Anyway.
Now it is the middle of the night and I have to get up really early as my younger daughter is coming for the weekend and doesn't want to sleep in her own room. So I am drinking again, but only a bit, and not tired, maddeningly. It has stopped the endless raining just in time for me to have piles of sorting out to do indoors and especially making somewhere attractive for her to sleep. Part of the house is a traditional D3von 'l0ng h0us3' which just means that it is train-shaped with a certain lack of corridors. It has a wing sticking out of each end and the smaller one is now a separate cottage with its own kitchen for the children. And the big G30rgian end is where I have my bedroom in the old ballr0om (nowhere near as grand as it sounds .. just a large room upstairs). So when she stays on her own we are as far apart as we could be and no one could hear either of us scream..

Therefore ... when my older daughter mentioned on the phone that the younger now keeps a large stick and a pair of scissors by her bed in London ready to repel any burglar attack, (in an upstairs flat with massive security system and at least two other people always there), I felt she might be more relaxed in a room nearer to me. Though all the rooms nearer to me are full. Of stuff. How does just being alive mean that your house accumulates such piles and piles of things?

My son abandoned his original bedroom about four years ago under similar circumstances to this. I had a guest room opposite mine with charming views down the valley but it was grim when guests actually came .. because they were staying in the room opposite mine. So I had to creep around and dress attractively just to go to the bathroom and couldn't watch tv after midnight and, if I strained, could actually hear what they were saying in bed (not ideal). So on a whim, when he was coming here alone, I moved a minimalist amount of his things in there and he has never gone back. His old room is frozen at age fifteen with heavily postered walls (mostly Bruc3 L33) and piles of now antique computer magazines which already produce amazed sniggers, 'How f.cking BASIC were those graphics? I can't BELIEVE I ever thought that game was cool' etc. It would be easy enough to clear up his present room for her and I did suggest it, 'Which SIDE of the bed does he normally sleep?', she said, 'Could you arrange it so that I am definitely on the other one'. 'For f.ck's sake. I will take ALL his bedclothes away and bring your own ones through'. 'And anyway this is academic now because I've remembered you can't be in there as the walls give you asthma'.

We have romantically retained as many of the original period details of the house as possible including not repainting any of the rooms in the larger wing. Even though, as I pointed out to my husband, the colour schemes were surely not the result of good taste and much thought a hundred years ago but probably the thankful grasping at whatever some itinerant paint vendor had on offer. (We are very, very isolated). Upstairs the colours are more familiar .. they were made from white distemper mixed with the dyes used in the ram's chest 'boxes', worn in Springtime to mark each sheep's bottom after servicing. And still are. A pretty indigo blue and a sort of light burnt sienna... not in the same room.

After one night in my son's room, a year or so ago, my daughter appeared with bright pink eyes and wheezing horribly and moved straight back to her own bedroom regardless of burglars. 'I thought your asthma was just caused by damp', I said, rattily, 'I spent days putting on radiators and electric blankets'. 'Sometimes it's dust'. 'AND hoovering ...'. We stood in there, staring round, and it was immediately obvious that there was already a faint scattering of burnt siena powder on the white pillowcases. 'It's this stupid medieaval paint stuff that we're not allowed to scrape off .. how annoying is that?' she said. I rang my husband, 'So .. is it likely that the distemper could give her asthma?'. 'I don't know but I was meaning to say ... I think that old colour mixture contains large amounts of lead. In fact it may be exactly the same as the paint that killed N@pol3on'. 'Oh great', said my son when I passed this on. 'So I've been breathing in deadly poison for years and Daddy never bothered to mention it'. But we had run out of suitable rooms and he couldn't be bothered and nor could I and he is somehow still sleeping there. When I asked my husband again he said vaguely, 'I expect it is probably all right. Make sure that you hoover in there regularly'. 'And make sure that you f.ck yourself regularly', I replied. And we left the matter there.

So anyway ... that means I now have to get up early and sort out the OLD bedroom which has normal wallpaper (un-deadly) but is full, full, FULL of piles of boyish crap. And now it is very late indeed and I feel more awake than ever and in fact in quite a jolly and energetic mood. Far more so than I will tomorrow. Could I do it now? Well, no. Not that energetic. And before anyone says why are you bothering. I like to make things
comfortable and attractive when the children come and they are never here for more than a few days and it is a boring journey especially just for a weekend. And they really like to think that someone (me) cares that much. So although dreary in itself to do it .. on another level it makes me happy. (And .. don't ask why I didn't do it today in a restful way .. no one ever lets things be that simple).
- posted by Iris @ 6/10/2005 01:21:00 AM comment