Lesley Boland #8 Home

With the house clean it feels like we can start making preparations.  There are plans, thwarted by the rain, of gardening.  There are bigger plans - a new bathroom, a new kitchen, a new laundry, a new room even, tacked on at the front where the front deck (underutilised) is.  It is popular now, to dream of renovating.  I wonder how I can get myself noticed by one of those TV shows where they whisk you away for a weekend, and then return you to a catalogue home that speaks so strongly to your inner dreams that it draws tears.  Sometimes there is a good story behind it; a strong story.  Bereavement.  Ill-health.  Catastrophic misfortune.  Sometimes it is mundane.  Had kids.  Ran out of time.  

 

When I think about it, as I frequently do, I am full of conflict.  I want bespoke. I want unique.  I want personal.  I want my thought and touch and feeling impressed in every detail.  I also want ease.  I know my limitations.  I would willingly part with money to make it all happen quickly and easily, but can I trust someone enough?

I count back the things we have done.  Installed blinds on four windows.  Painted one room. Pulled up the lounge room carpet and stained and polished the floorboards.  Put in a faux-fireplace gas heater.  Replaced two adjacent windows with a set of folding doors.  In the meantime, we have inherited a piano that is never played, draped a cloth over the kitchen bench where the fish tank leaked and ruined the chipboard, and kicked a hole in the wall in a fit of temper.  We keep finding power outlets that don’t work.