Archive for pink

Of visitations and kitchen islands.

Posted in Georgian houses, kitchen, Renovation, Uncategorized with tags , , , , on March 31, 2013 by pimpmybricks

In just over 6 hours Mr P and I will be toddling off to the UK, for the visitation of parents (and the buying of sofas).  Lawdy.  All the manifold house balls hovering precariously in the air  will somehow have to be brought in to land before then. The current crises (colour for the stairs, treatment for the floors) will have to be parked on little piles of crossed fingers in the hope that they’ll magically resolve themselves while we’re away.

Our run up to departure has been an interesting one.  You know, interesting in the manner of the Chinese proverb.

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Mr P’s car has developed a mysterious, and possibly fatal, illness.   Yesterday, while bailing out his old wooden boat, which was sinking, Mr Pimp managed also to drown his phone.  While he was busy drowning his phone, his tender slipped its tether and bobbed off down the harbour, leaving him stranded.  When he got home, his new computer blew up. Miss P developed a stomach bug.  And I sprained my ankle on those lovely flagstones in the basement and am hobbling round now like a cartoon crone with one ankle the size of a small watermelon. But you know what? There’s something almost relieving when the outside universe so closely mirrors the chaos of the internal.  It renders it all quite funny, in a perverse sort of way.  You just set your course and steer straight ahead.  Battle on girls, battle on.

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I don’t know about you, but when I’m a tad overwhelmed by things that need resolving, my mind tends to scuttle into one small corner of the chaos and concentrate on that.  The corner du jour (du? de? Oh, who knows or cares?!) is the question of what colour to paint the kitchen island.  Sadly, we’ve had to jettison my plans for a bronze island – rapidly diminishing piles of moolah for one thing, and for another the big black steel doors who commanded me not to introduce anything else dramatic into that space.  And so it is this question of kitchen islands which comes in a rescue boat at 3 in the morning when I’m stranded on my island of wakeful lunacy and steers me off to saner waters.  Though having said that, I’m contemplating pink. Is that utterly bonkers barmy, do you think?

Plain English

So anyway, off we toddle in a few short hours.  To say we’re unprepared for the trip is an understatement – packing so far is a pile of clothes plucked distractedly from their hangers and dumped unceremoniously on a chest of drawers.  I do, however, know the whereabouts of my passport this time.  Someone asked me to let them know in a post whether I found it, and if so where.  So for the record,  I did indeed find it (or rather, the redoubtable Mr Pimp did).  At the farm.  In, of all places, a filing cabinet.  A filing cabinet!  Who in their right minds would keep a passport in such an obvious place?  Mine should have been in the glove drawer where it’s always been.

I’m hearing tales of frigid weather awaiting us in the UK and (apologies to all who’ve had a long hard Winter there) I’m relishing it with utter glee.  Snow?  Oh, yes please.  Rain?  Pure bliss.  I can’t tell you how much I love English weather, especially the rain.  This poem by Hone Tuwhare gets pretty close to explaining why

Rain

I can hear you
making small holes
in the silence
rain

If I were deaf
the pores of my skin
would open to you
and shut

And I
should know you
by the lick of you
if I were blind

the something
special smell of you
when the sun cakes
the ground

the steady
drum-roll sound
you make
when the wind drops

But if I
should not hear
smell or feel or see
you

you would still
define me
disperse me
wash over me
rain

Hone Tuwhare 1922-2008

(found on http://likeafieldmouse.com)

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Tooraloo.

A little of what you fancies

Posted in Inspiration, Renovation with tags , , , on December 29, 2011 by pimpmybricks

Every so often a colour will cruise alongside me for a while, and then accost, assault and mug me.  It will take up residence  and refuse to budge until something (who knows what) has been worked through.Some years ago it was ultramarine blue.  You know the one I mean – that saturated, dense colour which is only itself and nothing else.  It seemed to de-laminate from the internal murk and rise slowly to the surface until it had lodged itself behind my retina.  It needed to be mirrored by objects in the external world.  I sought it out everywhere, looking for it out of the corner of my eye, restless until I found it.  I bought little bits of it to strew about the place – dishes, glasses, plates.  But that wasn’t enough and so I painted a room in it (well, actually two) and it was a strange thing -the walls seemed to pack flat and fall clean away into space so that I found myself sitting in some humming, velvety place in the upper firmament.

From Annie Sloane's Colour in Decoration.

And then it all died away and left me in peace.  When I see the colour now – in bits of detritus from that time, a chipped bowl, a stained dish – I look sideways at it with oblique glances, the way people look at past lovers.

And then for a few years there were no grand passions.  There was (and still is) black and all its attendant courtiers.  Bathrooms, studies and bedrooms have worn ebony, charcoal and blackberry garb, but those are undemanding, calming colours and so it has been more of a peaceful co-habitation than  a full-scale invasion.

But recently a surprising development has been taking shape. Pink – a soft powdery pink, a thing of no outline, no more than a murmur  or a haze really – this has been creeping up on me steathily, like a cat with buttered paws. It thinks I haven’t noticed, but I have. My eyes seek it out and when I find it I am soothed by it, as if it brushes my internal organs softly, in a downwards motion. If you knew me away from this blog you would know how distinctly un-pink I am, but there it is.  We don’t seem able to choose our invaders, but I am sure we can get something from them.

So anyway I’m putting it here, a flag in the sand, so that when I return from my travels I’ll find it and be oriented (or maybe not, but I hope so).   I can see it in the Regency Wreck – in the first floor room, a gesture of something other in a plain grey room.  A powdered brush maybe, in the hand of a Quaker.  A rustle  of silk.  A blush of the fanciful (does you good).

(I do, for once, have the references for these last three pictures, but I’m buggered if I can find them.  Underneath the suitcases, lists of instructions to Ms Pimp, dogs-who-sense-something-is-afoot, passports, thermal underwear, trousers which need mending, cameras which need charging, canvases which need painting, books which need writing, camels which need watering, rivers which need fording, houses which need building, and elephants which need grooming. Ets which need cettering.  So I will post at some later, calmer date).

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