Inspiration

Thank you for all your helpful suggestions. One of them  - a grandchild - didn't get passed on to the Lovely Son and girlfriend though, for obvious reasons (well, timescale and expense, anyway, as well as it being None Of My Business, delightful daydream though it was).

No, the Christmas present suggestion came to me in a blinding flash.....

I looked out yearningly at the sodden mess of mud and bleak paving slabs - currently littered with builders' buckets and ladders - that I hope will one day become a lovely little garden, and thought I would like an apple tree. And perhaps a plum. Or a pear. Or a cherry. Or a .... oh, I don't know. Definitely an apple tree for starters, anyway. After all, we are in Somerset now.

So that's what I'm being given for Christmas.

Easy!

(whisper: although a grandchild would have been nice too......)

Desperate times

An email from the Lovely Son has just arrived, entitled "HELL", and continuing "...LLLLLLLLP". He has trailed hither and yon through the shops, he writes, and can't find anything for my Christmas present. What would I like? Please would I just tell him and rescue him from his misery.

Familiar and entirely predictable, this missive, given the time of year, although rather earlier than usual. His shopping desperation generally becomes acute around the 22nd of December; clearly he is better prepared this year. Shop early for your Christmas despair.

So what would I like?

I have no idea. Not within his budget, anyway, although if a garden designer were to become affordable - which for him would mean in the pocket-money bracket rather than at the RHS standard - I wouldn't say no.

But I don't need anything, I don't yearn for anything, I am sick of living with too much stuff, and I don't want any more.  What I really would like is for him to be here, spending time with me, and muttering his trenchantly bah-humbug views on the over-commercialised consumer society.

I've told him I need time to think.

Delaying tactics that could run to December 22nd and beyond.

Nosy new neighbours

Alpacas.

Just up the road, watching us with interest.

Background noise

Vrrrrrrrrrrrrrooooooooooommmmmmm.... Vrrrrrrrrrrrrrooooooooooommmmmmm....

Imagine having a car engine running for hours in an adjoining room.

That's what a big dehumidifier sounds like, as it dries the outer wall to allow the painter to start work, hopefully next week.

I leave it on for as long as I can bear.

Then I am reminded that silence is golden.

Governor's Pardon

J the boss is here, putting the finishing touches to the back door, which - to anyone (sadly, not I) with a practised eye and a knowledge of old-fashioned joinery - is an impressive work of craftsmanship; I had to be given a guided tour of the external and internal rebates and staggered joints, and the skills needed to fit it into the drunken angles of an old garden wall and a lumpy sort of house wall, while following the preferences of a customer who wanted more window and less door, thus throwing out all the standard measurements.

Anyhoo, while J was here, I took the opportunity to discuss the possibility of salvaging the old kitchen door. And yes, it is entirely possible.

The door will be raised a little, more timber will be added to the bottom, clear glass will be fitted (that's just a pane covered by hideous sticky-plastic window film!), hinges will be reversed, and the old Suffolk latch will be re-used too. No problem, says J.

I didn't mention cutting a hole for a cat flap. Perhaps I ought to do that now, while J is in a can-do mood....

Note: A cat flap is required in this interior door because if one was put in the new back door, Hamish and Scooter could bypass me entirely, coming in to the utility room unseen, bolting their food, and legging it as soon as they heard me. Instead, they must come in from the garden to the kitchen, then through this door into the utility, where their food bowls will be placed above dog height. (I know, it's complicated....)


It's part of the enforced relationship with me that I have cruelly imposed on them: I know my limited place as the lowly provider of dinner, but I reserve the right to actually set eyes on these two thankless little cats at least twice a day. Low cunning is essential when dealing with them. And infinite patience.

Eccentric

The new utility room can be entered through any of three doors - one from the hall (yes, that's my washer and dryer, parked in the hall at present):

One from the garden (this door should be glazed and finished today):

and one from the kitchen.

The kitchen door itself is a battered but charming little affair, unless you're tall, in which case it becomes a head injury hazard.

It would be better if it fitted its opening.

