We host a lot of visitors, which is wonderful (keep coming) but we have a small house. The shame.
(Note to self: capitalise that on a nameplate in gold leaf and bolt it to the front wall. THE SHAME.)
The day before guests arrive we go through a routine of moving coat stands, tables, boxes of wine, piles of books, lamps, weird mannequins, pipes and ukuleles. Mostly we move this other stuff out of our one spare bedroom and into my writing room located conveniently across the corridor.
I’m writing in that room now. It feels a bit like a storeroom at the Victoria & Albert Museum, but without a life-size replica of David or a panel of Byzantine art leaned against the wall.
Part of me yearns for a clean white room.
Part of me yearns for a house with a jetty at the end of the garden.
I know there are books and seminars that will turbo empower those parts of me but I can’t be arsed being that stupid. I’ll start with THE SHAME nameplate and see how it unfolds from there.
Anyway, Dad is coming up soon from rural Victoria and we’ve started setting up his stay. Our last guest to use the spare room commented politely on the nightmares he was given by a mannequin we’d left in the room. He was a bloke. We thought he’d prefer to sleep with someone.
What do you think? Should we move it across the corridor to the V&A or leave it where it is?
She is a bit scary, now that I look at her. The cat mask is Wallington’s effort to make her less scary, believe it or not. Underneath is a weird boy/girl bald Sinead O’Connor sort of critter.
Sometimes at night she moves around the room. I just thought I should mention that.