The Iceman Cometh…
…or less pretentiously and more accurately, the Heritage Officer doth. Tomorrow morning at nine o’ clock, actually. On the dot. Be there or be square. This has come about because we rang her, or rather Mr Pimpernel rang her, the phone being an instrument of torture to me. We wanted to remind her of our small existence during Esteemed Architect’s month long absence. You know, in the hope that our Section 60 might not grow mould or silverfish or strange species of flora in the interim. And her response was that she’d like to come and see what we’re proposing, in situ. Quite a reasonable request, really.
This is not, btw, the same Heritage Officer as the one who came to the last meeting. In fact nothing is known of this new one, other than that she sounds about fifteen years old. So I feel oddly optimistic and rather clean-slatish about it all, but we shall see. I still have my private promise to the house that I will eat my hat if things go well. And I’d rather not. I don’t think straw or feathers are legal on the eating protocol.
And this surprise visit does at least bring the house to the forefront of my mind again, having slipped a bit into obscurity, so boring and so deathly silent is the planning process. And at the forefront of my mind it became festooned with yardages of books which in turn sent me scurrying to my picture files for images of libraries.
The room at the front of the house at street level has been designated the book room.
In my mind for a while it has looked a little like this, but everything is subject to change.
Maybe a smidge darker, like this.
This next one I love and cannot have but as long as I can have all my books it won’t matter too much. What will Ms Pimp’s generation do for libraries? Line all their kindles up by colour? I can’t imagine, being myself of that species who never, ever parts with a book. Once, I spent six months calumphing around India and sent all my books, when I’d read them, back to the UK. Still got them. Natch. (Salman Rushie makes much more sense, somehow, when you read him in India). Of course there are a few books, such as anything by Margaret Drabble and a book I read recently, which are so enraging that they have to be thrown around the room (to teach them a lesson) and then dumped with great ceremony into the rubbish bin. But ANYWAY. Goodness. The room:
I rather like the look of the trend to order books by colour in much the same way that I like rows of paint samples. But it would never do for someone who has to have all their books in roughly alphabetical order so that they can, on a whim, suddenly grab one and rummage through it because as a matter of life and death it is necessary to know how something or other was expressed by someone or other:
This (only messier) is more how they generally look in my house – like a great tide of paper, forever edging outwards:
Mr P has his bedside drawers stuffed to the gills with books. I have mine in a leaning tower next to me. Death by novel. Forgive me.
A few more
At the moment I’m venturing into the new book by Sebastian Barry. The translucent beauty of his words. Wasted a bit on me at the moment, if I’m honest, going as I am through some Granny Grunt phase and wanting only the literary equivalent of crumpets and log fires. Do other people have such phases?
So anyway, I’m in the rather strange position of wishing that tomorrow comes and finds me chewing my way solemnly through straw or felt. She’d have to agree to the upstairs bathroom for that, however. Maybe I should hobble a bit?