of finish lines and mirages

Good Morrow Ladies and Gents all

I have been nudged into wakefulness and summoned to my laptop to write a post (for which many thankyous – it’s good to be missed).  And so, like some crumpled old genie I emerge from my suburban bottle in a poof of wattle pollen.  But I must warn you that this will be a post thrown together by a distracted mind.  Caveat emptor!  Abandon ship all ye who enter here seeking order, coherence or even linear thought.


But first, let’s do the ritual  sozzas for being late and get that out of the way. Ladies and Gents,  pray silence for the solemn reading of the Proclamation of Lamentations.   Items one to six – issues arising with the Regency Wreck.  Items seven to ten – other matters.  One such other matter, in fact, being the complete and utter lack of internet for five weeks.   There has been much eating of cold turkey around here and it hasn’t been a pretty thing.  It’s not until you’re without it that you realise the full and alarming extent of your dependence.   Mr P, normally the most equable fellow you could ever wish to meet, took to posting boxfuls of his torn out hair to call centres in Manila.  The eventual upshot being that  our illustrious ISP has now supplied us with a dongle (do you not love that word?), and so here I am, bashing out said post.

So then. Life has been somewhat Sisyphean of late.  It’s been tough on the Regency Wreck front – that’s axiomatic, innit – but also across the board really.  There has been some pretty awful news in the family and my own health issues have resurfaced from all the on-going nonsense.   A veritable tsunami of stress, all in all.   Mr P, I have to tell you, has been a Super Trouper of the First Order, with gold medals and epaulettes and everything.  But I, the ex-stress junkie, have been coming apart at the seams just a little.  Madame Flaketastic, wibbling and wavering all over, like a too-heavy thing on a too-slender base.  Hence, you know, the lack of posts.


And what of the the jolly old Regency Wreck?  Well, it finally resembles a house (more or less), and, in fact, has been hovering within co-ee of the finish line for some time now.  Hovering but not advancing very fast.  Indeed, the very definition of ‘finish’ is something that is hotly contested at present.  And so we are still waiting.  And waiting.  Parables of tortoises and hares spring to mind.  Rather fed-up tortoises with tired legs, I tell you, having staggered around these past two and a half years (I know! really!) under the weight of that big old unliveable house.  And no, that’s not the wind in the trees you hear; it’s the strains of violins.  Overall, the situation with the RW is still…shall we say, somewhat powder keggish… and because of that I think I shall be prudent for once and stay schtum about the whole thing.  Just for a short while longer, if you’ll forgive me. But, as they like to say, watch this space.  I promise posts with pictures and sentences that make sense and no smoke and mirrors.  Maybe even a theme or two.  Soon.  As soon as a spoon.

finish line

In the meantime, let’s look beyond that disputed finish line at the piles of kitchen, pantry and laundry cupboards that are still in the UK, but due to be packed on Tuesday and bundled onto a boat to make their seasick way out here.  I know that it seems an utter lunacy to have a kitchen made on the other side of the world but in fact, even with the shipping costs it’s cheaper and I got rather tired of hearing that no, I couldn’t have real hinges but I could have fake ones with those flat pack affairs behind them.  I mean, really!

In the end we did go with the pink island.  The actual colour has more yellow in it than appears in the photo; a sort of stewed rhubarb hue. At least I’m hoping it does because in the photo it looks a little scarily…pink. IMG_0458




This last cupboard is for the laundry because – confession time here – I’m a bit of a closet washermaid (without the mob cap) and the pinnacle of my laundressing aspirations (other than, you know, a housekeeper) has for years been the idea of a cupboard into which I can sort clean and dirty washing.  In colour categories, mind you (for dirty) and owners (for clean).   You may call me anal – but let me remind you that Mrs Beeton would have called me organised.IMG_0463So then one pressing question on my mind (that small portion not taken up with matters of porcelain or semiotics, which is another story)… one pressing question is whether copper would speak nicely to the pink island in the kitchen.  Or not.  Because I am having a little love affair with these lights which look to me for all the world like slightly deliquescing jellies:


And further, whether the pink condemns me to sensible honed granite worktops in grey, and all matters relating thereto.  And on that lovely prosaic note, I am off.

Soon, jellyspoons.

9 Responses to “of finish lines and mirages”

  1. Oh there we go…that didn’t hurt, did it! And I bet you feel better now too, I know I do. Mighty relieved that you are not a figment of my overactive imagination, and that both you and the mister are still alive. Love the lampshade – what’s the chain made of? xxx

    • Oh I dunno Ruth – I think it might be quite nice to be a figment of your imagination, at least for a while. That way I could implore you to re-imagine us as all moved in, the work all done, and no nonsense on the way.

      I think the chain is made of brass – there’s a little fixing gizzy on top of the shade which is brass, so it makes sense the chain should be brass too. X.

  2. Go for the copper, it will sing with the rhubarb, and I greatly admire the importing of your kitchen! And your laundry stance – will you have a SheilaMade? and a big sink?
    What about going completely retro and have an old copper boiler and a bag of Reckitt’s Blue, very Australian?
    I suppose this isn’t the point in a renovation to mention Zeno’s frog.

    • I love the idea of singing rhubarb in the kitchen. I’ll have to get it a copper counter-tenor to harmonise with. Not sure what a SheilaMade is but if it’s the same as a MollyMaid (contraption to hang from the ceiling for the drying of washing), then I will most certainly have one if the ceiling height is enough. They’re excellent. And actually, I already have a bottle of Reckitt’s Blue from years ago, when I had a mad desire to mix it with something and paint the walls intense ultramarine. And then ultramarine and I had a falling out and we both moved onto new pastures…

      I have to admit I had to google Zeno’s frog and it sounds completely apposite. Actually, I rather fancy becoming so small right now that I become invisible and pass through the molecules of the tube, only to reappear fully sized again somewhere completely other than the house muddle. All very Alice, when you think about it.

  3. Because we love your blog so much we are going to help support it in the only way we know how, adding a comment, a word or two here and there.

    You may be in some other head space, fallen down a big hole to the other side of the world, or working on your ceramics and trying to feather your unfinished nest and dealing with a number of very serious problems. All taking up precious time and draining your energy.

    We will wait patiently for your return to blog-land.

    What I think I am doing by writing this is a bit like watering my neighbours garden while they are away. I am doing this at present and really enjoying it. I will try and help maintain the garden until its maker returns.

    So may gentle rain of ideas fall on your blog and nourish your soul as we wait in anticipation of what is to come. Sounds a bit like a prayer doesn’t it?

  4. Ruth Hope Says:

    I’m with MAB. Missing your missives. Pining for your ‘pinions. But realising that there are other things to do than blogging, (jogging being one), I’m just sending out tendrils of positivity so you know there are still people here who think of you, and your tales.

  5. So where are you?! Really wondering what is up and where you are at xx

  6. Ruth Hope Says:

    And me! RW or no, it’s your verbals we pine for. Bain’t nothin better’n yours. X

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