Driving past the tidy looking bungalows belonging to the area where I live, I imagine the interiors are as orderly and well kept as their gardens and neatly painted exteriors. I immediately begin to examine and judge my own home. Why do I live in a tip? A nice tip but the kind where I have to apologise to all my visitors “Oh, sorry about the state of the place I just ………..” and have lots of excuses. Actually I don’t have many visitors, hmm. I know I rebel against my upbringing. I grew up in a very tidy home, even though my mother was ill there were always people to dust and clean. Somehow I never was asked. I escaped all chores except to set the table, which I loathed to do. I was spoilt I suppose.
Our house felt like a stage set, waiting for the actors to arrive. Comfortable as a waiting room. Carefully chosen pieces of furniture, lamps and carpet. I have a vague memory of real fires in the grate soon replaced by gas central heating and two bar fires. Much cleaner.
Whats good enough for her Highness is good enough for our house. I didn’t want that. Though I did make good use of two bar fires in my student days in dingy flats. I actually never had a bedsit. Always flats and always sharing with a mate. I feel in some ways I am still stuck in that student mentality. I still stick things on walls with blue tack. Unlike the family home, my place is more like a one act play in a cheap dive where none of the actors get paid and it’s only a warm up for the real event. But it’s home.
The animals make it interesting. It’s a great environment for making art too if there was a wee bit more space. Watercolours take up little space I find. That is the new bug by which or (whom) I have been bit. Botanical illustration here I come.
Making art and cooking and living is messy. Gardening, yes very messy. And the house gets even worse when I’m on a gardening spree. It looks like I will be appearing in one act plays for some time to come.