The Divine female stripper and the Big Bad Wolf

Today I am stripping right down to the buff. I have a door frame in my house that looks like someone has used it for target practice with a set of darts. The door itself must have been covered because the holes are only on the outside rim. And then I thought, what if it is woodworm? So, out with the paint stripper and on with the gunge. But how do I know if it is woodworm or dart holes? I have stripped the, most probably lead based, paint right back to the nub and the holes are still there. A few years back I asked Barry to strip the door and he refused. He said, 'Too much work for too little reward.' and suggested that if it worried me so much, that I should do the work myself. Well, hello, it does worry me and hence the foray into stripping. The wood underneath is a rich red colour and is gorgeous in its natural beauty. Who would want to paint over such richness? Well, apparently the original 1950's owners did. Layers and layers of awful paint. I am on the third layer of stripper and bits and pieces of paint hang on like leeches. My arms are aching and my fingers are numb. I am starting to come around to Barry's way of thinking, too much work for too little reward. But onwards and upwards. I shall harness my divine female energy and fight the leeches and the worms in their homes. I am as brave as a ... paint brush wielding warrior? And no, it doesn't look like woodworm on closer inspection. Thank goodness for small mercies. But, I am seriously thinking that a pot of white paint might feature in my and the door's future.

I have been considering moving to the city to be closer to amenities. Yes, I love the country, but, no, I am not a fan of driving for hours to get anywhere on my own, with only my bad singing for company. The sad part of this tale is that I can't afford the price of a nice house. In fact a house like the one I live in at the moment is like hens teeth in Hamilton. I have run this race before of trying to find a place that suits my needs and my pocket. There are the fixer-uppers, the fall down and tear downs, there are the, 'I must be out of my mind to buy this' houses and the few that I do like are either in a bad area of town or way out of my price range. And do I really want to do the pack up and unpack thing at my age? I actually thought I would be taken out of my present home feet first in my delicately decorated wooden box. The pros and cons? Well, they are pretty even. On the whole I enjoy the solitude that my life has become. I can eat at nine o'clock at night if I feel like it and not have to worry about anyone else. Barry did the cooking in the last few years of his life because he would get fed up waiting for me to get in the kitchen. I would tell him that 45 years of preparing various meals every day for the family had worn me out and I needed a cooking holiday. This week I thought, 'Why not be adventurous and make a crustless quiche?' For which I am usually famously told that I am the best ... but no, it was awful. Not enough cheese, not enough flavour and finally the birds got to eat it all up when I threw it out on the lawn. Which turned out to be a great success for my bird stalking cats. What am I going on about? Well, if I do move to the city, I would have to have to take in boarders to pay the mortgage. (and the question is can I get a mortgage on my reduced income and advanced age?) Yikes, no!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! That would require a whole lot more socializing than I like in my life. And, I might be expected to cook for them. Yikes again! Some bright spark suggested I move into a unit in an old age home. No. The answer is no. Or if you prefer, Hell no. I had this dream last night where I was in a country club setting and trying desperately to fit in. That is what an old age home would be like for me ... always feeling like I do not fit in. A square peg in a round hole. I did find a four bedroomed home that overlooks a park that I could change into two flatlets ... perfect for me and the mortgage. But, oh dear me, it would require me to step on someone else's dreams and I don't like the idea of that. Come on Divine female energy, give me an answer. And no more strange dreams about country clubs, they freak me out.

I am finally on my fifth book for the year, and the final one in my present series. Writing that is, not reading. If I write 3,000 words a day I can finish writing it in 17 days ... with weekends off, that is three and a bit weeks. My main character is a half Singaporean woman. Why do I do this to myself? Set myself up for failure? Someone I know wrote about her own culture and got shot down in flames for misrepresenting them. So, how would people in Singapore consider my bumbling efforts to portray their lifestyle? I have to believe that if I vaguely mention this connection that it might slip past the critics. Let's hope so. While I am writing, I listen to podcasts (I still have not solved my radio/music issue) And this particular man was talking about his show 'Legacy List' in America. Their teams go into homes and find out the stories behind the objects people have collected. He said the story is the most important component of the value of the pieces. And I thought, yes, the story line is the most important part of the puzzle and I should not worry about the culture as much as I do. And then I sat back shocked ... of course culture is important. We all have culture that clings to us through our lives. Our traditions and traits, our food and our clothing and even how we look and sound. We have emotional and cultural baggage. The only people who go into relationships without baggage are twenty year old virgins ... the rest of us are covered in our culture and things that have happened to us over time. (Yes, I was a twenty year old virgin when I met Barry ... a perfect representation of no baggage ... and yet, I did have some) The main characters in this book are a girl who has been brought up in a convent and a nice young man. Both are of mixed parentage, both are good people. So, how can I make it interesting? To create a story without conflict is not going to hook the reader. Think of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. Without the evil stepmother, would you have been fascinated or bothered to finish the tale? Ditto with Cinderella and many other fairy story characters, even the pigs and the wolf who wants to blow their houses down. The same applies to the stories we write, even ones about Great Uncle Charlie who farmed potatoes all his life. He had to have some challenges in life if we are to be interested in his story. Potato blight? Evil bank manager? Children who rebel? There has to be a representation of the big bad wolf or poisoned apple wielding step-mother. Maybe my book will not reach the reading public in Singapore? So, I will delicately step around the issues and focus on the love story.

Back to the show, Legacy List and its finds ... one caught my eye and I became quite envious ... a 16th century Persian wedding bowl ... a Sofreh Aghd or honey bowl. Ah, now there is a story waiting to be written. How did it get to the States? Who was the original owner? Oh dear, I am salivating at the idea of writing a story around a silver bowl. There is no help for me, I am a story hunter. And, oh if only my ancestors had gifted me a bowl of such delicate beauty. Glass and gold or silver and carved. Who cares, I want, I want, I want. Off to the online auction sites to stare sadly at stuff I do not need and can't afford. Aaah. Barry would call it a fly spot catcher of the highest level and I don't care, it is gorgeous. With a capital Yummy. Maybe I will travel to Singapore or Persia (Iran) and search out my own version of a family heirloom. Oh, who am I fooling. If I hate the thought of travelling one hour to Hamilton, when in my wildest dreams would I be shopping in either of those places? Never. Actually, we do have a family connection to Singapore. One of my great uncles was a judge in Singapore way back in the 1860's. Sir Edward James Ackroyd ... now where did all your knowledge and beautiful stuff land up? I know my grandmother had one of the tables Eddie Ackroyd bought for her on her wedding day ... no doubt languishing in some back storeroom somewhere in Africa as we speak. And more importantly, what treasures am I leaving for my children and grandchildren? Well obviously not a Persian wedding bowl. But, maybe, on my bargain hunting trips to op shops near and far, I might unearth a thing of beauty that will gladden the hearts of generations to come?

My particular big bad wolf is making decisions. To leave or not to leave, that is the question. To finish scraping down the old paint on the door or take a walk around the garden. No, that is not a question, that is a plan. Well, maybe I will wait for the rain to stop. My Dad would always say not to go running in the rain because it took too long for your shoes to dry out ... well, if it was good enough for my father, then it is good enough for me. I will sit and watch the paint bubble on the door frame and maybe check out the houses for sale online, or even trawl through the auction sites again?