Oct 7, 2021

Transportation Management

 Me: "...I think we can still fit a kitchen island even if we put a fridge against the wall. No, the bigger problem is that right now we're used to just walking diagonally across this open space to get to the utility room."

She demonstrates.

Me: "With an island, we're going to have to go along like this, and then turn and go along like that."

She demonstrates.

Beat. 

TH: "Well...we're always crashing into each other coming and going from the utility room anyway. This might help."

His eyes light up.

TH: "We can use it for you to practice roundabouts!"

Me: "I..err...um. Really? Do you think that might actually work? I'll try anything."

TH: "We'd have to make it realistic. We'd have to make "brrrrum brrrrum" noises. Obviously."

Oct 6, 2021

Week Four (-ish)

 I know that a lot of people enjoy fixing up their house and making every little decor decision.

I am not one of them.

For more than a couple of weeks now, my days have consisted of waking up when the primary school next door opens, taping, primer-ing, or painting (or repainting) sections of cabinetry, making microwave meals, going for a walk, and then going to bed. For spice, we've thrown in pondering kitchen hardware (pewter effect? cast iron? How many of these buggers do we need, anyway, and what's the most non-horrible thing we can afford that many of?) and staring at two-inch flooring samples and trying to extrapolate that to a living room. 

I'm going nuts.

I don't actually have a sense of progress, because for every cabinet gained, we (for instance) discover that the reason there's no outlet near where we wanted to put the fridge is because there are no wires in that wall whatsoever because there's a massive chimney on the other side of it. Or that there's unidentified ugly cabling coming in from outside that we almost certainly don't want, but it's well and truly buried until ancient layers of paint. Or (but you get the idea).

I do like relaxing in the one mostly-usable room, the conservatory and looking out over the garden. There is a resident army of fat pigeons (not mangy city pigeons; these are the country version that look more like doves, or, at least, clean). Every day, they move methodically across our large lawn, pecking for insects, usually creeping in straight lines all in the same direction, looking remarkably like gardeners crouching over lawn scissors on the manicured green pelts in the tony suburbs of Bangkok. Several times a day, they'll all take wing as a group (side note: I really do think that British birds are louder. They all take off with that thunderous noise I associate with pheasants; even the pigeons. I have no idea why this would be.) and I'll see one of the three cats who claim our yard try to pretend it meant to simply scare, and not catch, the birds.

But, alas, that's the extent of our wildlife. It was an unexpected bonus of the house in Bristol -- with its yard a twentieth of what we have now -- that it had such a diverse abundance of birds and animals. I'm not even remotely a birder, but it was exciting to see so many unfamiliar types, and even a gorgeous goldfinch a few times. Just pigeons here. At a mile from the sea, there are even fewer seagulls than in Bristol, which I suspect has less to do with distance to the water than density of dropped french fries. (And Bristol seagulls are infamous for not waiting until they're dropped.)

Worst of all, I have yet to see a fox. One of my few pleasures of lockdown was to go for a stroll after about 9 at night. Not only was the city deserted ("city," hmpf), but you walked through a magical cinnabar sea of foxes dashing, darting, parting ahead and behind you, dissolving impossibly under gates and through dense hedges. 

Or boldly strutting in the middle of the street and sitting, studying me, from a foot away, if they were "our" foxes, bless them. We had a litter of pups born in the garden last spring, and not only were they the cutest things on the planet, but it was incredibly gratifying how safe they felt in our space. I'd leave fresh water (and, okay, sometimes cat treats) for them outside our glass patio doors, and they quickly learned it was fine to take a break from wrestling each other while laughing and giggling -- yes, foxes laugh and giggle -- pop up the stairs, and have some refreshments, even if I was standing immediately on the other side. I was worried about teaching them that people are safe, but foxes are scary-smart. They can distinguish individuals and they knew who was leaving the kibble -- they would only approach if I was alone, not with TH. They weren't pets, but we had a rapport. (More than that, TH's colleagues in town complained about rat infestations over the summer. Our garden was kept meticulously rat-free.)

I've gone for walks after dark here, and even detoured through garden allotments, hoping to get my fox fix, but not a single glimpse. I understand that out in the countryside, when they actually have the option, foxes choose to live far from people. I can hardly blame them -- it's a big part of the reason we moved, too. But I miss them intensely and didn't realize how much they improved my world until they were gone.