Towel Dream Solved

Friends, the riddle of the towels is solved, at least I think it is.

The solution came to me when I woke this morning. It’s been a sort of niggle that wouldn’t let be be and perhaps the sleep let my mind do some work on its own. It is very simply, Audrey’s nakedness.

Let me explain. As you know Audrey, my friend with whom I’m staying at present, goes about her house unclothed. It has ceased to bother me but as we share the furniture, specifically the sofas and kitchen chairs, it’s been making me the teensiest bit squeamish as you might understand. My inelegant solution has been to lay a towel down whenever and wherever I sit in the house. Audrey bridled at first, now she just giggles.

I suppose my mind found sitting on a seat where a naked person has been more disturbing than I’d known, at least in wakefulness, and it found a way to tell me.

You may be curious as to whether I shall be following suit and joining Audrey in her nudist ways. No I shall not. Call me a prude if you wish. I may be a hung up middle-aged, middle-class, repressed woman but a large part of me sees Audrey’s behaviour as something more appropriate to some sort of hippie not for a woman of a certain age.

Alright some part of me does wish to cavort like a loon on the solstice and cry freedom but bless me I was not raised that way. If in a year or a month from now these words come back to ridicule me as one of limited vision, I shall admit to naivety and carry on. I just cannot see it that’s all.

There remain only a few days before the painting of my home begins. I’ve selected colours and given instructions for where to apply what. Beyond that I have very little do with it. For someone who has always been busy albeit unhappily much of the time I am so quickly running out of things to do. The aroma of eggs frying is drifting about the house; I’ll talk to Audrey about what to do to stave off these dreadful doldrums in which I have found myself becalmed.

Must remember my towel. Stop laughing.

Until next we meet,



An Peculiar Dream

Early this morning I awoke from quite a disturbing dream. It concerned towels.

In the dream, what I can recall of it what with dreams being such elusive things, when I looked out of my window the street was covered with towels. The garden, my lawn and flowerbeds, were covered with those thick towels with a sort of embossed design. I can’t think what they call them.

Being a one to dwell on things I’ve not been able to let this dream go. By the end everything inside the house and outside was betowelled, if such a word exist as it apparently doesn’t as this WordPress thing has underlined it in red. Well never mind I shall carry on regardless. Becoming quite the anarchist aren’t I?

What can it mean? I spoke to Audrey, still naked as a newborn and growing somewhat less shocking as time passes, about it and all she could think of was that with all the business with my house and himself leaving perhaps they represent something we use after we wash. Perhaps, she thinks, it signifies a final wiping down after a clean-out.

It’s a plausible explanation I suppose but it doesn’t quite feel right. I shall ponder on it for a bit and something may emerge. Who knows? I am open to other suggestions, naturally, if indeed anyone is reading this little folly of mine. It does seem one of those dreams that haunts one until it is resolved. Oh dear.

Until next we meet,


Confronting Some Truths

Now that my home is a shell waiting for its new and exciting life to begin I find myself camped out in Audrey’s house.

While not a riot of colour Audrey’s place is delightful. She’s a bit of a one for those ghastly home improvement shows on the telly and she has made some changes about the place. Robert was always a bit of a handyman although his skills were limited to mainly shelves, paint and the odd skirting board removal. They were fortunate to have been drawn together by a casual compatibility rather than through a deluded sense of duty and sensibleness that tethered me to ‘himself wot left’. Whenever I’d visit when Robert was still alive I never felt rushed or unwanted. Their home was bright and airy and just so lovely and cozy and, as a couple, they were perfect friends and hosts.

Now, before you start thinking that I may have had some untoward feelings for Robert you can stop right there. Just as I did and do with Audrey I always regarded Robert as a good friend and nothing more. There, that’s said. Moving on.

Difficult as it may be to believe this stay with Audrey is the first time in my adult life that I have stayed with a friend.

Himself was always, since I knew him and even from a boy as his mother once told me, a creature of habit. Every morning he would wake, without any alarm needed, at 6:30am. He would “see to his ablutions” as he put it while I dragged myself up to make his breakfast. He would eat and read his paper, saving the crossword for the train journey to the office. I would be at the door, receive my peck on the cheek, close the door and clean up the breakfast things while he walked to the station.

