We moved here six years ago. In the meantime we’ve been slowly but surely changing the inside.
At the same time though, we seem to have made some people (people!), which slows the process. A lot. I defy anyone to construct red pepper and pea smiley faces on individual ramekinned cottage pies whilst simultaneously stencilling one’s arkitrave. I do neither.
This was the wall surface in our living room until a few days ago (those of a nervous disposition look away now).
Yes, it’s woodchip. What??? Six YEARS without removing it? Yes. What would Naomi Cleaver say?
This is our current wall surface.
Sweet mother of all the monkeys.
Which is worse? It’s hard to say.
Now if I were a Toast lady I would be unfazed by manky old distemper, bits of clunch and mouldy plasterboard barely held together with horsehair and glue. I would don my floaty hand-blocked silk pyjama bottoms and hand-spun, hand-knitted, hand-embroidered cashmere socks and pose beautifully with a vintage kitchen utensil. I sometimes wish I were a Toast lady.
As it is I need mindless distraction, if only from the bits of woodchip and smallscale rubble in my hair.
I also need chocolate.
Thank goodness our thrifted settee (£35 from a Suffolk junk shop) is a small island of pretty amongst the dust.
Cushions by Toast, their Oxford edging unpicked and stuffed with bargain pillow stuffing, Auricula tapestry cushion by Ehrman and two years (!) of stitching by Granny P, little felted poppy cushion by Emily (slightly ‘crafted’ by MissP2’s fluff-loving phase), cheaty pinking shear bunting by me, when I was pregnant with MissP1 in 2005, strapping and painting by Mr P. I sit here and pretend I can’t hear bits of the wall fall off.
By the end of the week we’ll have new plaster, and I’ll have my hair back.