Much chopped and changed over the years, it has to be replaced with another that will close properly, that reaches the floor, that opens the other way, that has clear glazing, that will take a cat flap, that has hinges that don't require packing with scraps of wood to sit flush.

I feel somewhat guilty about saying goodbye to this little old door, but am comforted by knowing that the sloping frame, without a right angle or a straight line to its name, will remain to remind me of how old this house really is.

The new door will match my favourite - the small narrow door that leads from the kitchen into the garden, that even I must stoop to use, and that will ensure that I never allow myself to become so wide that I can't get through it.

A weight-watcher's door.

Resolution

No reason for this picture, other than my inexplicable fondness for these jolly orange builders' buckets.

The builders are busy with the small fiddly things now, and it's taking time; making anything fit accurately in this wonky old house takes much patient measuring and trimming, nipping, tucking and adjusting. Concentration is fierce; cups of tea are more often refused than accepted, as the two perfectionists cannot be distracted.

While I was taking my friends to the railway station 40 minutes away this morning, waving them off while thinking worriedly how cramped their seats looked for a five-and-a-half-hour journey, things were moving along briskly at home.

I now have a new back door, a Belfast sink, and the start of some worktop. Much remains to be finished, but I can see what it's all going to look like soon. My decision-making over the past few weeks has come home to roost - too late now if I don't like something. Mostly, I do.

Tonight:

I haven't changed my mind much over the weeks, but today I did. I decided not to have the large, useful but boxy larder cupboards intended for the top of the utility room, but to go for a Welsh dresser-style affair* instead, painted in something delightful and Farrow & Ball-ish. Less practical, but more pleasing to the eye, and less smothering of the lovely slate floor. I'm stalking eBay. Thankfully, the functional but dull cupboards hadn't been ordered yet.

A dresser must also have magical properties - to hold the huge stack of stuff that is piled up temporarily all over the house: the baking tins, racks, trays, mixers, juicer, jam pan, cat food, dog food, vases, washing powders, dog towels, and much, much more.

 
In reality, I know a major throw-out (well, recycling/gifting/freecycling) is on the cards - after all, how many sizes and numbers of bread tins does a single woman need? Especially a single woman who has accepted that home baking and successful weight management are not natural bedfellows? Will I ever use the pasta maker again? The juicer? The mandolin?  The sandwich toaster? The expensive extendable shelf and roasting pan, packed by accident, that belong to my lovely Siemens oven, left behind in Newcastle? I'm embarrassing myself just listing a fraction of the stuff I keep.

Downsizing is a slow process; it takes a while to realise and accept that vigilance and a degree of ruthlessness is required, and ruthlessness doesn't come easily to some of us. But the utility room demands it, and I shall obey. Hoarding, clutter and hardly-used gadgets will be things of the past. I hereby resolve to simplify my bloated batterie de cuisine - bowls, boards, knives and a few other basic tools are all I really use on a frequent basis - and the rest can be sent packing.

See? A New Year's Resolution, made early.

Maybe I could hold a virtual garage blog sale... but you all have pasta makers languishing at the back of your cupboards already, don't you?

Whoosh!

The days go by, my feet don't touch the ground, and the planned blog post falls off the To Do list day after day.

Next week I will have no visitors at all, and I can spend my time not planning meals, not cooking, not chatting, not going anywhere interesting/lovely/unusual/plain funny.

Porlock Weir

Dunster by Candlelight

Allerford

Dulverton by Starlight and the West Somerset Morrismen

Of course, my new family the builders will still be with me.

I'm beginning to wonder if I will cope with life without the builders.

Back soon.

Busy

We've all been busy this week.

In our different ways, of course.

Layers: mortar, latex, latex, mortar.

A proper windowsill.

Electrics.

Lakes, trees.

Tackling obstacles.

Lunch in a funny little place, once a mill (and, we were told, mentioned in the Domesday Book).

They were slender folk in 1085....

Rolling countryside.

Dulverton.

Resting.

More rolling countryside.

Rolling steep countryside.

And more old buildings.

And at last it's the weekend, and we don't have to get up early for the builders.