Every evening he would arrive home at or near 6:30pm, depending on the trains, change into his casual house clothes and slippers and sit down to eat the dinner I’d prepared. After dinner while I cleared and washed dishes himself would go to the sitting room, switch on the telly and sit with the newspaper and listen to the news. Always the same, every night. Weekends he would play golf with friends or join them in some other activity while I shopped for groceries or stayed home. Sex was once each month, a perfunctory affair in which he performed his duty and immediately went to sleep. That was why his leaving was such a shock and such a relief. Perhaps its his middle-aged escape that men are supposed to be prone to. For whatever reason he won’t be back and I am not aggrieved.

You can see then why this free and easy life I’ve suddenly stumbled into is so dumbfounding at times, and why staying with a friend is such a novelty. One must get used to breaking habits.

On the first night of my staying with Audrey we’d prepared dinner together with me mostly peeling and cutting it must be said, and Audrey doing the actual cooking. Her palate is more accustomed to exciting flavours than my own so I made liberal use of the wine on the table. Did I mention Audrey also follows religiously certain cooking programmes on telly? Well, she does and dinner was testament to that. Please do not misunderstand, the meal was delicious, I’d just not encountered many or any of the spices she’d used. Life was already becoming spicier.

When dinner was finishing I offer to wash the dishes, a sort of thank you. Audrey laughed and told me about her dishwasher. I’d never used such a thing or conceived of ever owning one. So, we assembled the plates, etc, in the machine and Audrey asked me to take the wine bottle and glasses through to the sitting room while she went down the hall, presumably to the bathroom.

It was like something from a film when Audrey emerged minutes later completely naked.

She laughed when she saw my mouth hanging open. It is her way, as it had been Robert’s also, to go about naked in the house, she told me. I’d never known. It’s not something they did when friends were about she said but seeing as we’re such good friends and only the two of us, she felt relaxed enough to be herself.

I suppose I should have been flattered to be regarded as so close as to share such a personal part of Audrey’s life but all I could feel, at that moment, was shock. Fair dues to Audrey, she didn’t retreat or reach for the cover of a cushion. She sat on the sofa, giggling like a young girl. She did however cross her legs, more for me than for herself, I felt. It took a while but we relaxed a bit, or I relaxed a bit, Audrey could not have been more relaxed, and we went back to chatting as normal and enjoying our wine.

Over these few days I’ve not followed suit and gotten my clothes off in Audrey’s presence though I have softened towards the idea of it. Perhaps in time or in my own home in a month or so. As with so many things now, I have no idea.

This week I have been confronting some truths.

I am now single, well divorced, well sort of divorced anyway. Whatever it is I am manless.

My home was never my home before, it was his, I just lived there. Now it is my home to do with as I wish.

My taste in food and drink has been bland beyond imagining and is due for a makeover.

I have not had sex for months and I haven’t enjoyed sex, well, ever.

I have no job nor am I qualified for one anyway, nor do I have any real prospect of finding a job anyway.

My dearest friend is a closet nudist.

That’s enough to be going on with for now, don’t you think?

Until next we meet,


The Great House-clearing

Oh dear, what a hectic week this has been.

Early Tuesday morning the skip arrived delivered by a most helpful man who placed it precisely where it would be most easily reached by our small army of keen helpers.

We worked and worked until we halted for morning tea and a natter then onward until lunch. Let me tell you, what they say is true; any task will take double the time you have set aside for it. As it was with this. We had imagined the task would be completed by the early afternoon at most, however it took until evening before the final stick of decrepitude was dropped by exhausted arms onto the pile, ready for collection on Wednesday morning.

All of the pieces for auction had been collected the evening before by my friend’s man who deals with such things.

By the time the skip was filled there remained nothing to be sat or leaned or lain upon. Like a band of Brownies we arranged ourselves sitting crossed-legged, leaning against walls or sprawled across the carpet, itself destined for disposal by professionals in the morning.

Takeaway was phoned for and when it arrived we sat in near-silence eating, none of us with the energy to make conversation. I have promised the meal of a lifetime for our small group once things have settled a little. Pampering for all. We may even go for facials, something only one of our number has so much as tried before. She highly recommends it.

Wednesday’s great disposal of skip and carpet went as planned and was over in time for an early lunch with Audrey.

