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,