Let's pretend
I’m holed up in my bedroom playing make believe. In the days when I used to travel incessantly on business I loved retreating to my hotel room at the end of a day and decadently eating my room service dinner whilst lying on my bed and watching movies.
Tonight I am doing the same. The difference being that I am surrounded by an in orderly heap of everything I own. The rest of my flat (‘the rest’ being one other room) is a building site. The downfall of open plan habitation is that when you have your kitchen re done your entire living space is wiped out in a single blow.
I have managed to blag dinner at friend’s for the rest of the week. But the rag doll exhaustion which has been afflicting me since I cut down my anti D’s makes that a surprisingly unattractive prospect. I am quite revelling in the debauchery of slumping on top of my duvet, fag in hand, with a glass of red teetering on my bedside table.
I am old enough to admit publicly to my anal tendencies. My flat (with the help of my ever faithful cleaner) is usually immaculate with everything having a place of it’s own. My built in wardrobes are my pride and joy. My (abovementioned) cleaner infuriates me with her inability to learn, after four long years, that there is one pigeon hole for long sleeved tops, one for T shirts and another for summer vests. It’s not that difficult. She slips those vests into the long sleeved hole on purpose I think, to try and lighten me up. She fails every time.
The deep rooted cause of these anal tendencies, I suspect, is total disorganisation and a non functioning memory. If I don’t keep everything in a constant location I will lose it in a flash.
I am trying to maintain order throughout this chaotic existence, if only to maintain my sanity. Once I start losing things I will lose my mind. I am playing at make believe to the best of my ability, I’m in Milan, in a hotel, room service is on its way.
It will all be worth it when my gleaming kitchen is in place, I’ll have a dishwasher and a laundry room (cunningly disguised as a broom cupboard). I will feel so grown up I won’t be able to look myself in the face. I feel a domestic goddess in the making.
Eight days they said, but then they are builders.
Tonight I am doing the same. The difference being that I am surrounded by an in orderly heap of everything I own. The rest of my flat (‘the rest’ being one other room) is a building site. The downfall of open plan habitation is that when you have your kitchen re done your entire living space is wiped out in a single blow.
I have managed to blag dinner at friend’s for the rest of the week. But the rag doll exhaustion which has been afflicting me since I cut down my anti D’s makes that a surprisingly unattractive prospect. I am quite revelling in the debauchery of slumping on top of my duvet, fag in hand, with a glass of red teetering on my bedside table.
I am old enough to admit publicly to my anal tendencies. My flat (with the help of my ever faithful cleaner) is usually immaculate with everything having a place of it’s own. My built in wardrobes are my pride and joy. My (abovementioned) cleaner infuriates me with her inability to learn, after four long years, that there is one pigeon hole for long sleeved tops, one for T shirts and another for summer vests. It’s not that difficult. She slips those vests into the long sleeved hole on purpose I think, to try and lighten me up. She fails every time.
The deep rooted cause of these anal tendencies, I suspect, is total disorganisation and a non functioning memory. If I don’t keep everything in a constant location I will lose it in a flash.
I am trying to maintain order throughout this chaotic existence, if only to maintain my sanity. Once I start losing things I will lose my mind. I am playing at make believe to the best of my ability, I’m in Milan, in a hotel, room service is on its way.
It will all be worth it when my gleaming kitchen is in place, I’ll have a dishwasher and a laundry room (cunningly disguised as a broom cupboard). I will feel so grown up I won’t be able to look myself in the face. I feel a domestic goddess in the making.
Eight days they said, but then they are builders.
posted by Holly Finch at
9:37 PM
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