The afternoon was spent in a spree of visits to shop after shop in search of a new look for the old pile of bricks. We discovered far too many pieces to ever be practically fitted into my house so afternoon tea was spent poring over catalogues and brochures and photos from Audrey’s digital camera which she’d transferred onto what she called a tablet. Audrey is a fiend for gadgety things. She offered to explain it all to me but one thing must be dealt with at a time or I’m afraid I will drown in it all. House first, gadgety things after.

In the midst of discussing all of the gorgeous furnishings things came down with rather a bump when Audrey mused on how the new bits and bobs would go with the wallpaper and paint in my home. Of course, why had it not occurred to me before? The dreadful flower-patterned wallpapers and drab painted walls throughout the house would have to be addressed before a stick of furniture could be moved in.

How to deal with this new development? Audrey, ever the practical one, suggested I engage some painters and decide on a scheme and then stay with her while the work was being done. Of course I bridled at imposing on my friend but she’d have none of it. Her Robert had been gone for going on two years and she’d be happy of the company.

And so it was decided. The remainder of Wednesday was spent phoning painters and Thursday with meeting with them. I picked one and we agreed he could begin work on the eighteenth of this month. If things go according the man’s estimated time and my redecorating, the place should be ready in plenty of time for a glorious Christmas party for all of my friends and their partners various.

What an exciting time. Who could have known that my being left by my husband would be the most wonderful thing to happen to me in my whole life? Life is suddenly filled with delightful possibilities.

Until next we meet,


Becoming Adventurous

Isn’t it difficult to know what to write about? I read the blogs of others and so many of their lives are full of richness and colour and grand adventures, or sordid and exciting goings on in dark places.

Life for me is not a blaze of colour. As friends have told me it is a process of discovery. Isn’t that a sweet way to put it? It is as if life has been recreated and everything is new and fresh. Please bear with me and together we shall see if newness becomes excitement. Also please do let me know if what I write is too long or too dull, sharing another’s life is, I must admit, not always filled with fun.

The weekend was a thrilling time. On Friday evening I walked through what had been very much my husband’s marital home. Everywhere were reminders of the woman I had been raised to be. Furnishings and decorations of another age, dark and bland.

I went from room to room with a clipboard and pencil jotting down the items I no longer wished to have in the house. It may not surprise you to learn that page upon page of loose-leaf paper was filled. When the process was complete many hours later, the picture that emerged was that of a house denuded. If everything on my list were to be removed the house would contain barely two dozen items plus a small quantity of precious books.

It felt wrong to strip away so much history although there was little of any real value except in one of those dreadful car boot sales my ex-husband was so fond of taking me to, to sit for hours while strangers pored over and bargained for the dreck of past days.

In the end I called a friend with my dilemma and she offered to drop by with a man she knows who deals with such things, the value and whatnot of brik-a-brac. He felt some few items bore selling at auction and the rest, he said, was not of salable worth. He further suggested a thing called a skip, a sort of out-sized rubbish bin, that can be filled for a price and taken away.

To my astonishment, Audrey, my friend and our group of library ladies, assembled on Saturday morning, bright and early, to help me move the items for disposal into one area for transferring to the skip that will arrive on Tuesday morning, several hours from now as a matter of fact.

We worked until lunch, fueled by tea and biscuits, then pressed on into the early evening until the job was done. We ordered takeaway and sat, cross-legged, on the floor in my parlour having a picnic as if we were children.

It is now near three in the morning, well past the time I once would have been asleep. I have the thrilling feeling of the night before Christmas when I was a child. Audrey and friends will arrive at half past eight to coincide with the arrival of the skip. We will then set to work filling it to the brim with the remnants of my past. I can hardly wait. Really it is so thrilling.

When the work is finished and we are cleaned up and changed we will all go for a joyful and extravagant lunch to celebrate.

After lunch when all friends bar Audrey have gone back to their day, the shopping will begin. Bright and tasteful delights will fill my home from now on and Audrey will help me to choose. Sitting on a bench in the kitchen I have a pile of magazines, all dedicated to home decoration.

It is time to be rid of the grey and lifeless. No more dark, no more beige, welcome green and blue and red and all the colours that bring joy in the most tasteful manner I can accomplish.

Until next we meet,


Good Morning to You

Let me welcome you to this my first blog. It is an entirely new experience that promises to be as thrilling as it is daunting.

As we do not know each other as yet please read the part that says “Who is Kate?” and there you will find my introduction.

Do please enjoy what you find here. I will try to make it interesting.

Thank you,