50 Shades of Beige

The living room walls of The Old Girl look like a patchwork quilt. Crazed squares of grey, white with a hint of green, yellow, grey-green, dark beige, light beige, antique white, half white... Yes, The Builder and I are redecorating. Again.

I'm pretty sure that the last time we went through this, I decided, somewhere between choosing the kitchen benchtop and choosing the laundry wall colour, that we were never doing this again. Ever. And yet, here we are, not 12 months later, doing it all again.

This is our third house together and, somehow, the most difficult. The Old Girl is just so terribly old. She's sorted. She knows her style. She's restored to her former glory and it's pretty glorious in a simple, old-school kind of way. There's only one room that needs our help for now. And the pressure of getting it right is getting to me.

The Fibro needed a complete overhaul. Head to toe, top to bottom. When you're changing everything, you just get in there and go for it. It needed bringing into the 21st century and into the 21st century it came, albeit kicking and screaming.

The Old Girl is more your 19th century kind of girl. Genteel. Hitting the right note between that and 'I don't want to live in a museum' is not easy. I wanted to paint the room white. But the white paint chart was more daunting than the coloured paint charts. Who knew there could be so many? And, yes, we considered Hog Bristle, like every other household in the country. But we can't go there. The Fibro was Hog Bristle (half) on the walls and Hog Bristle (quarter) on the timberwork. We can't press repeat.

We'll get there. Of that I have no doubt. In the meantime, the man at the paint shop and I are becoming very friendly. "Are you sick of the sight of me yet?" I asked the other day, popping in for our 11th sample pot.

"Oh, you're not my best customer yet," he said, popping a splodge of yellow into the Haynes Beige (half) he was mixing up for me.

"I'm not?" I said, somewhat put out by this. I thought we had something special.

"Nope," he said, dolloping in some black. "That spot is reserved for the lady who took 25 sample pots to decide on a colour."

We were both silent a moment, me contemplating the horror, him no doubt dreaming of another customer who'd spend over $100 in sample colours (at least I'm only halfway there...).

"What colour did she end up choosing?" I asked.

He laughed. "The second one she took home."

Tonight I sit here and contemplate my patchwork walls as I write this.

We're pretty sure we've chosen a colour.

The first one we considered, only knocked back to half strength.

There's a lesson in here somewhere.

What colour are your living room walls?

[image: from here]

One of the downsides of freelance writing: Life Envy

Today I went to visit a gorgeous country farmhouse. Big, light-filled kitchen. Fireplace in the monastic dining room. Verandahs on three sides. Chickens, ducks, horses, and a Border Collie. A studio. Old, rustic stables. Acres of green paddocks as far as the eye could see. Your basic rural dream. 

I wasn't just there to visit. I'm writing the house up for an interiors magazine. I don't do house stories that often these days, but I love them for the opportunity to step into someone else's life for a little while. Though there is a certain amount of Life Envy that can go along with that opportunity. I wrote about it in this guest post, which first appeared at Mother Hoot in September last year.

One of the worst things about being a freelance writer is the ‘life envy’ that can ensue. It’s bad enough simply flicking through the pages of a glossy lifestyle magazine – imagine actually visiting those houses, soaking in the dreamy views, lolling on the designer sofa…and then climbing back into your own trashed people mover and arriving back in your own life.

Some months ago, I visited a sublime modernist fantasy perched high on a rolling hill with vistas out to the ocean. There was even one of those infinity pools (not sure how you feel about them but, for me, the idea of swimming to the horizon without encountering marine life is extremely attractive). Soft music played as I tip-toed across the wide, timber floorboards, admiring the stonework on the floor-to-ceiling fireplace. Wide cedar bi-fold doors tempted me out to broad veranda, where jasmine twined a scented path to the sky. Lawn, like a verdant green carpet, ran down to the dam where picturesque white ducks splashed about.

Seriously? People live here? How do they ever leave?

The home belonged to a young couple from Sydney, who enjoyed it as a weekender. They rented it out to those who could afford it. And they let me through the door to share a glimpse of it with the readers of the magazine I was writing for.

I drove away, down a winding country lane, past fields of mooing cows and, within 10 minutes, was back at my place. A slightly tired cottage made of fibro. I turned off the car, listening to the engine die away, thinking of what I’d left behind.

And then my family burst out the front door, thrilled to see me after a three-hour absence. And what I’d left behind dimmed to a pleasant memory.

It doesn’t matter where you live, really. The best home is your home.

If you'd like to know more about writing house features, visit In My House, the blog of my lovely friend Catherine Shields, an art director and writer whose work features regularly in Australia's best home magazines. She shares the background stories of her 'house shoots', as well as her vast knowledge of all things interiors. The image shown above is from one of her own projects. And she loves questions.

Almost Famous

The other day, I googled my name (as you do when you write online and often find your work appropriated without permission on inappropriate websites – not vanity, not really) and found myself on eBay. Not selling my virginity or anything (which is possibly a very good thing), but in the second-hand book area.

Yep, my credit card book is in what we artistic folk like to refer to as the secondary market already.

I have to confess this gave me a little thrill. Not the unfashionable nature of my work (clearly I will be like Keats and given my due in 100 years time or thereabouts), but rather its position on eBay.

I love eBay. I don’t know a single person who lives outside a capital city who doesn’t love eBay (come to think of it, many of my city friends could also claim Number One Fan status, but we’re not talking about them). I am out and proud as an eBay Groupie.

My last three purchases have all been brilliant. The first was a Lego minifigure of Obi-Wan Kenobi, complete with cape. An absolute bargain at $7.50, plus $2 postage, if Mr6’s reaction was anything to go by.

The second was a stack of Moleskine cahiers – six sets of three notebooks each, A5 size, divine. I made half of them into Christmas presents by sticking pages from my Dad’s 1950s French textbook on the front (see, told you I was artistic folk) and have stored the rest until the day comes when nothing but a clean, fresh, crisp notebook will do.

(As an aside, I love notebooks. The endless possibilities they contain. Mine usually end up containing lots of shopping lists and scribbled phone numbers, but there’s always the possibility that one day… well, anything could happen.)

The last purchase was the biggest and best. Inspired by my friend K’s house – which I wrote up for this month’s South Coast Style, on sale now (see pic) – I found myself trawling for vintage school maps. And I found one. At the right price, in Victoria – now in my home, awaiting The Builder’s application of a nail on the wall on which to hang it. I just love it. It’s even got Papua New Guinea as an Australian Territory, just as it was when I was born there all those millions of years ago.

Imagine life without eBay. Just doesn’t bear thinking about, now does it?

{image: Nicky Gordon}