No Time to waste.

No time to waste.

If I’m sounding like the White Rabbit, it’s because I have no time to waste. It’s the last room tomorrow.

Finally after a year and a quarter of house makeover, I’m on to the final room.  Those television shows where they transform the lives of the participants (I nearly said contestants) by waltzing in and remaking and completely redecorating some suburban dump in the three days that will just about fit into an hour long TV show with advert breaks, are a complete lie.  Occasionally they do feature neighbours giving builders biscuits. That was true.  The local supermarket reported a drop in profits when I stopped buying builder’s biscuits.  The housekeeping money suddenly seemed more plentiful too.

Finally the last room.  It’s my bedroom.  This bit is as bad as tipping a cat out of the basket on the radiator. The stuff I have assembled in my room is beyond belief.

Just like every other room I have done it properly.  Nothing has been moved around in its box and dumped somewhere else.  Everything has been gone through – charity shop, repurpose, reuse, chuck.  I have found correspondence from miniaturists dating back to the last millennium.  Much of which I have managed to chuck or recycle.  Some has gone into new wallets, labelled.   (To assist with chucking it at a later date do you think?  Me neither.)

When the OH was a County Emergency Planning Officer he used to annoy the workforce effectively by handing people piles of stuff with attached sticky notes with ‘PS deal’ written on them.  Just as well I never worked for him, I’d have made him eat them.

Anyway, I have PS dealt with everything, nothing has gone undealt.  I know what the junk is in detail and I am still keeping it.


So today it’s furniture moving, and cutting off the edges of the carpet (I have ordered a new one.)  I shall be glad to see the back of this carpet chosen by my mother.  I am having the deep blue one I originally wanted.

I am paying decorators to do the painting and paper hanging.  I have had eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeenuff.

I have had a conversation with a surgeon about my intestines, and will receive appointments through the post for various procedures to find out what exactly is wrong and before these and the cataracts I wish to be back in my own bedroom, with the house done.

Next time we go into lockdown I’m planning to be faffing around doing pointless crafts like everyone else.

But first my sock drawer.

There is only one question.

The week before last I bought the stuff to have a go at rag rug making. A craft I confess I have not tried yet (probably the only one.)

Shall put my old socks in the bag for textile recycling when the tip opens up again?

Or shall I make my old socks into a rug?  It will, after all, still be socks underfoot.

(There is a possibility I have experienced too much of the makeover lark and have gone completely varnish and gutters.)

Children’s socks as a rug – that would be cute.

Would it?

Get a grip woman! (I can, I have ordered fresh gripper strips, if they can do it on the telly, so can I.)


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