Do I look bovvered to you?
Well hello! Greetings from the echoing grove, this place of cobwebs and silence.
Apologies for the even-more-sporadic-than-usual posts (at least I think they are). Thing is, the jolliness quotient has been rather low recently. Sub-optimal, as Mr Pimperooh would say. Bottom dwelling, actually. Positively languishing! And bearing in mind the convention in blogland for upbeat and happy, I have thought to stay mum for the duration.
But recently there’s been a small revolution taking place in these here bloggity parts – have you come across it? A group of bloggers have defied the blog(u)topian rule and have been Writing it like it Really Is in a collection of posts under the umbrella title of ‘Things I’m afraid to Tell You’. Souls have been bared, secrets revealed, the not-so-perfect strewn across the innernets. Exciting and liberating stuff. I first came across it here.
So somewhat in that vein, and because (like that children’s book, We’re Going on a Bear Hunt) you can’t go over it, you can’t go under it, you’ve got to go through it, I think I need to get at least some of it off my chest. Confined to Regency Wreck matters, because – and I’ve already confessed to a certain confessionalism -otherwise we’ll be here all night. And then we can move onto such niceties as taps and basins. And stone floors and copper islands. And nickel plated baths and tear-drop taps. And, of course, the conundrum of the ever-rising bathroom waistline. You thought it was only trousers and hemlines? No! Not on your nelly.
Anyway, please avert your eyes if you are squeamish about the glumps.
So, we have been troubled in Pimpsville. Cast down somewhat, and depleted. Tempers have been frayed. Sleep has been interrupted. By day we tiptoe through the tulips, hand in hand through shops and showrooms. Baths, lavatories, showers. A thousand dollars here, five thousand there. And who cares? It’s only monay! But by evening the shadows lengthen and at night come tapping on the door of sleep. Softly, ineluctably. My dreams are not the des res havens I wish for at the moment. No white voile curtains billow languorously at their open windows. No rectangles of pale afternoon light spill in, warming floor and feet. Instead, they are populated by suited thugs demanding money for umbrella vending machines in the basement of the Regency Wreck. And by unruly hoards who rush in tsunamis through the front door in search of self-help workshops or wallets to steal. It doesn’t exactly need my rusty psychoanalytic self to decipher the lumbering symbolism in all that.
There seems to be a threshold beyond which floors that collapse and walls that crumble bring with them a wobble of the confidence. Suddenly there are doubts about the project, questions about its viability. Relationships suffer, finances dwindle, horizons cloud. Survival in one piece seems no longer axiomatic. To be spending like a couple of drunken sailors can be frightening when neither of us is working, when jobs become scarcer and scarcer and when the world around us seems more tilting and more wobbling by the day. Everywhere we go we find closing down sales, liquidation stock clearances. That means bargains of course, but they are bargains resting on the backs of people who are losing their jobs. Under all their valiant politeness the dark and fearful waters of joblessness sway. You can see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices. These are hard times and to be so profligate in their midst brings a queasiness, an unease of the soul.
Things have been wobbly in Herbertsville too, with Mr Derring Do himself, HRH Remington Rem the First jumping one too many fences he shouldna, and utterly eradicating his cruciate tendon. He has had a knee re-construction and a spell in hospital (wooing the nurses left and right, natch, for he is a splendoursome thing, ma boy ). He was discharged on Wednesday, sent home to an ecstatic Elsie (and a moderately happy me) only to be re-admitted the next day with…ahem…complications of the waterworks. And so he is back there again, and it is testament to where my head is at that one of the thoughts I had was “oh my gawd, we could fit out a bathroom for the cost of that”. Though that was, I have to say, a fairly low on the list thought.
Here he is, shaved, sutured, and stapled. Confused and confounded. And still utterly himself. Because after all, a Remington is a Remington is a Remington.
And that, said Fred, is that. Enough off the chest. I shall be back forthwith with baths and taps and the like. And a goodly dose of something closely resembling optimism. Just you wait and see!