Resolve

While rarely used as a noun, I quite like the idea of a strong determination to achieve something (so says the Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary).

It’s the “something” bit that I like. Yes, ambiguous, but I am looking at resolve on a more holistic level. I would like to simply show a strong determination when I want to achieve something, whatever that something may be. Is that quite enough?

Well, enough said about the R word. OK, let’s talk about how I need to find the strong determination NOT to turn around and spend another three weeks on the Isle of Wight instead of in London while the house is slowly, gently, determinedly being put back into a liveable space. The slow and gentle bit belongs to the electrician, previously referred to here as Sparky, who at giving an estimate of five days is, I do believe, days shy of his fifth week. If you’ll pardon the pun, I do see the light at the end of the . . . well, not tunnel but certainly hallway. To be fair, there have been modifications (Tim thought he told him about the socket for the extractor fan, and there was a misunderstanding about what was meant by re-wiring) as well as unexpected issues (the burglar alarm doesn’t seem to want to play along with the rest of the wiring) and minor mishaps (who expected the ceiling in the hallway to crumble when Sparky started to work there?) . . . and it now appears as though all sockets are in place and we have wonderful new lights and outlets in several rooms.

So we can see the dust and dirt more distinctly.

Truly, it is coming along. We came back from our stay on the IOW knowing that there would be plaster and all other kinds of dust and dirt on every surface; we decided we would take at least one day of the weekend to make the place habitable—after all, it was time to return to London to work. It was a funny sight at the end of the day Saturday—I was covered in white and Tim was covered in black: me from the hoovering (that’s vacuuming for my non-British readers) and dusting top to bottom and at close range two sets of stairs, me and Henry (the name on the industrial hoover) working hard to pick up bits of ceiling, walls, and a sizeable layer of white dust. Tim wound up sporting a rather hilarious black face after pulling down the remains of the ceiling that started its descent when the electrician went to adjust some wires.

The messiest of the work is probably done—there will be sawing for the new wood floors this week, but the walls are up (or down) and the builders are aware that we are back to living in London so they will, I think, be less apt to leave dozens of tea mugs in the sink and make a minor mess of the loo as the wifey is back in town, and we girls care about those things. And my prediction is that we will be able to host a St Patrick’s Day luncheon, where all kitchen units will be in place, all walls will be painted, all floors down and all lights up, and Tim will be preparing his feast from the other side of the kitchen where the oven has shifted and the gas pipe properly re-attached to the cooker.

You must be wondering, then, what I’ve been doing with three weeks off and not in London? Well, relaxing in Cowes, of course, for some part of it. In fact we had a lovely Christmas Day, beginning with a midday gathering with friends at a local pub—apparently a tradition there—followed by a joint effort of making a fantastic dinner for two that included pheasants. I would say that the meat, slow cooked in a pot with vegetables, was even better as leftovers. (Happy to share the recipe for my non-vegetarian friends!)

Before my time away from work began I asked Tim if, as a consolation for not going someplace warm for two weeks as we usually do while we spend money on immigration and house re-furbing, that we go to a proper pub that has a lovely fire and spend an overnight stay in a city we’d never been. Always aiming to please he found a pleasant coaching inn somewhere between Salisbury and Stonehenge and we had two lovely days exploring the cathedral and the surrounding area, including the ancient monument. We also had one of the best Indian meals we have had in a while in Amesbury called Tandoori Nights, walking briskly through torrents of rain and wind along the high street to find the place warm, dry, and very crowded. In the morning having slept in we missed breakfast but found a lovely café that offered us eggs on toast and a delightful cuppa. It was good to be away, and fit the request perfectly. Stonehenge was a bonus, and while we both found it a bit Disney-esque (there is now a slow-moving vehicle that transports you to the site where you can get near-ish to the formation) I was happy to see it in person.

Kissing the odd animal at the Black Boy pub!

We also day-tripped over to Winchester, which is a short ferry + train journey from Cowes, to meet with a friend and have some dinner. We did a minor pub crawl, having started at the Number 5 to warm up with a cappuccino and then walked along the canal to The Black Boy for a drink and then further along to the Wyckeham Arms—the latter is a 1755 coaching inn that the great Admiral Nelson fancied on his way to Portsmouth. What a treat it was to walk through lovely Winchester with the river—I think the Itchen—for company along the path and to have a lovely meal with Tim’s fellow sailor and recent boat owner Dominic.

We were also delighted to have Tim’s mum join us after Christmas to ring in the New Year—we all managed to stay up and sip champagne while watching the London fireworks on Tim’s new toy, a tablet computer with I must say a very sharp, clear picture. We also took a drive to lovely Yarmouth, with lunch at The George Hotel which has a fantastic view of the Solent (and the ferries coming back and forth from Lymington). The hotel is slightly posh, but not in an over-the-top way that would make me feel underdressed in jeans and a nice blouse—cloth napkins, nice service, small-ish portions, and all very civilized. I think we all enjoyed our meals. The oysters were a big hit with Tim’s mum!

