The heart is a lonely hunter.
I’ve already ‘fessed up to a certain…uhm …restlessness I am afflicted by. A tendency to the flibbertigibbet. So then, a confession. I have been having a dalliance with another house. Except not so much another house exactly, as other houses. But even that is too definite. The idea of other houses.
It began when this bit of lovely came onto the market, just down the road from The Regency Wreck. It’s part of a terrace that I’ve been stalking past, rapt, for some considerable time. I didn’t believe these houses would be coming up for sale. I had factored them out of the equation.
Truth is, this house lacks many of The RW’s charms. It has no sandstone floors or walls. No shutters. No servants’ bells. But it is spacious and it offers privacy, front and rear. And, what’s more, it has a garden. You know, for the frolicking of dogs and the growing of vegetables. Even though my tomatoes, Mr Pimp sanguinely pointed out, would be covered with dust from the bridge, fumes from the cars and who knows what from the dogs.
But that aside, there is also a certain view as you come out of the front door. And though I’m not big on views, I do consider the Opera House to be one of the Seven Wonders of the world. I do. Have you seen those fishtail scales up close? I mean, lawdy.
Not that I would swap this particular house for the RW, I hasten to add. But its sudden availability has set that wayward restlessness awhispering in me. What if a certain other house in the terrace were also to come up? Maybe next week! In a month! Because I would sell my extended family to live in that certain other house. Maybe.
All this has all brought on not inconsiderable guilt. And because I am tiresomely imbued with the ways of analytic introspection, I have, of course, run the whole affair under the jolly old microscope. But since the modality of blogland doesn’t appear to be confessional (shame! I say, bring out yer dirties!), I shan’t pin all my drawers on a public noticeboard. Let’s just say say that the comings and goings around here recently – Mr Pimp to the salt mines, Ms Pimp from the cold climes – are proving to be very disruptive emotionally. Not to mention the small additional bagatelle of a certain dog (Miss Elsie) who has become increasingly neurotic in the absence of her person and has taken to barking the household awake at 5 every morning and chewing her tail, so that the walls around here resemble a scene from Miami Vice. So anyway, that’s my official mitigation. Another, more troubling possibility is that the recovering adrenaline junkie in me is craving house purchases like some might crave new Maud Frizons. I hope not, or I shall soon be blogging from the commodious accommodations of the Debtors’ Gaol.
So in an attempt to tether my roving heart, I visited the RW the other night. It was Saturday. There was live music in one of the pubs, people on the street, traffic. It was inner city noisy. I feared the worst. I feared the magic might have gone. But actually, it was like stepping into a calm and endlessly patient embrace. Street light came in through the windows and fell gently over the floor in yellow pools. The city sounds were muffled, as if by a velvet cloak. I went up to the bedroom and watched a boat, decked in lights, move slowly across the harbour. Below me, the trees were wearing their new green fuzz of Spring and a couple, thinking the house empty, peered into the basement windows and then kissed. It was all very still and protected somehow. And so my fervour was soothed. For now.