelessly on account.

The Bill

I was just getting one of Nigel Slater's double ginger cakes 

out of the oven when 

there was a sharp rapping at my front door.

A neighbour, I was told, had called the police 

because she saw two men in the garden
on the other side of the fence

'who shouldn't be there'.

Radio crackling he hot-footed out to my garden

and peered over the fence.

I saw snowdrops and crocuses

where once there were brambles.

A police helicopter arrived and

wheeled in tight circles overhead.

Dog handlers raced up the alleyway.

Then suddenly, the show was over.

Apparently everything was just fine.

The men who shouldn't be there,

 live in the house.

I doubt that they were gardening

and there may be more to this than meets the eye

but I wasn't being told.

I was complemented on my hall wallpaper.

They apologised for the mud on 
the newly-washed floor and departed.

The cake had cooled,

so I cut myself a slice 
and had it with a nice cup of tea.

A walk by the river

Emerging from the long tunnel of winter darkness.

WIP

The sun came out for fully thirty seconds,

so I nipped into the soon-to-be guest bedroom,
(we expect guests from the East this summer) 

to admire the pristine new plaster.

The Black Mould is banishéd.
I can't tell you how good that feels.

The Linen Cupboard

Today the linen cupboard had to be dismantled

and moved out of the room with the Black Mould.

And once it was in pieces it was obvious that

the disgorged contents would have to be sorted.

Four drawers and three shelves worth

of sheets (single and double), duvet covers, pillow cases,

vintage curtains, lace panels, embroidered tablecloths,

napkins, quilts, baby blankets, shawls, towels,

counterpanes, eiderdowns, picnic cloths, tray cloths...

four drawers and three shelves worth of memories

stretching back past first big bed, to cot, to Moses basket,

to first flat, to first house, to student digs,

to childhood home, to aunty's room, to grandparents' home

and then suddenly pre-me, into real history.

It was 1941, and a baby, a sister I was never to meet, 

born that Christmas Eve,

 was to be christened.

A christening robe had to be made, in wartime,

from whatever was available.

I think it might even have been

a lace curtain,

lined with silky fabric

perhaps from one of my mother's slips,

and decorated with a length of brittle gold ribbon.

It survived the Blitz.
I am astonished that it has survived my casual custodianship.
I will buy some acid-free tissue paper
and re-store it with the care that it deserves.

Good Day. Sunshine

Wall to wall

blue sky,

from dawn

 until dusk.

It couldn't have been more welcome.

Paul got all the pointing on the brickwork finished

and is ready to move indoors

to tackle the Black Mould.

I sorted out a door that wouldn't close

and gave it a new handle.

During the purchase of said handle

I bumped into someone

 who had dropped rather abruptly 

and inexplicably out of my life four years ago.

Good Day.
Sunshine.

Sorted

I tackled my slug-ravaged seed packets,

in much the same way as I had the kitchen cupboards

although with slightly more reluctance

to observe the use-by dates,

because if this Methusela seed

was capable of germination after 2000 years,

I felt that a three-year-old seed had a fighting chance.

These old-fashioned wage packets were 

just the right size for re-packaging them.

Next up, the washing of the flower pots.

Comfort zone

China tea, the scent of hyacinths, 

wood fires and bowls of violets -

that is my mental picture of an agreeable February afternoon.

Constance Spry

Her house was lovely.

It was comfortable in a way that was not as usual 

in 1910 as it is today.

For instance, there were several bathrooms,

invariably provided with delicious essences 

for softening and scenting the water

which was always hot.

The beds were soft and sheeted with the finest linen.

The Rising Tide - Molly Keane

and from Agatha Christie's The Hollow,

Midge a shop assistant,

 on being told she would understand the class struggle better

if she were a worker:

'I am a worker. That's just why being comfortable is so attractive.

Box beds, down pillows -

early morning tea softly deposited by the bed -

a porcelain bath with lashings of hot water -

and delicious bath salts.

The kind of easy-chair you can really sink into...'

Midge paused in her catalogue.

'The workers', said David, 'should have all these things,'

...'I couldn't agree with you more,' said Midge heartily.

Our daily lives are full of stress,

much of which is unavoidable.

I believe that if our homes cannot provide 

some kind of refuge or respite from that stress,

both physically and emotionally,

then they have failed in one of their most critical functions.

From supporting the body at rest or during relaxation -

physical comfort at its most basic -

to most elemental pleasures that put people at their ease,

comfort provides a necessary sense of renewal.

For me, comfort is neither mindless luxury 

nor suffocating indulgence:

it is the essential breathing space 

in which we can simply be ourselves,

surrounded by the things we really like

rather than things we think give us status.

Sir Terence Conran

I shall cleave to these 

images as the house is

colonised again by the electrician

in pursuit of The Fault

and the builder  eliminating the cause of

The Mould.
P.S Can you still get bath salts?

The upside

of one of your little birds

 leaving the nest

 and flying off into the sunrise

is that they might be a homing pigeon at heart

and come back bearing flowers

as a cheerful reminder for you

when they go again.

Who dunnit all?

This arrived in the post today.

I have never been a particular fan of crime writing,

beyond a lazy enjoyment of Miss Marple 

(always Joan Hickson please) and 

Hercule Poirot (David Suchet) on television.

I bought it on the strength of a description of the Queen of Crime

 in 'An English Mystery - Agatha Christie' by Laura Thompson.

'All her life she was fascinated by the ordering of a home.'

In her 1957 book, 4.50 from Paddington,

she created a character called Lucy Eyelesbarrow, 

an Oxford graduate who,

 'in addition to scholarly brilliance,

had a core of good sound common sense.

She could not fail to observe 

that a life of academic distinction

was singularly ill rewarded. 

She had no desire whatever to teach

and took pleasure in contacts with minds

much less brilliant than her own. 

In short, she had a taste for people,

all sorts of people - and not the same people

the whole time. 

She also, quite frankly, liked money.

To gain money one must exploit shortage.'

That shortage was the post-war loss of servants.

'Lucy Eyelesbarrow did everything,

saw to everything,

arranged everything.

She was unbelievably competent 

in every conceivable sphere.

She looked after elderly parents,

accepted the care of young children,

nursed the sickly,

cooked divinely,

got on well with any old crusted servants 

there might happen to be (there usually weren't)

was tactful with impossible people,

soothed habitual drunkards,

was wonderful with dogs.

Best of all she never minded what she did.

She scrubbed the kitchen floor, 

dug in the garden,

cleaned up dog messes,

and carried coals.'

The secret to this happy life was that 

she only did all these things for a fortnight at a time,

never booked herself for more than six months ahead,

 charged the earth

and took frequent short luxurious holidays.

I have yet to discover if she is an accomplished

murderer too, but will let you know.