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.
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.
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.So 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.