Crazy Love
Every time I think I just can't be bothered to tidy up the toys, sweep the floor, or sort out the recycling I think of the Dirty House. That is not its real name of course, it has just gone down in family lore as that. We have been searching for a home to buy for over two years now. The property market in the UK is that crazy, and now prices are falling I'm glad for once head ruled heart and we have held out. Over this time we have looked at scores of houses - we like a challenge (we gutted and renovated our first home), and I'm dying to knock down walls or build from scratch. One of the houses we were interested in sounded ideal - detached, enough land, character, close to town and school. That there were no internal photos on the estate agent's details was curious, but projects don't come up often so we went to take a look.
At this point, we still had a small baby in a pram. As the estate agent (literally) led us up the garden path, he said 'Um ... you may want to leave the pram out here.' I exchanged glances with the pilot as the agent unlocked the front door and called out. It wasn't the smell so much that hit me, as the fact he had to squeeze sideways through the partially opened door. We followed suit. The dimly lit hallway was piled with bags, boxes, all manner of things. Each tread of the staircase teetered precariously with piles of newspapers and magazines. Nobody said a thing. Nobody said 'What the ..?' We made polite noises about potential and original features, holding tightly to the children. 'Here we have the first reception ..' the agent indicated a door, but did not try to go in. I pushed open the (sticky to the touch) panelled door a fraction and craned my head around the corner. Above the five foot high stacks of books, papers, tea chests and detritus I could see beautiful original cornicing. It got worse. I won't tell you about the bathroom and kitchen (you may be eating). When we paused in one of the bedrooms and the then three year old reached out to touch the strangely well made bed (hospital corners on the white sheets), I cried out 'Don't touch!' The garden was glorious - well stocked with fruit bushes, apple trees, fig trees - overgrown, but easy to imagine restored to glory. The most bizarre part of the whole experience is we bumped into the occupiers on the way out - an immaculately dressed gay couple in their eighties trailing eau de cologne in their wake. As we parted, still the agent didn't say a thing. Is that just a very odd English sense of politeness? We drove away in stunned silence, until finally we both said simultaneously 'Oh my ...'
How does that happen to someone's life? Is it one undiscarded paper at a time? It was enough to beef up my housework, put it that way. At the end of the day I know just as soon as I've cleaned or tidied, someone will come straight along and trail mud or paint or spill coloured bricks but that is life - it's crazy, it's messy and I love it. Well - I do and I don't. Now they are sleeping like angels, I've caught up with work and the house is peaceful I can look back on the day and say I love it. Between two small children and a hound so hairy she is like the anti-swiffer, spreading chaos (plus mmmm decidedly un-foxy fox or badger poo from this afternoon's glorious walk with friends to the fruit farm), it is a full time job cleaning this place. It's no mistake the children's books by Frank Muir about a naughty Afghan were called 'What-a-mess.' As you know by now I'm not a full time cleaner - I'm a mother, writer, run a small business ... so I do my best and it isn't always good enough. But every single little white vest washed, folded and put away or dogeared board book returned to the shelf is a gesture of pure love. This has been - is - a tough summer. I'm feeling a little battle weary (rather Russell Crowe at the beginning of Gladiator, hoping my best scenes are yet to come). I sat in the rocking chair in my son's room last night watching him sleep, wondering what the weeks ahead hold. Perhaps the secret is simply to be here now, one day at a time, and to do the best you can. I like that quote from Volatire often quoted on the Happiness Project: 'Don't let the perfect be the enemy of the good.' You're always welcome for a coffee at our place - the cups will be clean but please ignore the happy chaos.
TODAY'S PROMPT: Why not give your home or your mind a spring clean and a breath of fresh air. What is it that you have been putting off? What nagging tasks keep popping into your mind taking up valuable writing space? For me, this week I tackled mail redirection. For two years we have been having our mail redirected from Cheshire to Hampshire. Finally admitting we are at this address - for now at least - in a low beamed noisy cottage where we daily bang our heads (the pilot's 6'3" and I'm tall too), rather than in our own place with room to unpack our boxes I think is why I haven't dealt with it. We were only meant to be here for six months. I was finally forced to face this - Royal Mail won't redirect mail for more than two years. So I spent days this week wading through three huge boxes of business and personal mail, calling, writing and emailing everyone. A horrible job, but you know what? It has cleared a big physical and mental space. I feel present, and ready to move on. So - what small steps can you take to clear your mind and your space?
