Well, we have finally finished decorating my bedroom. I use the word 'we' rather loosely, because all I contributed to the task really was advice, mainly ignored by the handyman who shares my life. He has long known that my choice of colours is tasteless (in his manual), and that I pick furnishings that he finds unimaginable. But I got my new (ivory) wardrobe, and my brown & beige rather Hessian-like carpet, (which arrived at about five o'clock yesterday and generated such a flurry of moving stuff around that I was dizzy just contemplating it) and my curtains on a nice wooden rail (light wood, to match mirror surround on wardrobe - but of course!).
The mirror itself, picked by The Boss, is delightful, even though I hate the strip light that has been secreted behind the wood to light it. Ah well, I have my table lamp which I can use instead. He'll never notice. And looking out from the mirror at me is my Frank Sinatra singing Airman Teddy presented to me by intuitive No. 1 Son some years ago. When he sings, (Ted, not the Son) "Come Fly with me...." and his eyes glint behind their goggles, his scarf floating behind him, I go all gooey inside.
The paint was another matter. He drew the line at "soft Kenyan" brown walls (jealous of Mr Obama I'd say, even though the choice was pure coincidence) and substituted an orangey-peach which is quite tolerable and probably less depressing. It all looks rather well with my Argos teak shelves and locker and my large book-case full of rubble which it is now my job to sort through and discard. I have spent almost two hours at it this morning and have managed to fill the very bottom of a black sack with a few bits and pieces. I mean, how could I throw out the twenty-six copies and notebooks that are essential to my chosen role of scribbler? And the photos of the kiddies at the parish fair? The article I contributed to a magazine in 2004 now has two holes punched in it (two more in the cover where they were kind enough to place my name) awaiting a suitable folder to preserve them for posterity.
The set of cards with messages inscribed in Polish that I picked up on a holiday in Poznan some years ago are far too nice to discard, if you'll pardon the pun, even though I no longer have any friends who speak Polish. The jigsaw puzzle that was too hard for anyone in this family to do is intact but the box is open, so I can't be sure of that. I doubt I will complete the 'intensive language course in French', received free from a Sunday Newspaper offer three years ago, but I should really; and I'm sure the box of receipts for things long forgotten will prove to have been essential if I dump them.
These objects are the ones I can immediately see. There is a large (and very pretty) raffia box and two huge ugly boxes full of interesting things yet to be investigated. A brief peep into the drawers of my beautiful wardrobe has just unveiled the fact that the top one, at least, is full of stuff that hubby obviously removed from the book-case pro t, knowing I would have to deal with them if I had to find somewhere to keep my frilly underwear (and loads of medication!) But perhaps I have enough done for today and should, get dressed and interest myself in preparing a light repast in case anyone calls for lunch. (I haven't had a luncheon visitor in yonks, but one never knows, does one, when the door-bell will ring.)