after brodsky
We had a wonderful, long Beginning-of-Spring Bank Holiday.
I went out Friday, had a wonderful time with friends, drank a little too much, and felt fragile on Saturday, but we still went off in search of a new Fire. Valley Boy Mansion has, in the living room, a fully working chimney, into which as been installed a gas fire. We could have it removed and install a proper fireplace, but, as real coal fires produce ash and soot and what my parents (and, let’s be honest, I) refer to as clinkers, and since parlour maids are hard to come by (coupled with the fact that our cleaner has been off sick for much of the past month), we decided, when the fire broke, to replace it with another gas fire.
Except, of course, we ended up buying the fire, the surround, the mantle piece, the whole kit and caboodle, the installation of which (and the removal of the current fixtures) will result in a need to redecorate walls and, probably, install new flooring.
But it all needs doing: We’ve been in the house almost ten years now, and, somehow, have never gotten around to repainting the walls, or relaying new flooring: We love what’s there, and, well, time passes so quickly, and before you know it, it’s ten years later. Ten years of work and foreign holidays, of dinner parties and bacchanaliae, almost a decade of Christmasses with families, and rainy depressed Sundays, and you only decorate because the switch that’s supposed to make the gas fire come on doesn’t work any more, because, really, where did the time go?
So, Saturday, we have a new gas fire, which, subject to a site inspection by the safety fitter, will be installed in six weeks or so. At which point the walls will need to be painted, new flooring purchased and laid.
Sunday, we stayed in, doing chores, watching TV, just enjoying each others company. I got a little antsy at the fact that I had an invite to go out in the afternoon to the RVT, to hang out with people I love hanging out with, drink beer, watch drag, be alive and raucous and probably wasted again, but I wanted to stay in and be with D and chill. But I wanted to go out. But I wanted to stay in… Do you see where this is going? Too much choice, and the typical male fear that, whatever (whoever?) I’m doing, it’s not as much fun as what (who?) I’m not doing.
But I stayed in, and I was glad I did, because…
Yesterday, bright and early, and almost two years after our wedding, we took the vouchers we’d been given as gifts back in July ‘06, and drove ourselves to BlueWater, one of Europe’s biggest shopping malls (not that big actually) and purchased, in no particular order, new glasses (so all the various mismatched ones in the kitchen can go), two new leather sofas and a lovely comfy armchair (which will doubtless be the cause of many a battle as we both lay claim to it) and a F— off, giant size Sony Bravia HD TV (because, well, the Germen have one; and we can’t be bested, can we?).
And so, from a grotty hungover Saturday morning, in a house where we haven’t quite gotten around to all the things we need to do, we ended with the next six to eight weeks planned out, paint to be bought, new curtains (a gift many moons ago and still sitting in my wardrobe) to be adjusted for length, flooring to purchase and lay, and a sense that time, which had been slipping through our fingers for so long, was finally back in our grasp.
Then, this morning, I got the call from Theresa’s husband; Theresa cleans our house, and has done, for three hours every Friday morning, almost since we moved in. She’s been a housekeeper more than a cleaner, has had fights with the more mental neighbours over carparking rights, has pointed out some of the less obvious quirks of the neighbourhood and the house itself, and has become a friend to anyone who’s ever set foot in the house. She gives us Christmas presents. I mean, whose cleaner gives them Christmas Pressies? Yesterday, some of the vouchers we spent came from Theresa and her Husband.
And as we spent those couchers, as we bounced up and down on sofas, looked at laminates and debated real wood, as we squinted at the Pixels per inch levels on models of TVs, Theresa died.
She was a young woman, with three kids, a young husband, God knows how many jobs, and an unfailing ability to be cheerful and get on with the job. Her three hours, if we were in the house, were often divided into Clean-chat-make tea-drink tea-repeat, and if we weren’t there (or she thought we weren’t there) into cleaning like a dervish, shifting furniture, dusting and vacuuming, whilst singling loudly - and slightly off-key - to her iPod nano.
And, as we congratulated ourselves on finally taking time in our hands, as a part of me made a note to pop in to see her “Not this coming weekend, ‘cos we’re away, but maybe the weekend after,” time ran out.