A bevy of lovelies.
I’ve been computerless (in Gaza) for the last week, wandering that no-man’s-land between Mr Microsoft and Mr Apple. Defecting from the former to the latter for no particular reason other than whim. Acting on whim is rather like inviting adventure – you only remember the tiresome practicalities once you’ve impulsively set out and can no longer return. So here I am, still with two not-quite-functioning computers, both of which are destined to stay that way for a while longer because I ain’t got the knowledge or the interest to find a resolution.
However, lacking the wherewithal to lose vast tracts of time online (other than Mr P’s desktop dinosaur, which is to computer as Fred Flintstone’s car is to Maserati) has freed me to do other things. Like, for instance, taking a look at the two other properties that have come up for sale in the conservation area around the house. It’s a slightly dangerous thing, visiting these newcomers onto the scene, and I always go with some trepidation lest I should fall head over heelses in love with one of them and regret buying ours. Bit of a flighty baggage, me. Let it be said. Truth in advertising and all.
And was I tempted? Well, yes and no. No in the sense that I still love ours the best. Yes in the sense that I want to save all sad old houses. When I was being psychoanalytical I would have said I have a strong reparative impulse. Now I just say I love doing up old wrecks.
Here they are, anyway. This is the first. While in there I got talking to one of the long standing Maritime residents and she told me a previous tenant of this house had stripped all the woodwork back to the cedar, and in doing so had become very ill with lead poisoning.
And t’other. I loved this house and in another life could happily have lived there. It’s all been mucked about and stretched in various directions, and I wouldn’t give you tuppence halfpenny for most of the rooms, but I loved the courtyard. And it had the most commodious landings on which the best conversations could be had ( because isn’t it always so that the best things happen in the interstices? Or is that only me?).
To the right, btw, is not a detention centre (topical though they may be) but the tennis courts serving the Observatory Hotel opposite. A rather derivative and pompous place, to my mind. Uninspired affectation of gentleman’s club and woody opulence. Syrupy wood stains and that dreadful dark green carpet that is supposed to connote…what? Huntin’ and fishin’ and the forest floor? ( I don’t actually know whether it’s got green carpet). Anyway, at this house we met two men who were interested in the first house but, as it ‘appened, more interested in ours and so they asked for a ten cent tour. Which always turns out to be a two dollar tour because Mr Pimp likes his historicals. So he does. And whilst cantering around ours at a cracking pace (auction viewings beckoned) I learned that one of the men is a ceramicist and plans to install a kiln. Which is VERY interesting. Or would be, if I had not become so fed up with my lumpen babies that I’d thrown them all in a plastic bucket to languish unloved and unfired. But that is beside the point.
See what I mean about some of the rooms?
So there you have it.