Our few weeks of spacious minimalism are over. They were pleasant, but not homey- a bit like staying in a hotel. Perfectly acceptable, but not your own.
Shelves have been built. And filled.
The books are back!
Not all of the books mind you; our friendly local fundraisers came and took away hundreds of books- the sort of clear out that hasn’t happened for about 8 years. (Must do this more frequently …) A dictionary, poetry books, old favourites, rediscovered gems, all to hand. Touchstones, comforts, challenges, reflections of who I am, or who I’d like to be. Not all of the books are mine, but the vast majority are. So much of ‘me’ is tied up in them. The football books and much of the music are Spurs Fan’s. He lives here too. He’s even come round to not hating the Jasper Johns Green Target.
The dvds are back also, and have moved from tottering stacks on the floor. The cds remain in the attic.
Soon the sofa will arrive and, eventually, the plaster round the fire will be dry enough to paint. In the meantime, I’m not fussing or anxious or bored with it. It feels good.
All that space is not to be filled.
No, it’s not.