The old church  in Godshill.

In another outing we traveled to Godshill, where beautiful thatched cottages dot the landscape and there is a medieval 14^th century church that is said to be the most photographed in all of England. There is a famous mural of Christ, crucified on a flowering lily, adorning one of the walls as well.

But most days we idled at home, reading the paper, making dinner, occasionally going to the Island Sailing Club, and there was even a game or two of Scrabble played that I recall!

 All in all it was nice to have a three-week respite from commuting and work and the upside-down world of the house in London. Three days into the work week I’m a bit tired at the end of each day, but it has meant having glorious nights of deep sleep and, for some reason, odd dreams (eg David Cameron visiting on the Isle of Wight walking with a cane)!

Happy 2014, dear friends. And for my American readers, bundle up!

Why I won’t be home for Christmas

Controlled chaos. I am living in, albeit temporarily, the juxtaposition.

For the last few years Tim has asked me what I’d like for Christmas. I’ve given the same answer: paint the kitchen. Two years ago he actually gave me a can of paint . . . but it wasn’t nearly enough to cover all the walls and as the year went on the wish faded along with the current paint on the walls.

Well, this year the wish will almost certainly be fulfilled—and while not for Christmas, I expect by February. Right now there is a parade of builders, an electrician, and a plumber spreading their dusty cheer across two floors in our London home, tearing down and/or building walls, rewiring several rooms so that when you turn on the light you no longer trip the circuit, and rerouting ugly pipes and replacing the boiler so that in fact the water is always hot and the shower has a bit of gusto. It’s all good, it’s just messy.

Case in point: last Friday afternoon Tim and I were both home for lunch. The kitchen has been alternately in use or off limits, depending on whether Pete (whom we’ve come to call Sparky) is drilling holes and pulling wires through ceilings. I suggested to Tim that we bring home a sandwich after running a few errands in town, and we did . . . only to find that there wasn’t a clean space in the kitchen to eat. Nor a tidy spot in either of the sitting rooms on both floors. The choice came down to one of the two semi-tidy bedrooms or the one semi-tidy bathroom—so you can see, there actually wasn’t much choice. Tim made some tea (we could manage the kettle in the kitchen but not much else) and we sat on the bed enjoying our lunch. Well, enjoying is probably a stretch—the spare bedroom is piled with glasses, dishes, and other bits and bobs from several other places. There was really only enough room on the bed for one adult to sit (which I took) and a bit of narrow standing room, which Tim occupied. Needless to say we didn’t pore over conversation or the lovely stuffed sandwiches from the local Italian deli; it was pretty much eat and run.

And run I will—we will—to the Isle of Wight for Christmas. There’s a coating of plaster and/or wood dust in every space in the house, even the topmost floor where no work is happening. I thought I understood gravity as a force that pulls particles down rather than up! We’ve told the woman who cleans to return after the New Year, and in the meanwhile to keep it from being completely unbearable Tim has occasionally dragged a mop across the floor while I randomly wipe down the kitchen table and two chairs so that we minimise the powdery white streaks on our usually dark work attire. We’ve not hung a single bauble by the chimney with care, although I have propped up the Christmas cards we’ve received so far just to remind myself it is in fact the season. (I think I may take them all with me.)

I don’t mean to sound like I’m complaining—in fact I’m thrilled that the work has begun and it will have an end, even if it’s closer to Valentine’s Day. And next year for Christmas I can ask for something shiny that looks lovely on me rather than the kitchen walls! Actually, my Permanent Husband to Remain did buy me a spectacular pair of earrings for my recent birthday, so he’s got a few years’ worth of chips pocketed.

I spent a wonderful birthday in Germany with family, beginning the day in Jandelsbrunn listening to the Regensburg Boys Choir; Tim’s nephew Ludo is one of the angelic voices who gave a concert the previous night that we attended, only to be treated with an encore at Sunday Mass. We also took a walk through the Christmas Market in Passau, where we found a lovely Saint Nicholas ornament for our internationally-dressed tree. Bavaria is cold and pretty; it was nice to experience just a bit of snow! 

We also walked to the spot where the three rivers—the Danube, the Inn and the Ilz--meet. I learned that from certain vantage points you can see the distinct colours—the brown of the “blue” Danube, the yellow-brown of the Inn, and the very dark brown—almost black—of the Ilz. There was Gluwein and schnitzel and a delicious Gruner Veltliner for me (a delicious, dry white wine) while Tim sampled a few of the local German beers and, with no surprise, approved! A really lovely birthday weekend all around, with lots of wishes from family and friends abroad waiting for me when I turned on the phone. To quote a very famous seasonal Capra movie, it’s a wonderful life.

And so I wish you all wonderful holidays and look forward to sharing 2014 with you in words and pictures . . . after all, you may be you wondering what colour the kitchen will be.